The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Young Trawler, by R.M. Ballantyne
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Title: The Young Trawler
Author: R.M. Ballantyne
Release Date: June 6, 2007 [EBook #21713]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YOUNG TRAWLER ***
Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
THE YOUNG TRAWLER, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE.
CHAPTER ONE.
INTRODUCES DEEP-SEA FISHERMEN AND THEIR FAMILIES.
On a certain breezy morning in October--not many years ago--a wilderness
of foam rioted wildly over those dangerous sands which lie off the port
of Yarmouth, where the _Evening Star_, fishing-smack, was getting ready
for sea.
In one of the narrow lanes or "Rows" peculiar to that town, the skipper
of the smack stood at his own door, grumbling. He was a broad burly
man, a little past the prime of life, but prematurely aged by hard work
and hard living.
"He's always out o' the way when he's wanted, an' always in the way when
he's not wanted," said the skipper angrily to his wife, of whom he was
at the moment taking, as one of his mates remarked, a tender farewell.
"Don't be hard on him, David," pleaded the wife, tearfully, as she
looked up in her husband's face.
"He's only a bit thoughtless; and I shouldn't wonder if he was already
down at the smack."
"If he's not," returned the fisherman with a frown, as he clenched his
huge right hand--and a hard and horny hand it was, from constant
grappling with ropes, oars, hand-spikes, and the like--"if he's not,
I'll--"
He stopped abruptly, as he looked down at his wife's eyes, and the frown
faded. No wonder, for that wife's eyes were soft and gentle, and her
face was fair and very attractive as well as refined in expression,
though not particularly pretty.
"Well, old girl, come, I won't be hard on 'im. Now I'm off,--good-day."
And with that the fisherman stooped to kiss his wife, who returned the
salute with interest. At the same time she thrust a packet into his
hand.
"What's this, Nell?"
"A Testament, David--from me. It will do your soul good if you will
read it. And the tract wrapped round it is from a lady."
The frown returned to the man's face as he growled--"What lady?"
"The lady with the curious name, who was down here last summer for
sea-bathing; don't you remember Miss Ruth Dotropy? It is a temperance
tract."
David Bright made a motion as though he were about to fling the parcel
away, but he thought better of it, and thrust it into the capacious
pocket of his rough coat. The brow cleared again as he left his wife,
who called after him, "Don't be hard on Billy, David; remember he's our
only one--and he's not bad, just a little thoughtless."
"Never fear, Nell, I'll make a man of him."
Lighting a large pipe as he spoke, the skipper of the _Evening Star_
nodded farewell, and sauntered away.
In another of the narrow lanes of Yarmouth another fisherman stood at
his own door, also taking leave of his wife. This man was the mate--
just engaged--of David Bright's vessel, and very different in some
respects from the skipper, being tall, handsome, fresh and young--not
more than twenty-four--as well as powerful of build. His wife, a
good-looking young woman, with their first-born in her arms, had bidden
him good-bye.
We will not trouble the reader with more of their parting conversation
than the last few words.
"Now, Maggie, dear, whatever you do, take care o' that blessed babby."
"Trust me for that, Joe," said Maggie, imprinting a kiss of considerable
violence and fervour on the said baby, which gazed at its mother--as it
gazed at everything--in blank amazement.
"An' don't forget to see Miss Ruth, if you can, or send a message to
her, about that matter."
"I'll not forget, Joe."
The mate of the _Evening Star_ bestowed a parting kiss of extreme
gentleness on the wondering infant, and hastened away.
He had not proceeded far when he encountered a creature which filled his
heart with laughter. Indeed Joe Davidson's heart was easily filled with
emotions of every kind, for he was an unusually sympathetic fellow, and
rather fond of a joke.
The creature referred to was a small boy of thirteen years of age or
thereabouts, with a pretty little face, a Grecian little nose, a
rose-bud of a mouth, curly fair hair, bright blue eyes, and a light
handsome frame, which, however, was a smart, active, and wiry frame. He
was made to look as large and solid as possible by means of the rough
costume of a fisherman, and there was a bold look in the blue eyes which
told of a strong will. What amused Joe Davidson most, however, was the
tremendous swagger in the creature's gait, and the imperturbable gravity
with which he smoked a cigar! The little fellow was so deeply absorbed
in thought as he passed the mate that he did not raise his eyes from the
ground. An irresistible impulse seized on Joe. He stooped, and gently
plucked the cigar from the boy's mouth.
Instantly the creature doubled his little fists, and, without taking the
trouble to look so high as his adversary's face, rushed at his legs,
which he began to kick and pommel furiously.
As the legs were cased in heavy sea-boots he failed to make any
impression on them, and, after a few moments of exhausting effort, he
stepped back so as to get a full look at his foe.
"What d'ee mean by that, Joe Davidson, you fathom of impudence?" he
demanded, with flushed face and flashing eyes.
"Only that I wants a light," answered the mate, pulling out his pipe,
and applying the cigar to it.
"Humph!" returned the boy, mollified, and at the same time tickled, by
the obvious pretence; "you might have axed leave first, I think."
"So I might. I ax parding _now_," returned Joe, handing back the cigar;
"good-day, Billy."
The little boy, gazed after the fisherman in speechless admiration, for
the cool quiet manner in which the thing had been done had, as he said,
taken the wind completely out of his sails, and prevented his usually
ready reply.
Replacing the cigar in the rose-bud, he went puffing along till he
reached the house of David Bright, which he entered.
"Your father's gone, Billy," said Mrs Bright. "Haste ye after him,
else you'll catch it. Oh! do give up smokin', dear boy. Good-bye. God
keep you, my darling."
She caught the little fellow in a hasty embrace.
"Hold on, mother, you'll bust me!" cried Billy, returning the embrace,
however, with affectionate vigour. "An' if I'm late, daddy will sail
without me. Let go!"
He shouted the last words as if the reference had been to the anchor of
the _Evening Star_. His mother laughed as she released him, and he ran
down to the quay with none of his late dignity remaining. He knew his
father's temper well, and was fearful of being left behind.
He was just in time. The little smack was almost under weigh as he
tumbled, rather than jumped, on board. Ere long she was out beyond the
breakers that marked the shoals, and running to the eastward under a
stiff breeze.
This was little Billy's first trip to sea in his father's fishing-smack,
and he went not as a passenger but as a "hand." It is probable that
there never sailed out of Yarmouth a lad who was prouder of his position
than little Billy of the _Evening Star_. He was rigged from top to toe
in a brand-new suit, of what we may style nautical garments. His thin
little body was made to appear of twice its natural bulk by a
broad-shouldered pilot-cloth coat, under which was a thick guernsey. He
was almost extinguished by a large yellow sou'-wester, and all but
swallowed up by a pair of sea-boots that reached to his hips. These
boots, indeed, seemed so capacious as to induce the belief that if he
did not take care the part of his body that still remained outside of
them might fall inside and disappear.
Altogether--what between pride of position, vanity in regard to the new
suit, glee at being fairly at sea and doing for himself, and a certain
humorous perception that he was ridiculously small--little Billy
presented a very remarkable appearance as he stood that day on the deck
of his father's vessel, with his little legs straddling wide apart,
after the fashion of nautical men, and his hands thrust deep into the
pockets of his sea-going coat.
For some time he was so engrossed with the novelty of his situation, and
the roll of the crested waves, that his eyes did not rise much higher
than the legs of his comparatively gigantic associates; but when
curiosity at last prompted him to scan their faces, great was his
surprise to observe among them Joe Davidson, the young man who had
plucked the cigar from his lips in Yarmouth.
"What! are _you_ one o' the hands, Joe?" he asked, going towards the man
with an abortive attempt to walk steadily on the pitching deck.
"Ay, lad, I'm your father's mate," replied Joe. "But surely _you_ are
not goin' as a hand?"
"That's just what I am," returned Billy, with a look of dignity which
was somewhat marred by a heavy lurch causing him to stagger. "I'm part
owner, d'ee see, an' ready to take command when the old man retires, so
you'd better mind your helm, young man, an' steer clear of impudence in
future, if you don't want to lead the life of a dog aboard of this here
smack."
"I'll try, sir," said Joe Davidson, touching his forelock, while a
humorous twinkle lit up his bright eyes.
"Hallo! Billy!" shouted the skipper, who was steering; "come here, boy.
You didn't come aboard to idle, you know; I've let you have a good look
at the sea all for nothin'. It's time now that you went to work to larn
your duties. Zulu!"
The last word caused a woolly head to protrude from the after hatchway,
revealing a youth about twice the size of Billy. Having some drops of
black blood in him this lad had been styled Zulu--and, being a handy
fellow, had been made cook.
"Here, take this boy below," said the skipper, "and teach him
something--anything you like, so long as you keep him at work. No
idlers allowed on board, you know."
"Yes, sar," said Zulu.
Billy was delighted to obey. He was naturally a smart, active fellow,
and not only willing, but proud, to submit to discipline. He descended
a short ladder into the little cabin with which he had become
acquainted, as a visitor, when the smack was in port on former
occasions. With Zulu he was also acquainted, that youth having been for
some time in his father's service.
"Kin you do cookin'?" asked Zulu with a grin that revealed an unusually
large cavern full of glistening teeth, mingled with more than an average
allowance of tongue and gums.
"Oh! I say," remonstrated Billy, "it's growed bigger than ever!"
Zulu expanded his mouth to its utmost, and shut his eyes in enjoyment of
the complimentary joke.
"Oh course it hab," he said on recovering; "I's 'bliged to eat so much
at sea dat de mout gits wider ebery trip. Dat leetle hole what you've
got in your face 'll git so big as mine fore long, Billy. Den you be
like some ob de leetle fishes we catch--all mout and no body worth
mentioning. But you no tell me yit: Kin you do cookin'?"
"Oh yes, I can manage a Yarmouth bloater," replied Billy.
"But," said Zulu, "kin you cook a 'tater widout makin' him's outside all
of a mush, an' him's inside same so as a stone?"
Instead of answering, Billy sat down on the settle which ran round the
cabin and looked up at his dark friend very solemnly.
"Hallo!" exclaimed Zulu.
"There--there's something wrong wi' me," said Billy, with a faint
attempt to smile as he became rather pale.
Seeing this, his friend quietly put a bucket beside him.
"I say, Zulu," observed the poor boy with a desperate attempt at
pleasantry, "I wonder what's up."
"Des nuffin' up yit but he won't be long," replied the young cook with a
look full of sympathy.
It would be unjust to our little hero to proceed further. This being,
as we have said, his first trip to sea, he naturally found himself,
after an hour or two, stretched out in one of the bunks which surrounded
the little cabin. There he was permitted to lie and think longingly of
his mother, surrounded by dense tobacco smoke, hot vapours, and greasy
fumes, until he blushed to find himself wishing, with all his heart,
that he had never left home!
There we will leave him to meditate and form useless resolves, which he
never carried out, while we introduce to the reader some of the other
actors in our tale.
CHAPTER TWO.
A CONTRAST TO CHAPTER I.
From that heaving grey wilderness of water called the North Sea we pass
now to that lively wilderness of bricks and mortar called London.
West-end mansions are not naturally picturesque or interesting subjects
either for the brush or the pen, and we would not willingly drag our
readers into one of them, did not circumstances--over which we have not
a shadow of control--compel us to do so.
The particular mansion to which we now direct attention belonged to a
certain Mrs Dotropy, whose husband's ancestors, by the way, were said
to have come over with the Conqueror--whether in his own ship or in one
of the bumboats that followed is not certain. They were De Tropys at
that time, but, having sunk in the social scale in the course of
centuries, and then risen again in succeeding centuries through the
medium of trade, they reappeared on the surface with their patronymic
transformed as now presented.
"Mother," said Ruth Dotropy to a magnificent duchess-like woman, "I've
come to ask you about the poor--"
"Ruth, dear," interrupted the mother, "I wish you would not worry me
about the poor! They're a troublesome, ill-doing set; always grumbling,
dirty, ill-natured, suspicious, and envious of the rich--as if it was
our fault that we are rich! I don't want to hear anything more about
the poor."
Ruth, who was a soft-cheeked, soft-handed, and soft-hearted girl of
eighteen, stood, hat in hand, before her mother with a slight smile on
her rosy lips.
"You are not quite just to the poor, mother," returned Ruth, scarce able
to restrain a laugh at her parent's vehemence. "Some of them are all
that you say, no doubt, but there are many, even among the poorest of
the poor, who are good-natured, well-doing, unsuspicious, and
respectful, not only to the rich but also to each other and to
everybody. There is Mrs Wolsey, for instance, she--"
"Oh! but she's an exception, you know," said Mrs Dotropy, "there are
not many like Mrs Wolsey."
"And there is Mrs Gladman," continued Ruth.
"Yes, but she's another exception."
"And Mrs Robbie."
"Why, Ruth, what's the use of picking out all the exceptions to prove
your point? Of course the exception proves the rule--at least so the
proverb says--but a great many exceptions prove nothing that I know of,
except--that is--but what's the use of arguing, child, you'll never be
convinced. Come, how much do you want me to give?"
Easy-going Mrs Dotropy's mind, we need scarcely point out, was of a
confused type, and she "hated argument." Perhaps, on the whole, it was
to the advantage of her friends and kindred that she did so.
"I only want you to give a little time, mother," replied Ruth, swinging
her hat to and fro, while she looked archly into Mrs Dotropy's large,
dignified, and sternly-kind countenance, if we may venture on such an
expression,--"I want you to go with me and see--"
"Yes, yes, I know what you're going to say, child, you want me to go and
`see for myself,' which means that I'm to soil my boots in filthy
places, subject my ears to profanity, my eyes to horrible sights, and my
nose to intolerable smells. No, Ruth, I cannot oblige you. Of what use
would it be? If my doing this would relieve the miseries of the poor,
you might reasonably ask me to go among them, but it would not. I give
them as much money as I can afford to give, and, as far as I can see, it
does them no good. They never seem better off, and they always want
more. They are not even grateful for it. Just look at Lady Openhand.
What good does she accomplish by her liberality, and her tearful eyes,
and sympathetic heart, even though her feelings are undoubtedly genuine?
Only the other day I chanced to walk behind her along several streets
and saw her stop and give money to seven or eight beggars who accosted
her. She never _can_ refuse any one who asks with a pitiful look and a
pathetic cock-and-bull story. Several of them were young and strong,
and quite undeserving of charity. Three, I observed, went straight to a
public-house with what she had given them, and the last, a small street
boy, went into fits of suppressed laughter after she had passed, and
made faces at her--finishing off by putting the thumb of his left hand
to his nose, and spreading out his fingers as wide as possible. I do
not understand the exact significance of that action, but there is
something in it so intensely insolent that it is quite incompatible with
the idea of gratitude."
"Yes, mother, I saw him too," said Ruth, with a demure look; "it
curiously enough happened that I was following you at the time. You
afterwards passed the same boy with a refusal, I suppose?"
"Yes, child, of course--and a reproof."
"I thought so. Well, after you had passed, he not only applied his left
thumb to his nose and spread his fingers, but also put the thumb of his
right hand against the little finger of his left, and spread out the
other five fingers at _you_. So, whatever he meant Lady Openhand to
receive, he meant you to have twice as much. But Lady Openhand makes a
mistake, I think, she does not _consider_ the poor; she only feels
deeply for them and gives to them."
"_Only_ feels and gives!" repeated Mrs Dotropy, with a look of solemn
amazement.
Being quite incapable of disentangling or expressing the flood of ideas
that overwhelmed her, the good lady relieved herself after a few broken
sentences, with the assertion that it was of no use arguing with Ruth,
for Ruth would never be convinced.
She was so far right, in that her daughter could not change her mind on
the strength of mere dogmatic assertion, even although she was a pliant
and teachable little creature. So, at least, Mr Lewis, her pastor, had
found her when he tried to impress on her a few important lessons--such
as, that it is better to give than to receive; that man _is_ his
brother's keeper; that we are commanded to walk in the footsteps of
Jesus, who came to save the lost, to rescue the perishing, and who fed
the hungry.
"But, mother," resumed Ruth, "I want you to go with me to-day to visit
some poor people who are _not_ troublesome, who are perfectly clean, are
never ill-natured, suspect nothing, and envy nobody."
"They must indeed be wonderful people," said Mrs Dotropy, with a laugh
at Ruth's enthusiasm, "quite angelic."
"They are as nearly so as mortals ever become, I think," returned Ruth,
putting on her hat; "won't you come, mother?"
Now, Mrs Dotropy had the faculty of giving in gracefully, although she
could not argue. Rising with an amused smile, she kissed Ruth's
forehead and went to prepare for a visit to the poor.
Let us now turn to a small street scarcely ten minutes' walk from the
mansion where the above conversation took place.
It was what may be styled a Lilliputian street. Almost everything in it
was small. The houses were small; the shops were small; the rents--
well, they were certainly not so small as they should have been, the
doors and windows were small; and the very children that played in the
gutter, with an exceedingly small amount of clothing on them, were
rather diminutive. Some of the doors stood open, revealing the fact
that it had been thought wise by the builders of the houses to waste no
space in lobbies or entrance halls. One or two, however, displayed
entries, or passages--dark and narrow--the doors to which were blistered
and severely battered, because, being the public property of several
families, they had no particular owner to protect them.
There was a small flat over a green-grocer's shop to which one of the
cleanest of those entries led. It consisted of two rooms, a
light-closet and a kitchen, and was low-ceilinged and poorly furnished,
but there was a distinct air of cleanliness about it, with a consequent
tendency to comfort. The carpet of the chief room was very old, but it
had been miraculously darned and patched. The table was little larger
than that of a gigantic doll's-house, but it was covered with a clean,
though threadbare, cloth, that had seen better days, and on it lay
several old and well-thumbed books, besides two work-baskets.
In an old--a very old--easy-chair at one side of the fire sat a lady
rather beyond middle age, with her hands clasped on her lap, and her
eyes gazing dreamily at the fire. Perhaps she was speculating on the
question how long two small lumps of coal and a little dross would last.
The grate in which that amount of fuel burned was a miniature specimen
of simplicity,--a mere hollow in the wall with two bars across. The
fire itself was so small that nothing but constant solicitude saved it
from extinction.
There was much of grey mingled with the fair tresses of the lady, and
the remains of beauty were very distinct on a countenance, the lines of
which suggested suffering, gentleness, submission, and humility.
Perchance the little sigh that escaped her as she gazed at the
preposterously small fire had reference to days gone by when health
revelled in her veins; when wealth was lavished in her father's house;
when food and fun were plentiful; when grief and care were scarce.
Whatever her thoughts might have been, they were interrupted by the
entrance of another lady, who sat down beside her, laid a penny on the
table, and looked at the lady in the easy-chair with a peculiar,
half-comical expression.
"It is our _last_, Jessie," she said, and as she said it the expression
intensified, yet it seemed a little forced.
There needed no magician to tell that these two were sisters. The
indescribable similarity was strong, yet the difference was great.
Jessie was evidently, though not much, the elder.
"It's almost absurd, Kate," she said, "to think that we should actually
have--come--at last--to--"
She stopped, and Kate looked earnestly at her. There was a tremulous
motion about the corners of both their mouths. Jessie laid her head on
Kate's shoulder, and both wept--gently. They did not "burst into
tears," for they were not by nature demonstrative. Their position made
it easy to slide down on their knees and bury their heads side by side
in the great old easy-chair that had been carefully kept when all the
rest was sold, because it had belonged to their father.
We may not record the scarce audible prayer. Those who have suffered
know what it was. Those who have not suffered could not understand it.
After the prayer they sat down in a somewhat tranquil mood to "talk it
over." Poor things--they had often talked it over, without much result,
except that blessed one of evolving mutual sympathy.
"If I were only a little younger and stronger," said Kate, who had been,
and still was of a lively disposition, "I would offer myself as a
housemaid, but that is out of the question now; besides, I could not
leave you, Jessie, the invalid of the family--that once was."
"Come, Kate, let us have no reference to the invalid of the family any
more. I am getting quite strong. Do you know I do believe that poverty
is doing my health good; my appetite is improving. I really feel quite
hungry now."
"We will have tea, then," said Kate, getting up briskly; "the things
that we got will make one good meal, at all events, though the cost of
them has reduced our funds to the low ebb of one penny; so, let us enjoy
ourselves while it lasts!"
Kate seized the poker as she spoke, and gave the fire a thrust that
almost extinguished it. Then she heaped on a few ounces of coal with
reckless indifference to the future, and put on a little kettle to boil.
Soon the small table was spread with a white cloth, a silver teapot,
and two beautiful cups that had been allowed them out of the family
wreck; a loaf of bread, a very small quantity of brown sugar, a smaller
quantity of skim-milk, and the smallest conceivable pat of salt butter.
"And this took all the money except one penny?" asked Jessie, regarding
the table with a look of mingled sadness and amazement.
"All--every farthing," replied Kate, "and I consider the result a
triumph of domestic economy."
The sisters were about to sit down to enjoy their triumph when a
bounding step was heard on the stair.
"That's Ruth," exclaimed Kate, rising and hurrying to the door; "quick,
get out the other cup, Jessie. Oh! Ruth, darling, this is good of you.
We were sure you would come this week, as--"
She stopped abruptly, for a large presence loomed on the stair behind
Ruth.
"I have brought mamma to see you, Kate--the Misses Seaward, mamma; you
have often heard me speak of them."
"Yes, dear, and I have much pleasure in making the Misses Seaward's
acquaintance. My daughter is very fond of you, ladies, I know, and the
little puss has brought me here by way of a surprise, I suppose, for we
came out to pay a very different kind of visit. She--"
"Oh! but mamma," hastily exclaimed Ruth, who saw that her mother, whom
she had hitherto kept in ignorance of the circumstances of the poor
ladies, was approaching dangerous ground, "our visit here _has_ to do
with--with the people we were speaking about. I have come," she added,
turning quickly to Miss Jessie, "to transact a little business with
you--about those poor people, you remember, whom you were so sorry for.
Mamma will be glad to hear what we have to say about them. Won't you,
mamma?"
"Of course, of course, dear," replied Mrs Dotropy, who, however,
experienced a slight feeling of annoyance at being thus dragged into a
preliminary consideration of the affairs of poor people before paying a
personal visit to them. Being good-natured, however, and kind, she
submitted gracefully and took note, while chairs were placed round the
table for this amateur Board, that ladies with moderate means--obviously
_very_ moderate--appeared to enjoy their afternoon tea quite as much as
rich people. You see, it never entered into Mrs Dotropy's mind--how
could it?--that what she imagined to be "afternoon tea" was dinner, tea,
and supper combined in one meal, beyond which there lay no prospective
meal, except what one penny might purchase.
With a mysterious look, and a gleam of delight in her eyes, Ruth drew
forth a well-filled purse, the contents of which, in shillings,
sixpences, and coppers, she poured out upon the tea-table.
"There," she said triumphantly, "I have collected all that myself, and
I've come to consult you how much of it should be given to each, and how
we are to get them to take it."
"How kind of you, Ruth!" exclaimed Kate and Jessie Seaward, gazing on
the coin with intense, almost miserly satisfaction.
"Nonsense! it's not kind a bit," responded Ruth; "if you knew the
pleasure I've had in gathering it, and telling the sad story of the poor
people; and then, the thought of the comfort it will bring to them,
though it _is_ so little after all."
"It won't appear little in their eyes, Ruth," said Kate, "for you can't
think how badly off some of them are. I assure you when Jessie and I
think of it, as we often do, it makes us quite miserable."
Poor Misses Seaward! In their sympathy with the distress of others they
had quite forgotten, for the moment, their own extreme poverty. They
had even failed to observe that their own last penny had been
inadvertently but hopelessly mingled with the coin which Ruth had so
triumphantly showered upon the table.
"I've got a paper here with the name of each," continued the excited
girl, "so that we may divide the money in the proportions you think
best. That, however, will be easy, but I confess I have puzzled my
brain in vain to hit on a way to get poor Bella Tilly to accept
charity."
"That will be no difficulty," said Jessie, "because we won't offer her
charity. She has been knitting socks for sale lately, so we can buy
these."
"Oh! how stupid I am," cried Ruth, "the idea of buying something from
her never once occurred to me. We'll buy all her socks--yes, and put
our own price on them too; capital!"
"Who is Bella Tilly?" asked Mrs Dotropy.
"A young governess," replied Jessie, "whose health has given way. She
is an orphan--has not, I believe, a relative in the whole world--and has
been obliged to give up her last situation, not only because of her
health, but because she was badly treated."
"But how about poor Mr Garnet the musician?" resumed Ruth, "has _he_
anything to sell?"
"I think not," answered Kate; "the sweet sounds in which he deals can
now be no longer made since the paralytic stroke rendered his left arm
powerless. His flute was the last thing he had to sell, and he did not
part with it until hunger compelled him; and even then only after the
doctors had told him that recovery was impossible. But I daresay we
shall find some means of overcoming his scruples. He has relatives, but
they are all either poor or heartless, and between the two he is
starving."
Thus, one by one, the cases of those poor ones were considered until all
Ruth's money was apportioned, and Mrs Dotropy had become so much
interested, that she added a sovereign to the fund, for the express
benefit of Bella Tilly. Thereafter, Ruth and her mother departed,
leaving the list and the pile of money on the table, for the sisters had
undertaken to distribute the fund. Before leaving, however, Ruth placed
a letter in Kate's hand, saying that it had reference to an institution
which would interest them.
"Now isn't that nice?" said Kate, sitting down with a beaming smile,
when their visitors had gone, "so like Ruth. Ah! if she only knew how
much we need a little of that money. Well, well, we--"
"The tea is quite cold," interrupted Jessie, "and the fire has gone
out!"
"Jessie!" exclaimed Kate with a sudden look of solemnity--"the _penny_!"
Jessie looked blankly at the table, and said--"Gone!"
"No, it is _there_," said Kate.
"Yes, but Ruth, you know, didn't count the money till she came here, and
so did not detect the extra penny, and we forgot it. Every farthing
there has been apportioned on that list and must be accounted for. I
couldn't bear to take a penny out of the sum, and have to tell Ruth that
we kept it off because it was ours. It would seem so mean, for she
cannot know how much we need it. Besides, from which of the poor
people's little stores could we deduct it?"
This last argument had more weight with Kate than the others, so, with a
little sigh, she proceeded to open Ruth's letter, while Jessie poured
out a cup of cold tea, gazing pathetically the while at the pile of
money which still lay glittering on the table.
Ruth's letter contained two 5 pounds Bank of England notes, and ran as
follows:--
"DEAREST JESSIE AND KATE,--I sent your screen to the institution for
the sale of needlework, where it was greatly admired. One gentleman
said it was quite a work of genius! a lady, who seemed to estimate
genius more highly than the gentleman, bought it for 10 pounds, which
I now enclose. In my opinion it was worth far more. However, it is
gratifying that your first attempt in this way has been successful.
"YOUR LOVING RUTH."
"Loving indeed!" exclaimed Kate in a tremulous voice.
Jessie appeared to have choked on the cold tea, for, after some
ineffectual attempts at speech, she retired to the window and coughed.
The first act of the sisters, on recovering, was to double the amount on
Ruth's list of poor people, and to work out another sum in short
division on the back of an old letter.
"Why did you deceive me, dear?" said Mrs Dotropy, on reaching the
street after her visit. "You said you were going with me to see poor
people, in place of which you have taken me to hear a consultation
_about_ poor people with two ladies, and now you propose to return
home."
"The two ladies are themselves _very_ poor."
"No doubt they are, child, but you cannot for a moment class them with
those whom we usually style `the poor.'"
"No, mother, I cannot, for they are far worse off than these. Having
been reared in affluence, with tenderer feelings and weaker muscles, as
well as more delicate health, they are much less able to fight the
battle of adversity than the lower poor, and I happen to know that the
dear Misses Seaward are reduced just now to the very last extreme of
poverty. But you have relieved them, mother."
"I, child! How?"
"The nursery screen that you bought yesterday by my advice was decorated
by Jessie and Kate Seaward, so I thought it would be nice to let you see
for yourself how sweet and `deserving' are the poor people whom you have
befriended!"
CHAPTER THREE.
INTRODUCES CONSTERNATION TO A DELICATE HOUSEHOLD.
The day following that on which Mrs Dotropy and Ruth had gone out to
visit "the poor," Jessie and Kate Seaward received a visit from a man
who caused them no little anxiety--we might almost say alarm. He was a
sea-captain of the name of Bream.
As this gentleman was rather eccentric, it may interest the reader to
follow him, from the commencement of the day on which we introduce him.
But first let it be stated that Captain Bream was a fine-looking man,
though large and rugged. His upper lip and chin were bare, for he was
in the habit of mowing those regions every morning with a blunt razor.
To see Captain Bream go through this operation of mowing when at sea in
a gale of wind was a sight that might have charmed the humorous, and
horrified the nervous. The captain's shoulders were broad, and his
bones big; his waistcoat, also, was large, his height six feet two, his
voice a profound bass, and his manner boisterous but hearty. He was apt
to roar in conversation, but it was in a gale of wind that you should
have heard him! In such circumstances, the celebrated bull of Bashan
would have been constrained to retire from his presence with its tail
between its legs. When we say that Captain Bream's eyes were kind eyes,
and that the smile of his large mouth was a winning smile, we have
sketched a full-length portrait of him,--or, as painters might put it,
an "extra-full-length."
Well, when Captain Bream, having mown his chin, presented himself in
public, on the morning of the particular day of which we write, he
appeared to be in a meditative mood, and sauntered slowly, with the
professional gait of a sailor, through several narrow streets near
London Bridge. His hands were thrust into his coat-pockets, and a half
humorous, half perplexed expression rested on his face. Evidently
something troubled him, and he gave vent to a little of that something
in deep tones, being apt to think aloud as he went along in disjointed
sentences.
"Very odd," he murmured, "but that girl is always after some queer--
well, no matter. It's my business to--but it does puzzle me to guess
why she should want me to live in such an out-o'-the-way--however, I
suppose _she_ knows, and that's enough for me."
"Shine yer boots, sir?" said a small voice cutting short these broken
remarks.
"What?"
"Shine yer boots, sir, an' p'raps I can 'elp yer to clear up yer mind
w'en I'm a doin' of it."
It was the voice of a small shoeblack, whose eyes looked wistful.
The captain glanced at his boots; they wanted "shining" sadly, for the
nautical valet who should have attended to such matters had neglected
his duty that morning.
"Where d'ee live, my lad?" asked the captain, who, being large-hearted
and having spent most of his life at sea, felt unusual interest in all
things terrestrial when he chanced to be on shore.
"I live nowheres in par-tickler," answered the boy.
"But where d'ee sleep of a night?"
"Vell, that depends. Mostly anywheres."
"Got any father?"
"No, sir, I hain't; nor yet no mother--never had no fathers nor mothers,
as I knows on, an' wot's more, I don't want any. They're a chancey lot,
is fathers an' mothers--most of 'em. Better without 'em altogether, to
my mind. Tother foot, sir."
Looking down with a benignant smile at this independent specimen of
humanity, the captain obeyed orders.
"D'ee make much at this work now, my lad?" asked the captain.
"Not wery much, sir. Just about enough to keep soul an' body together,
an' not always that. It was on'y last veek as I was starvin' to that
extent that my soul very nigh broke out an' made his escape, but the
doctor he got 'old of it by the tail an' 'eld on till 'e indooced it to
stay on a bit longer. There you are, sir; might shave in 'em!"
"How much to pay?"
"Vell, gen'lemen usually gives me a penny, but that's in or'nary cases.
Ven I has to shine boots like a pair o' ships' boats I looks for suthin'
hextra--though I don't always get it!"
"There you are, my lad," said the captain, giving the boy something
"hextra," which appeared to satisfy him. Thereafter he proceeded to the
Bridge, and, embarking on one of the river steamers, was soon deposited
at Pimlico. Thence, traversing St. George's Square, he soon found
himself in the little street in which dwelt the Misses Seaward. He
looked about him for some minutes and then entered a green-grocer's
shop, crushing his hat against the top of the door-way.
Wishing the green-grocer good-morning he asked if lodgings were to be
had in that neighbourhood.
"Well, yes, sir," he replied, "but I fear that you'd find most of 'em
rather small for a man of your size."
"No fear o' that," replied the captain with a loud guffaw, which roused
the grocer's cat a little, "I'm used to small cabins, an' smaller bunks,
d'ee see, an' can stow myself away easy in any sort of hole. Why, I've
managed to snooze in a bunk only five foot four, by clewin' up my legs--
though it wasn't comfortable. But it's not the size I care about so
much as the character o' the landlady. I like tidy respectable people,
you see--havin' bin always used to a well-kept ship."
"Ah! I know one who'll just suit you. Up at the other end o' the
street. Two rooms kept by a young widow who--"
"Hold hard there," interrupted the captain; "none o' your young widows
for me. They're dangerous. Besides, big as I am, I don't want _two_
rooms to sleep in. If you know of any old maid, now, with _one_ room--
that's what would suit me to a tee; an easy-going sort o' woman, who--"
"I know of two elderly _ladies_," interrupted the green-grocer,
thoughtfully; "they're sisters, and have got a small room to let; but--
but--they're delicate sort o' creeters, you know; have seen better days,
an' are raither timid, an' might want a female lodger, or a man who--
who--"
"Out with it," interrupted the captain, "a man who is soft-spoken and
well-mannered--not a big noisy old sea-horse like me! Is that what you
would say?"
"Just so," answered the green-grocer with an amiable nod.
"What's the name of the sisters?"
"Seaward."
"Seaward! eh!" exclaimed the captain in surprise. "That's odd, now,
that a seafarin' man should be sent to seaward for his lodgin's, even
when he gets on shore. Ha! ha! I've always had a leanin' to seaward.
I'll try the sisters. They can only tell me to 'bout ship, you know,
and be off on the other tack."
And again the captain gave such boisterous vent to his mirth that the
green-grocer's cat got up and walked indignantly away, for, albeit well
used to the assaults of small boys, it apparently could not stand the
noise of this new and bass disturber of the peace.
Having ascertained that the Misses Seaward dwelt above the shop in which
he stood, Captain Bream went straight up-stairs and rapped heavily at
their door.
Now, although the sisters had been gradually reduced to the extreme of
poverty, they had hitherto struggled successfully against the necessity
of performing what is known as the "dirty work" of a house. By stinting
themselves in food, working hard at anything they succeeded in getting
to do, and mending and re-mending their garments until it became
miraculous, even to themselves, how these managed to hang together, they
had, up to that period in their history, managed to pay to a slender
little girl, out of their slender means, a still more slender salary for
coming night and morning to clean their grate, light their fire, carry
out their ashes, brush their boots, wash their door-steps, and otherwise
perform work for which the sisters were peculiarly unfitted by age,
training, and taste. This girl's name was Liffie Lee. She was good as
far as she went but she did not go far. Her goodness was not the result
of principle. She had no principle; did not know what the word meant,
but she had a nature, and that nature was soft, unselfish,
self-oblivious,--the last a blessing of incalculable price!
It was Liffie Lee who responded to Captain Bream's knock. She was at
the time about to leave the house in undisturbed possession of its
owners--or rather, occupiers.
"Does a Miss Seaward live here?"
It was a dark passage, and Liffie Lee almost quaked at the depth and
metallic solemnity of the voice, as she glanced up at the spot where it
appeared to come from.
"Yes, sir."
"May I see her?"
"I--I'll see, sir, if you'll wait outside, sir."
She gently yet quickly shut the door in the captain's face, and next
moment appeared in the little parlour with a flushed face and widely
open eyes.
The biggest man she had ever seen, or _heard_, she said, wanted to see
Miss Seaward.
Why did he want to see her and what was his name?
She didn't know, and had omitted to ask his name, having been so
frightened that she had left him at the door, which she had shut against
him.
"An', please, Miss," continued Liffie, in a tone of suppressed
eagerness, "if I was you I'd lock the parlour door in case he bu'sts in
the outer one. You might open the winder an' screech for the pleece."
"Oh! Liffie, what a frightened thing you are," remonstrated Jessie, "go
and show the man in at once."
"Oh! no, Miss," pleaded Liffie, "you'd better 'ave 'im took up at once.
You've no notion what dreadful men that sort are. _I_ know 'em well.
We've got some of 'em where _we_ live, and--and they're _awful_!"
Another knock at this point cut the conversation short, and Kate herself
went to open the door.
"May I have a word with Miss Seaward?" asked the captain respectfully.
"Ye'es, certainly," answered Kate, with some hesitation, for, although
reassured by the visitor's manner, his appearance and voice alarmed her
too. She ushered him into the parlour, however, which was suddenly
reduced to a mere bandbox by contrast with him.
Being politely asked to take a chair, he bowed and took hold of one, but
on regarding its very slender proportions--it was a cane chair--he
smiled and shook his head. The smile did much for him.
"Pray take this one," said Jessie, pointing to the old arm-chair, which
was strong enough even for him, "our visitors are not usually such--
such--"
"Thumping walruses! out with it, Miss Seaward," said the captain,
seating himself--gently, for he had suffered in this matter more than
once during his life--"I'm used to being found fault with for my size."
"Pray do not imagine," said Jessie, hastening to exculpate herself,
"that I could be so very impolite as--as to--"
"Yes, yes, I know that," interrupted the captain, blowing his nose--and
the familiar operation was in itself something awful in such a small
room--"and I _am_ too big, there's no doubt about that however, it can't
be helped. I must just grin and bear it. But I came here on business,
so we'll have business first, and pleasure, if you like, afterwards."
"You may go now," said Kate at this point to Liffie Lee, who was still
standing transfixed in open-mouthed amazement gazing at the visitor.
With native obedience and humility the child left the room, though
anxious to see and hear more.
"You have a furnished room to let I believe, ladies," said the captain,
coming at once to the point.
Jessie and Kate glanced at each other. The latter felt a strong
tendency to laugh, and the former replied:--
"We have, indeed, one small room--a very small room, in fact a mere
closet with a window in the roof,--which we are very anxious to let if
possible to a lady--a--female. It is very poorly furnished, but it is
comfortable, and we would make it very cheap. Is it about the hiring of
such a room that you come?"
"Yes, madam, it is," said the captain, decisively.
"But is the lady for whom you act," said Jessie, "prepared for a
particularly small room, and _very_ poorly furnished?"
"Yes, she is," replied the captain with a loud guffaw that made the very
windows vibrate; "in fact _I_ am the lady who wants the room. It's true
I'm not very lady-like, but I can say for myself that I'll give you less
trouble than many a lady would, an' I don't mind the cost."
"Impossible!" exclaimed Miss Seaward with a mingled look of amusement
and perplexity which she did not attempt to conceal, while Kate laughed
outright; "why, sir, the room is not much, if at all, longer than
yourself."
"No matter," returned the captain, "I'm nowise particular, an' I've been
recommended to come to you; so here I am, ready to strike a bargain if
you're agreeable."
"Pray, may I ask who recommended you?" said Jessie.
The seaman looked perplexed for a moment.
"Well, I didn't observe his name over the door," he said, "but the man
in the shop below recommended me."
"Oh? the green-grocer!" exclaimed both ladies together, but they did not
add what they thought, namely, that the green-grocer was a very
impertinent fellow to play off upon them what looked very much like a
practical joke.
"Perhaps the best way to settle the matter," said Kate, "will be to show
the gentleman our room. He will then understand the impossibility."
"That's right," exclaimed the captain; rising--and in doing so he seemed
about to damage the ceiling--"let's go below, by all means, and see the
cabin."
"It is not down-stairs," remarked Jessie, leading the way; "we are at
the top of the house here, and the room is on a level with this one."
"So much the better. I like a deck-cabin. In fact I've bin used to it
aboard my last ship."
On being ushered into the room which he wished to hire, the sailor found
himself in an apartment so very unsuited to his size and character that
even he felt slightly troubled.
"It's not so much the size that bothers me," he said, stroking his chin
gently, "as the fittings."
There was some ground for the seaman's perplexity, for the closet in
which he stood, apart from the fact of its being only ten feet long by
six broad, had been arranged by the tasteful sisters after the manner of
a lady's boudoir, with a view to captivate some poor sister of very
limited means, or, perhaps, some humble-minded and possibly undersized
young clerk from the country. The bed, besides being rather small, and
covered with a snow-white counterpane, was canopied with white muslin
curtains lined with pink calico. The wash-hand stand was low, fragile,
and diminutive. The little deal table, which occupied an inconveniently
large proportion of the space, was clothed in a garment similar to that
of the bed. The one solitary chair was of that cheap construction which
is meant to creak warningly when sat upon by light people, and to
resolve itself into match-wood when the desecrator is heavy. Two
pictures graced the walls--one the infant Samuel in a rosewood frame,
the other an oil painting--of probably the first century, for its
subject was quite undistinguishable--in a gold slip. The latter was a
relic of better days--a spared relic, which the public had refused to
buy at any price, though the auctioneer had described it as a rare
specimen of one of the old--the very old--masters, with Rembrandtesque
proclivities. No chest of drawers obtruded itself in that small
chamber, but instead thereof the economical yet provident sisters,
foreseeing the importance of a retreat for garments, had supplied a deal
box, of which they stuffed the lid and then covered the whole with green
baize, thus causing it to serve the double purpose of a wardrobe and a
small sofa.
"However," said Captain Bream, after a brief but careful look round,
"it'll do. With a little cuttin' and carvin' here an' there, we'll
manage to squeeze in, for you must know, ladies, that we sea-farin' men
have a wonderful knack o' stuffin' a good deal into small space."
The sisters made no reply. Indeed they were speechless, and horrified
at the bare idea of the entrance of so huge a lodger into their quiet
home.
"Look ye here, now," he continued in a comfortable, self-satisfied tone,
as he expanded his great arms along the length of the bed to measure it,
"the bunk's about five foot eight inches long. Well, I'm about six foot
two in my socks--six inches short; that's a difficulty no doubt, but
it's get-over-able this way, we'll splice the green box to it."
He grasped the sofa-wardrobe as he spoke, and placed it to the foot of
the bed, then embracing the entire mass of mattresses and bedding at the
lower end, raised it up, thrust the green box under with his foot, and
laid the bedding down on it--thus adding about eighteen inches to the
length.
"There you are, d'ee see--quite long enough, an' a foot to spare."
"But it does not fit," urged Kate, who, becoming desperate, resolved to
throw every possible obstruction in the way.
"That's true, madam," returned the captain with an approving nod. "I
see you've got a mechanical eye--there's a difference of elevation
'tween the box and the bed of three inches or more, but bless you,
that's nothin' to speak of. If you'd ever been in a gale o' wind at sea
you'd know that we seadogs are used to considerable difference of
elevation between our heads an' feet. My top-coat stuffed in'll put
that to rights. But you'll have to furl the flummery tops'ls--to lower
'em altogether would be safer."
He took hold of the muslin curtains with great tenderness as he spoke,
fearing, apparently, to damage them.
"You see," he continued, apologetically, "I'm not used to this sort o'
thing. Moreover, I've a tendency to nightmare. Don't alarm yourselves,
ladies, I never do anything worse to disturb folk than give a shout or a
yell or two, but occasionally I do let fly with a leg or an arm when the
fit's on me, an' if I should get entangled with this flummery, you know
I'd be apt to damage it. Yes, the safest way will be to douse the
tops'ls altogether. As to the chair--well, I'll supply a noo one
that'll stand rough weather. If you'll also clear away the petticoats
from the table it'll do well enough. In regard to the lookin'-glass, I
know pretty well what I'm like, an' don't have any desire to study my
portrait. As for shavin', I've got a bull's-eye sort of glass in the
lid o' my soap-box that serves all my purpose, and I shave wi' cold
water, so I won't be botherin' you in the mornin's for hot. I've got a
paintin' of my last ship--the Daisy--done in water-colours--it's a
pretty big 'un, but by hangin' Samuel on the other bulk-head, an'
stickin' that black thing over the door, we can make room for it."
As Captain Bream ran on in this fashion, smoothing down all
difficulties, and making everything comfortable, the poor sisters grew
more and more desperate, and Kate felt a tendency to recklessness coming
on. Suddenly a happy thought occurred to her.
"But sir," she interposed with much firmness of tone and manner, "there
is one great difficulty in the way of our letting the room to you which
I fear cannot be overcome."
The captain looked at her inquiringly, and Jessie regarded her with
admiration and wonder, for she could not conceive what this
insurmountable difficulty could be.
"My sister and I," continued Kate, "have both an _unconquerable_ dislike
to tobacco--"
"Oh! _that's_ no objection," cried the captain with a light laugh--which
in him, however, was an ear-splitting guffaw--"for I don't smoke!"
"Don't smoke?" repeated both sisters in tones of incredulity, for in
their imagination a seaman who did not smoke seemed as great an
impossibility as a street boy who did not whistle.
"An' what's more," continued the captain, "I don't drink. I'm a
tee-total abstainer. I leave smokin' to steam-funnels, an' drinkin' to
the fish."
"But," persisted Kate, on whom another happy thought had descended, "my
sister and I keep very early hours, and a latch-key we could never--"
"Pooh! that's no difficulty," again interrupted this unconquerable man
of the sea; "I hate late hours myself, when I'm ashore, havin' more than
enough of 'em when afloat. I'll go to bed regularly at nine o'clock,
an' won't want a latch-key."
The idea of such a man going to bed at all was awesome enough, but the
notion of his doing so in that small room, and in that delicately
arranged little bed under that roof-tree, was so perplexing, that the
sisters anxiously rummaged their minds for a new objection, but could
find none until their visitor asked the rent of the room. Then Kate was
assailed by another happy thought, and promptly named double the amount
which she and Jessie had previously fixed as its value--which amount she
felt sure would prove prohibitory.
Her dismay, then, may be imagined when the captain exclaimed with a
sigh--perhaps it were better to say a breeze--of relief:--
"Well, then, that's all comfortably settled. I consider the rent quite
moderate. I'll send up my chest to-morrow mornin', an' will turn up
myself in the evenin'. I'll bid ye good-day now, ladies, an' beg your
pardon for keepin' you so long about this little matter."
He held out his hand. One after another the crushed sisters put their
delicate little hands into the seaman's enormous paw, and meekly bade
him good-bye, after which the nautical giant strode noisily out of the
house, shut the door with an inadvertent bang, stumbled heavily down the
dark stair and passage, and finally vanished from the scene.
Then Jessie and Kate Seaward returned to their little parlour, sat down
at opposite sides of the miniature grate, and gazed at each other for
some minutes in solemn silence--both strongly impressed with the feeling
that they had passed through a tremendous storm, and got suddenly into a
profoundly dead calm.
CHAPTER FOUR.
BILLY BRIGHT THE FISHER-BOY VISITS LONDON--HAS A FIGHT--ENLARGES HIS
MIND, AND UNDERTAKES BUSINESS.
We must now return to the _Evening Star_ fishing-smack, but only for a
few minutes at present. Later on we shall have occasion to visit her
under stirring circumstances. We saw her last heading eastward to her
fishing-ground in the North Sea. We present her now, after a two
months' trip, sailing to the west, homeward bound.
Eight weeks at sea; nine days on shore, is the unvarying routine of the
North Sea smacksman's life, summer and winter, all the year round. Two
months of toil and exposure of the severest kind, fair-weather or foul,
and little more than one week of repose in the bosom of his family--
varied by visits more or less frequent to the tap-room of the
public-house. It is a rugged life to body and soul. Severest toil and
little rest for the one; strong temptation and little refreshment to the
other.
"Strong temptation!" you exclaim, "what! out on the heaving billows and
among the howling gales of winter on the North Sea?"
Ay, stronger temptation than you might suppose, as, in the sequel, you
shall see.
But we are homeward bound just now. One of the gales above referred to
is blowing itself out and the _Evening Star_ is threading her way among
the shoals to her brief repose in Yarmouth.
The crew are standing about the deck looking eagerly towards the land,
and little Billy is steering. [See Frontispiece.]
Yes, that ridiculous atom of humanity, with a rope, or "steering
lanyard," round the tiller to prevent its knocking him down or sweeping
him overboard, stands there guiding the plunging smack on her course
through the dangerous shoals. Of course Billy's father has an eye on
him, but he does not require to say more than an occasional word at long
intervals.
Need we observe that our little hero is no longer subject to the demon
which felled him at starting, and made his rosy face so pale? One
glance at the healthy brown cheeks will settle that question. Another
glance at his costume will suffice to explain, without words, much of
Billy's life during the past eight weeks. The sou'-wester is crushed
and soiled, the coat is limp, rent, mended, button-bereaved more or
less, and bespattered, and the boots wear the aspect of having seen
service. The little hands too, which even while ashore were not
particularly white, now bear traces of having had much to do with tar,
and grease, and fishy substances, besides being red with cold, swelled
with sundry bruises, and seamed with several scars--for Billy is
reckless by nature, and it takes time and much experience of suffering
to teach a man how to take care of his hands in the fisheries of the
North Sea!
An hour or two more sufficed to carry our smack into port, and then the
various members of the crew hurried home.
Billy swaggered beside his father and tried to look manly until he
reached his own door, where all thought of personal appearance suddenly
vanished, and he leaped with an unmanly squeal of delight into his
mother's arms. You may be sure that those arms did not spare him!
"You'll not go down to-night, David?" said Mrs Bright, when, having
half choked her son, she turned to her husband.
"No, lass,--I won't," said the skipper in a tone of decision.
Mrs Bright was much gratified by the promise, for well did she know,
from bitter experience, that if her David went down to meet his comrades
at the public-house on his arrival, his brief holidays would probably be
spent in a state of semi-intoxication. Indeed, even with this promise
she knew that much of his time, and a good deal of his hardly earned
money, would be devoted to the publican.
"We'll not have much of Billy's company this week, I fear," said Mrs
Bright, with a glance of pride at her son, who returned it with a look
of surprise.
"Why so, Nell?" asked her husband.
"Because he has got to go to London."
"To Lun'on!" exclaimed the father.
"Lun'on!" echoed the son.
"Yes; it seems that Miss Ruth--that dear young lady, Miss Ruth Dotropy--
you remember her, Billy?"
"Remember her! I should think I does," said the boy, emphatically, "if
I was to live as long as Meethusilim I'd never forget Miss Dotropy."
"Well," continued Mrs Bright, "she wrote and asked Joe Davidson's wife
to send her a fisher-boy to London for a day or two, and she'd pay his
railway fare up an' back, and all his expenses. What ever Miss Ruth
wants to do with him I don't know, nor any one else. Mrs Davidson
couldn't find a boy that was fit to send, so she said she'd wait till
you came back, Billy, and send _you_ up."
"Well, wonders ain't a-goin' to cease yet a while," exclaimed Billy,
with a look of gratified pride. "Hows'ever, I'm game for anythink--from
pitch an' toss up'ards. When am I to start, mother?"
"To-morrow, by the first train."
"All right--an' what sort o' rig? I couldn't go in them 'ere slops, you
know. It wouldn't give 'em a k'rect idear o' Yarmouth boys, would it?"
"Of course not sonny, an I've got ready your old Sunday coat, it ain't
too small for you yet--an' some other things."
Accordingly, rigged out, as he expressed it, in a well-mended and
brushed pilot-cloth coat; a round blue-cloth cap; a pair of trousers to
match, and a pair of new shoes, Billy found himself speeding towards the
great city with what he styled "a stiff breakfast under hatches, four or
five shillings in the locker, an' a bu'stin' heart beneath his veskit."
In a few hours he found himself in the bewildering streets, inquiring
his way to the great square in the West End where Mrs Dotropy dwelt.
The first person of whom he made inquiry was a street boy, and, while he
was speaking, the city Arab regarded the provincial boy's innocent
face--for it was a peculiarly innocent face when in repose--with a look
of mingled curiosity and cunning.
"Now look 'ee here, young 'un," said the Arab, "I don't know nothink
about the Vest End squares, an' what's more I don't want to, but I do
know a lot about the East End streets, an' if you'll come with me,
I'll--"
"Thank 'ee, no," interrupted Billy, with unlooked-for decision, "I've
got business to look arter at the _West_ End."
"Yell, cooriously enough," returned the Arab, "I've got business at the
_East_ End. By the vay, you don't 'appen to 'ave any browns--any
coppers--about you--eh?"
"Of course I has. You don't suppose a man goes cruisin' about Lun'on
without any shot in the locker, do you?"
"To be sure not," responded the street boy; "I might 'ave know'd that a
man like you wouldn't, anyhow. Now, it so 'appens that I'm wery much in
want o' change. You couldn't give me browns for a sixpence, could you?"
The Arab said this so earnestly--at the same time producing a sixpence,
or something that looked like one, from his pockets--that the provincial
boy's rising suspicions were quite disarmed.
"Let me see," he said, plunging his hand into his trousers pocket--"one,
two, three--no, I've only got fourpence, but--"
He was cut short by the Arab making a sudden grasp at the coins, which
sent most of them spinning on the pavement.
Like lightning little Billy sprang forward and planted his right fist on
the point of the Arab's nose with such vigour that the blow caused him
to stagger backwards. Before he could recover Billy followed him up
with a left-hander on the forehead and a right-hander on the chest,
which last sent him over on his back. So sudden was the onset that the
passers-by scarcely understood what was occurring before it was all
over. A grave policeman stepped forward at the moment. The Arab rose,
glided into a whirl of wheels and horses' legs, and disappeared, while
Billy stood still with doubled fists glaring defiance.
"Now then, my boy, what's all this about?" said the man in blue, placing
a large hand gently on the small shoulder.
"He's bin and knocked my coppers about," said our little hero
indignantly, as he looked up, but the stern yet kindly smile on the
policeman's face restored him, and he condescended on a fuller
explanation as he proceeded to pick up his pence.
Having been cautioned about the danger of entering into conversation
with strangers in London--especially with street boys--Billy was
directed to a Pimlico omnibus, and deposited not far from his
destination. Inquiring his way thereafter of several policemen--who
were, as he afterwards related to admiring friends, as thick in London
as bloaters in Yarmouth--he found himself in front of the Dotropy
residence.
"Yes, my little man," said the footman who opened the door of the West
End mansion, "Miss Ruth is at 'ome, and 'as been expecting you. Come
this way."
That footman lost ground in Billy's estimation because of using the word
_little_. If he had said "my boy," it would have been all right; "my
man" would have been gratifying; but "my little man" was repulsive. A
smart servant girl who chanced to see him on his way to the library also
caused him much pain by whispering to her fellow something about a sweet
innocent-faced darling, and he put on a savage frown, as he was ushered
into the room, by way of counteracting the sweet innocence. A glass
opposite suddenly revealed to its owner the smooth rosy-brown visage,
screwed up in a compound expression. That expression changed so swiftly
to sheer surprise, that a burst of involuntary laughter was the result.
A deep flush, and silence, followed, as the urchin looked with some
confusion round the room to see if he had been observed or overheard,
and a sense of relief came as he found that he was alone. No one had
seen or heard him except some of the Dotropy ancestors who had "come
over" with the Conqueror, and who gazed sternly from the walls. For,
you see, being a family of note, the dining-room could not hold all the
ancestors, so that some of them had to be accommodated in the library.
That glance round had a powerful effect on the mind of the fisher-boy,
so powerful indeed that all thought of self vanished, for he found
himself for the first time, in a room the like of which he had never
seen, or heard, or dreamed of.
He knew, of course, that there were libraries in Yarmouth, and was aware
that they had something to do with books, but he had never seen a
collection on a large scale, and, up to that time, had no particular
curiosity about books.
Indeed, if truth must be told, Billy hated books, because the only point
in regard to which he and his mother had ever differed was a book! A
tattered, ragged, much-soiled book it was, with big letters at the
beginning, simple arrangements of letters in the middle, and maddening
compounds of them towards the end. Earnestly, patiently, lovingly, yet
perseveringly, had Mrs Bright tried to drill the contents of that book
into Billy's unwilling brain, but with little success, for, albeit a
willing and obliging child, there was a limit to his powers of
comprehension, and a tendency in his young mind to hold in contempt what
he did not understand.
One day a somewhat pedantic visitor told Billy that he would never be a
great man if he did not try to understand the book in question--to
thoroughly digest it.
"You hear what the gentleman says, Billy, you dirty little gurnet," said
David Bright on that occasion, "you've got to di-gest it, my lad, to
di-gest it."
"Yes, father," said Billy, with a finger in his mouth and his eyes on
the visitor.
The boy's mind was inquisitive and ingenious. He pestered his father,
after the visitor had gone, for an explanation as to what he meant by
digesting the book.
"Why, sonny," returned David, knitting his brows very hard, for the
question was somewhat of a puzzler, "he means that you've got to stow
away in your brain the knowledge that's in the book, an' work away at
it--di-gest it, d'ee see--same as you stow grub into yer stummick an'
digest that."
Billy pondered this a long time till a happy thought occurred to him.
"_I'll_ digest it," said he, slapping his thigh one day when he was left
alone in the house. "We'll all di-gest it together!"
He jumped up, took the lid off a pot of pea-soup that was boiling on the
fire, and dropped the hated book into it.
"What's this i' the soup, Nell?" said David that day at dinner, as he
fished a mass of curious substance out of the pot. "Many a queer thing
have I fished up i' the trawl from the bottom o' the North Sea, but
ne'er afore did I make such a haul as this in a pot o' pea-soup. What
is't?"
"Why, David," replied the wife, examining the substance with a puzzled
expression, "I do believe it's the primer!"
They both turned their eyes inquiringly on the boy, who sat gravely
watching them.
"All right, father," he said, "I put 'im in. We're a-goin' to di-gest
it, you know."
"Dirty boy!" exclaimed his mother, flinging the remains of the boiled
book under the grate. "You've ruined the soup."
"Never a bit, Nell," said the skipper, who was in no wise particular as
to his food, "clean paper an' print can't do no damage to the soup. An'
after all, I don't see why a man shouldn't take in knowledge as well
through the stummick as through the brain. It don't matter a roker's
tail whether you ship cargo through the main-hatch or through the
fore-hatch, so long as it gits inside somehow. Come, let's have a bowl
of it. I never was good at letters myself, an' I'll be bound to say
that Billy and I will di-gest the book better this way than the right
way."
Thus was the finishing touch put to Billy Bright's education at that
time, and we have described the incident in order that the reader may
fully understand the condition of the boy's mind as he stood gazing
round the library of the West End mansion.
"Books!" exclaimed Billy, afterwards, when questioned by a Yarmouth
friend, "I should just think there _was_ books. Oh! it's o' no manner
o' use tryin' to tell 'ee about it. There was books from the floor to
the ceilin' all round the room--books in red covers, an' blue covers,
an' green, an' yellow, an' pink, an' white--all the colours in the
rainbow, and all of 'em more or less kivered wi' gold--w'y--I don't know
what their insides was worth, but sartin sure am I that they couldn't
come up to their outsides. Mints of money must 'ave bin spent in
kiverin' of 'em. An' there was ladders to git at 'em--a short un to git
at the books below, an' a long un to go aloft for 'em in the top rows.
What people finds to write about beats me to understand; but who ever
buys and reads it all beats me wuss."
While new and puzzling thoughts were thus chasing each other through the
fisher-boy's brain Ruth Dotropy entered.
"What! Billy Bright," she exclaimed in a tone of great satisfaction,
hurrying forward and holding out her hand. "I'm so glad they have sent
_you_. I would have asked them to send you, when I wrote, but thought
you were at sea."
"Yes, Miss, but I've got back again," said Billy, grasping the offered
hand timidly, fearing to soil it.
For the same reason he sat down carefully on the edge of a chair, when
Ruth said heartily, "Come, sit down and let's have a talk together,"
for, you see, he had become so accustomed to fishy clothes and tarred
hands that he had a tendency to forget that he was now "clean" and "in a
split-new rig."
Ruth's manner and reception put the poor boy at once at his ease. For
some time she plied him with questions about the fisher-folk of Yarmouth
and Gorleston, in whom she had taken great interest during a summer
spent at the former town,--at which time she had made the acquaintance
of little Billy. Then she began to talk of the sea and the fishery, and
the smacks with their crews. Of course the boy was in his element on
these subjects, and not only answered his fair questioner fully, but
volunteered a number of anecdotes, and a vast amount of interesting
information about fishing, which quite charmed Ruth, inducing her to
encourage him to go on.
"Oh! yes, Miss," he said, "it's quite true what you've bin told.
There's hundreds and hundreds of smacks a-fishin' out there on the North
Sea all the year round, summer an' winter. In course I can't say
whether there's a popilation, as you calls it, of over twelve thousand,
always afloat, never havin' counted 'em myself, but I know there must be
a-many thousand men an' boys there."
"Billy was right. There is really a population of over 12,000 men and
boys afloat all the year round on the North Sea, engaged in the arduous
work of daily supplying the London and other markets with fresh fish."
"And what port do they run for when a storm comes on?" asked Ruth.
"What port, Miss? why, they don't run for no port at all, cos why?
there's no port near enough to run for."
"Do you mean to say, that they remain at sea during all the storms--even
the worst?"
"That's just what we does, Miss. Blow high, blow low, it's all the
same; we must weather it the best way we can. An' you should see how it
blows in winter! That's the time we catches it wust. It's so cold too!
I've not bin out in winter yet myself, but father says it's cold enough
to freeze the nose off your face, an' it blows 'ard enough a'most to
blow you inside out. You wouldn't like to face that sort o' thing--
would you, Miss?"
With a light laugh Ruth admitted that she disliked the idea of such
North Sea experiences.
"Oh! you've no idea, Miss, how it do blow sometimes," continued Billy,
who was a naturally communicative boy, and felt that he had got hold of
a sympathetic ear. "Have you ever heard of the gale that blew so 'ard
that they had to station two men an' a boy to hold on to the captain's
hair for fear it should be blowed right off his 'ead?"
"Yes," answered Ruth, with a silvery laugh. "I've heard of that gale."
"Have you, Miss?" said Billy with a slightly surprised look. "That's
queer, now. I thought nobody know'd o' that gale 'cept us o' the North
Sea, an', p'raps, some o' the people o' Yarmouth an' Gorleston."
"I rather think that I must have read of it somewhere," said Ruth.
Billy glanced reproachfully at the surrounding books, under the
impression that it must have been one of these which had taken the wind
out of his sails.
"Well, Miss," he continued, "I don't mean for to say I ever was in a
gale that obliged us to be careful of the skipper's hair, but I do say
that father's seed somethink like it, for many a time our smack has bin
blowed over on her beam-ends--that means laid a'most flat, Miss, with
'er sails on the sea. One night father's smack was sailin' along
close-hauled when a heavy sea struck 'er abaft the channels, and filled
the bag o' the mains'l. She was just risin' to clear herself when
another sea follared, filled the mains'l again, an' sent 'er on 'er
beam-ends. The sea was makin' a clean breach over 'er from stem to
stern, an' cleared the deck o' the boat an' gear an' everythink. Down
went all hands below an' shut the companion, to prevent 'er being
swamped. Meanwhile the weight o' water bu'st the mains'l, so that the
vessel partly righted, an' let the hands come on deck agin. Then, after
the gale had eased a bit, two or three o' their comrades bore down on
'em and towed 'em round, so as the wind got under 'er an' lifted 'er a
bit, but the ballast had bin shot from the bilge into the side, so they
couldn't right her altogether, but had to tow 'er into port that way--
over two hundred miles--the snow an' hail blowin', too, like one
o'clock!"
"Really, they must have had a terrible time of it," returned Ruth,
"though I don't know exactly how dreadful `one o'clock' may be. But
tell me, Billy, do the fishermen like the worsted mitts and helmets and
comforters that were sent to them from this house last year?"
"Oh! don't they, just! I've heard them blessin' the ladies as sent 'em,
many a time. You see, Miss, the oil-skins chafe our wrists most awful
when we're workin' of the gear--"
"What is the gear, Billy?"
"The nets, Miss, an' all the tackle as belongs to 'em. An' then the
salt water makes the sores wuss--it used to be quite awful, but the
cuffs keeps us all right. An' the books an' tracts, too, Miss--the
hands are wery fond o' them, an'--"
"We will talk about the books and tracts another time," said Ruth,
interrupting, "but just now we must proceed to business. Of course you
understand that I must have some object in view in sending for a
fisher-boy from Yarmouth."
"Well, Miss, it did occur to me that I wasn't axed to come here for
nuffin'."
"Just so, my boy. Now I want your help, so I will explain. We are to
have what is called a drawing-room meeting here in a few days, in behalf
of the Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen, and one of your fisher captains is
to be present to give an account of the work carried on among the men of
the fleet by the mission vessels. So I want you to be there as one of
the boys--"
"Not to speak to 'em, Miss, I hope?" said Billy, with a look of affected
modesty.
"No, not to speak," replied Ruth, laughing, "only to represent the boys
of the fleet. But that's not the main thing I want you for. It is
this, and remember, Billy, that I am now taking you into my confidence,
so you must not tell what I shall speak to you about to any living
soul."
"Not even to mother?" asked the boy.
"No, not even--well, you _may_ tell it to your mother, for boys ought to
have no secrets from their mothers; besides, _your_ mother is a discreet
woman, and lives a long way off from London. You must know, then,
Billy, that I have two very dear friends--two ladies--who are in deep
poverty, and I want to give them money--"
"Well, why don't you give it 'em, Miss?" said Billy, seeing that Ruth
hesitated. "You must have lots of it to give away," he added, looking
contemplatively round.
"Yes, thank God, who gave it to me, I have, as you say, lots of it, but
I cannot give it to the dear ladies I speak of because--because--"
"They're too proud to take it, p'raps," suggested Billy.
"No; they are not proud--very far from it; but they are sensitive."
"What's that, Miss?"
Ruth was puzzled for a reply.
"It--it means," she said, "that they have delicate feelings, which
cannot bear the idea of accepting money without working for it, when
there are so many millions of poor people without money who _cannot_
work for it. They once said to me, indeed, that if they were to accept
money in charity they would feel as if they were robbing the really
poor."
"Why don't they work, then?" asked Billy in some surprise. "Why don't
they go to sea as stooardesses or somethink o' that sort?"
"Because they have never been trained to such work, or, indeed, to any
particular work," returned Ruth; "moreover, they are in rather delicate
health, and are not young. Their father was rich, and meant to leave
them plenty to live on, but he failed, and left them in broken health
without a penny. Wasn't it sad?"
"Indeed it was, Miss," replied the boy, whose ready sympathy was easily
enlisted.
"Well, now, Billy, I want you to go to see these ladies. Tell them that
you are a fisher-boy belonging to the North sea trawling fleet, and that
you have called from a house which wants a job undertaken. You will
then explain about the fishery, and how the wrists of the men are
chafed, and break out into painful sores, and how worsted mitts serve
the purpose at once of prevention and cure. Say that the house by which
you have been sent has many hands at work--and so I have, Billy, for
many ladies send the cuffs and things made by them for the fleet to _me_
to be forwarded, only they work gratuitously, and I want the work done
by my two friends to be paid for, you understand? Tell them that still
more hands are wanted, and ask them if they are open to an engagement.
You must be very matter-of-fact, grave, and businesslike, you know. Ask
them how many pairs they think they will be able to make in a week, and
say that the price to be paid will be fixed on receipt of the first
sample. But, remember, on no account are you to mention the name of the
house that sent you; you will also leave with them this bag of worsted.
Now, do you fully understand?"
Billy replied by a decided wink, coupled with an intelligent nod.
After a good deal of further advice and explanation, Ruth gave Billy the
name and address of her friends, and sent him forth on his mission.
CHAPTER FIVE.
HOW BILLY CONDUCTS THE BUSINESS--HOW CAPTAIN BREAM OVERCOMES THE
SISTERS, AND HOW JESSIE SEAWARD SEES MYSTERY IN EVERYTHING.
"I wonder," said Billy to himself on reaching the street as he looked
down at the legs of his trousers, "I wonder if they're any shorter.
Yes, they don't seem to be quite so far down on the shoes as when I left
Yarmouth. I _must_ have grow'd an inch or two since I came up to
Lun'on!"
Under this gratifying impression the fisher-boy drew himself up to his
full height, his little chest swelling with new sensations, and his
whole body rolling along with a nautical swagger that drew on him the
admiration of some, the contempt of others, and caused several street
boys to ask "if his mother knowed 'e was hout," and other insolent
questions.
But Billy cared for none of these things. The provincial boy was quite
equal to the occasion, though his return "chaff" smacked much of salt
water.
Arrived at the poverty-stricken street in which the Misses Seaward
dwelt, Billy mounted the narrow staircase and knocked at the door. It
was opened by Liffie Lee, who had remained on that day to accomplish
some extra work.
"Is your missis at home, my dear?"
"There ain't no missis here, an' I ain't _your_ dear," was the prompt
reply.
Billy was taken aback. He had not anticipated so ready and caustic a
response, in one so small and child-like.
"Come now--no offence meant," he said, "but you're not a-goin' to deny
that the Miss Seawards does live here."
"I ain't a-goin' to deny nothink," replied Liffie, a little softened by
the boy's apologetic tone, "only when I'm expected to give a civil
answer, I expects a civil question."
"That's all fair an' aboveboard. Now, will you tell the Miss Seawards I
wants to see 'em, on a matter of business--of importance."
Another minute and Billy stood in the presence of the ladies he wished
to see. Prepared beforehand to like them, his affections were at once
fixed for ever by the first glimpse of their kindly faces.
With a matter-of-fact gravity, that greatly amused the sisters--though
they carefully concealed their feelings--little Billy stated his
business, and, in so doing, threw his auditors into a flutter of hope
and gratitude, surprise and perplexity.
"But what is the name of the house that sends you?" asked Miss Jessie.
"That I am not allowed for to tell," said the boy-of-business, firmly.
"A mercantile house in the city, I suppose," said Kate.
"What sort o' house it may be is more than a sea-farin' man like me
knows, an' of course it's in the city. You wouldn't expect a
business-house to be in the country, would you? all I know is that they
want mitts made--hundreds of 'em--no end o' mitts--an' they hain't got
hands enough to make 'em, so they sent me to ask if you'll undertake to
help in the work, or if they're to git some one else to do it. Now,
will you, or will you not? that's the pint."
"Of course we shall be only too happy," answered Jessie, "though the
application is strange. How did you come to know that we were in want
of--that is, who sent you to us?"
"The house sent me, as I said afore, Miss."
"Yes, but how did the house come to know of our existence, and how is it
that a house of any sort should send a sailor-boy as its messenger?"
"How the house came to know of you is more than I can say. They don't
tell me all the outs-an'-ins of their affairs, you know. As to a house
sendin' a sailor-boy as its messenger--did you ever hear of the great
house of Messrs. Hewett and Company, what supplies Billin'sgate with
fish?"
"I'm not sure--well, yes, I think I have heard of that house," said
Kate, "though we are not in the way of hearing much about the commercial
houses of London."
"Well," continued Billy, "that house sends hundreds of fisher-boys as
messengers. It sends 'em to the deep-sea with a message to the fish, an
the message is--`come out o' the water you skulkin' critters, an' be
sent up to Billin'sgate to be sold an' eaten!' The fish don't come
willin'ly, I'm bound for to say that, but we make 'em come all the same,
willin' or not, for we've wonderful powers o' persuasion. So you see,
houses _do_ send fisher-boys as messengers sometimes; now, what am I to
say to the partikler house as sends _me_? will you go in for mitts? you
may take comforters if you prefer it, or helmets."
"What do you mean by helmets, my boy?"
"Worsted ones, of course. Things made to kiver up a man's head and
neck and come down to his shoulders, with a hole in front just big
enough to let his eyes, nose, and cheek-bones come through. With a
sou'-wester on top, and a comforter round the neck, they're not so bad
in a stiff nor'-wester in Janoowairy. Now's your chance, ladies, now,
or niver!"
There was something so ludicrous in the manly tone and decided manner of
the smooth-faced little creature before them, that the sisters burst
into a hearty fit of laughter.
"Forgive us, dear boy, but the idea of our being asked in this sudden
way to make innumerable mitts and comforters and worsted helmets seems
so odd that we can't help laughing. What is your name? That is not a
secret, I hope?"
"By no means. My name is Billy Bright. If you're very partikler, you
may call me Willum."
"I prefer Billy," said Kate. "Now, Billy, it is near our dinner hour.
Will you stay and dine with us? If you do, you'll meet such a nice
man--such a big man too--and somewhat in your own line of life; a
sea-captain. We expect him every--"
"No, thank 'ee, Miss," interrupted the boy, rising abruptly. "I sees
more than enough o' big sea-captings when I'm afloat. Besides, I've got
more business on hand, so I'll bid 'ee good-day."
Pulling his forelock he left the room.
"The ladies has undertook some work for me, my dear," said Billy to
Liffie Lee, as he stood at the door buttoning up his little coat, "so
p'raps I may see you again."
"It won't break my 'art if you don't," replied Liffie; "no, nor yet
yours."
"Speak for yourself, young 'ooman. You don't know nothing about _my_
'art."
As he spoke, a heavy foot was heard at the bottom of the stair.
"That's our lodger," said Liffie; "no foot but his can bang the stair or
make it creak like that."
"Well, I'm off," cried Billy, descending two steps at a time.
Half-way down he encountered what seemed to him a giant with a chest on
his shoulder. It was the darkest part of the stair where they met.
"Look out ahead! Hard a starboard!" growled Captain Bream, who seemed
to be heavily weighted.
"Ay, ay, sir!" cried Billy, as he brushed past, bounded into the street,
and swaggered away.
"What boy was that, Liffie?" asked the captain, letting down the chest
he carried with a shock that caused the frail tenement to quiver from
cellar to roof-tree.
"I don't know, sir."
"He must be a sailor-boy, from his answer," rejoined the captain. "Open
the door o' my cabin, lass, and I'll carry it right in. It's somewhat
heavy."
He lifted the chest, which was within an eighth of an inch of being too
large to pass through the little door-way, and put it in a corner, after
which he entered the parlour, and sat down in a solid wooden chair which
he had supplied to the establishment for his own special use.
"You see," he had said, on the day when he introduced it, "I've come to
grief so often in the matter of chairs that I've become chary as to how
I use 'em. If all the chairs that I've had go crash under me was put
together they'd furnish a good-sized house. Look before you leap is a
well-known proverb, but, look before you sit down, has become a more
familiar experience to me through life. It's an awkward thing bein' so
heavy, and I hope you'll never know what it is, ladies."
Judging from their appearance just then there did not seem much prospect
of that!
"Now," continued the captain, rubbing his hands and looking benignantly
at Jessie, "I have settled the matter at last; fairly said good-bye to
old Ocean, an' fixed to cast anchor for good on the land."
"Have you indeed, captain?" said Jessie, "I should fancy that you must
feel rather sorry to bid farewell to so old a friend."
"That's true, Miss Seaward. An old and good friend the sea has been to
me, thank God. But I'm gettin' too old myself to be much of a friend to
_it_, so I've fixed to say good-bye. And the question is, Am I to stop
on here, or am I to look out for another lodgin'? You see I've been a
good many weeks with you now, an' you've had a fair taste of me, so to
speak. I know I'm a rough sort o' fish for the like o' you to have to
do with, and, like some o' the hermit crabs, rather too big for my
shell, so if you find me awkward or uncomfortable don't hesitate to say
so. I won't be surprised, though I confess I should be sorry to leave
you."
"Well, Captain Bream," said Kate, who was generally the speaker when
delicate, difficult or unpleasant subjects had to be dealt with, "since
you have been so candid with us we will be equally candid with you.
When you first came to us, I confess that we were much alarmed; you
seemed--so very big," (the captain tried to shrink a little--without
success--and smiled in a deprecating manner), "and our rooms and
furniture seemed so very small and delicate, so to speak; and then your
voice was so fearfully deep and gruff," (the captain cleared his throat
softly--in B natural of the bass clef--and smiled again), "that we were
almost frightened to receive you; but, now that we have had experience
of you, we are quite willing that you should continue with us--on one
condition, however."
"And that is?" asked the captain anxiously.
"That you pay us a lower rent."
"A--a higher rent you mean, I suppose?"
"No; I mean a lower."
Captain Bream's benign visage became grave and elongated.
"You see, captain," continued Kate, flushing a little, "when you first
came, we tried--excuse me--to get rid of you, to shake you off, and we
almost doubled the rent of our little room, hoping that--"
"Quite right, quite right," interrupted the captain, "and according to
strict justice, for ain't I almost double the size of or'nary men, an'
don't I give more than double the trouble?"
"Not so," returned Kate, firmly, "you don't give half the trouble that
other men do."
"Excuse me, Miss Kate," said the captain with a twinkle in his grey eye,
"you told me I was your first lodger, so how can you know how much
trouble other men would give?"
"No matter," persisted Kate, a little confused, "you don't give _half_
the trouble that other lodgers would have given if we had had them."
"Ah! h'm--well," returned the captain softly, in the profoundest
possible bass, "looking at the matter in that light, perhaps you are not
far wrong. But, go on."
"Well, I have only to add," continued Kate, "that you have been so kind
to us, and so considerate, and have given us so little--so _very_ little
trouble, that it will give us both great pleasure to have you continue
to lodge with us, if you agree to the reduction of the rent."
"Very well," said Captain Bream, pulling out an immense gold
chronometer--the gift, in days gone by, of a band of highly grateful and
appreciative passengers. "I've got business in the city an hour hence.
We shall have dinner first. Two hours afterwards I will return with a
cab and take away my boxes. That will give you plenty of time to make
out your little bill and--"
"What _do_ you mean, captain?" interrupted Kate, in much surprise.
"I mean, dear ladies, that you and I entered into an agreement to rent
your little cabin for so much. Now it has been my rule in life to stick
to agreements, and I mean to stick to this one or throw up my situation.
Besides, I'm not goin' to submit to have the half of my rent cut off.
I can't stand it. Like old Shylock, I mean to stick to the letter of
the bond. Now, _is_ it `to be, or not to be?' as Hamlet said to the
ass."
"I was not aware that Hamlet said that to an ass," remarked Jessie, with
a little laugh.
"Oh yes! he did," returned the captain quite confidently; "he said it to
himself, you know, an' that was the same thing. But what about the
agreement?"
"Well, since you are so determined, I suppose we must give in," said
Kate.
"We can't resist you, captain," said Jessie, "but there is one thing
that we must positively insist on, namely, that you come and sit in this
room of an evening. I suppose you read or write a great deal, for we
see your light burning very late sometimes, and as you have no fire you
must often feel very cold."
"Cold!" shouted the captain, with a laugh that caused the very
window-frames to vibrate. "My dear ladies, I'm never cold. Got so used
to it, I suppose, that it has no power over me. Why, when a man o' my
size gets heated right through, it takes three or four hours to cool him
even a little. Besides, if it do come a very sharp frost, I've got a
bear-skin coat that our ship-carpenter made for me one voyage in the
arctic regions. It is hot enough inside almost to cook you. Did I ever
show it you? I'll fetch it."
Captain Bream rose with such energy that he unintentionally spurned his
chair--his own solid peculiar chair--and caused it to pirouette on one
leg before tumbling backward with a crash. Next minute he returned
enveloped from head to foot in what might be termed a white-bear ulster,
with an enormous hood at the back of his neck.
Accustomed as the sisters were to their lodger's bulk, they were not
prepared for the marvellous increase caused by the monstrous hairy
garment.
"It would puzzle the cold to get at me through this, wouldn't it?" said
its owner, surveying it with complacency. "It was my own invention
too--at least the carpenter and I concocted it between us.
"The sleeves are closed up at the ends, you see, and a thumb attached to
each, so as to make sleeves and mittens all of a piece, with a slit near
the wrists to let you shove your hands out when you want to use them
naked, an' a flap to cover the slit and keep the wind out when you don't
want to shove out your hands. Then the hood, you see, is large and
easy, so that it can be pulled well for'ard--so--and this broad band
behind it unbuttons and comes round in front of the face and buttons,
so--to keep all snug when you lay down to sleep."
"Wonderful!" exclaimed the sisters as the captain stood before them like
a great pillar of white fur, with nothing of him visible save the eyes
and feet.
"But that's not all," continued the ancient mariner, turning his back to
the sisters. "You see that great flap hooked up behind?"
"Yes," answered Jessie and Kate in the same breath.
"Well, then, notice what I do."
He sat down on the floor, and unhooking the flap, drew it round in
front, where he re-hooked it to another row of eyes in such a manner
that it completely covered his feet and lower limbs.
"There, you see, I'm in a regular fur-bag now, all ready for a night in
the snow."
By way of illustration he extended himself on the floor at full-length,
and, by reason of that length being so great, and the room so narrow,
his feet went into the window-recess, while his head lay near the door.
All ignorant of this illustration of arctic life going on, Liffie Lee,
intent on dinner purposes, opened the door and drove it violently
against the captain's head.
"Avast there!" he shouted, rising promptly. "Come in, lass. Come in--
no damage done."
"Oh! sir," exclaimed the horrified Liffie, "I ax your parding."
"Don't put yourself about my girl. I'm used to collisions, and it's not
in the power o' your small carcass to do me damage."
Disrobing himself as he spoke, the lodger retired to his cabin to lay
aside his curious garment, and Liffie, assisted by Kate, took advantage
of his absence to spread their little board.
"I never saw such a man," said Kate in a low voice as she bustled about.
"Saw!" exclaimed Jessie under her breath, "I never even conceived of
such a man. He is so violent in his actions that I constantly feel as
if I should be run over and killed. It feels like living in the same
house with a runaway mail coach. How fortunate that his spirit is so
gentle and kind!"
A tremendous crash at that moment caused Jessie to stop with a gasp.
"Hallo! fetch a swab--a dish-clout or somethin', Liffie," came
thundering from the captain's room. "Don't be alarmed, ladies, it's
only the wash-hand basin. Knocked it over in hangin' up the coat.
Nothin' smashed. It's a tin basin, you know. Look alive, lass, else
the water'll git down below, for the caulkin' of these planks ain't much
to boast of, an' you'll have the green-grocer up in a towering rage!"
A few minutes later this curious trio sat down to dinner, and the
captain, according to a custom established from the commencement of his
sojourn, asked a blessing on the meat in few words, but with a deeply
reverent manner, his great hands being clasped before him, and with his
eyes shut like a little child.
"Well now, before beginning," he said, looking up, "let me understand;
is this matter of the lodging and rent settled?"
"Yes, it is settled," answered Jessie. "We've got used to you, captain,
and should be very, very sorry to lose you."
"Come, that's all right. Let's shake hands on it over the leg of
mutton."
He extended his long arm over the small table, and spread out his
enormous palm in front of Jessie Seaward. With an amused laugh she laid
her little hand in it--to grasp it was out of the question--and the
mighty palm closed for a moment with an affectionate squeeze. The same
ceremony having been gone through with Kate, he proceeded to carve.
And what a difference between the dinners that once graced--perhaps we
should say disgraced--that board, and those that smoked upon it now!
Then, tea and toast, with sometimes an egg, and occasionally a bit of
bacon, were the light viands; now, beef, mutton, peas, greens, potatoes,
and other things, constituted the heavy fare.
The sisters had already begun to get stronger on it. The captain would
have got stronger, no doubt, had that been possible.
And what a satisfactory thing it was to watch Captain Bream at his
meals! There was something grand--absolutely majestic--in his action.
Being a profoundly modest and unselfish man it was not possible to
associate the idea of gluttony with him, though he possessed the
digestion of an ostrich, and the appetite of a shark. There was nothing
hurried, or eager, or careless, in his mode of eating. His motions were
rather slow than otherwise; his proceedings deliberate. He would even
at times check a tempting morsel on its way to his mouth that he might
more thoroughly understand and appreciate something that Jessie or Kate
chanced to be telling him. Yet with all that, he compelled you, while
looking at him, to whisper to yourself--"how he does shovel it in!"
"I declare to you, Kate," said Jessie, on one occasion after the captain
had left the room, "I saw him take one bite to-day which ought to have
choked him, but it didn't. He stuck his fork into a piece of mutton as
big--oh! I'm afraid to say how big; it really seemed to me the size of
your hand, and he piled quite a little mound of green peas on it, with a
great mass of broken fragments and gravy, and put it all into his mouth
at once, though that mouth was already pretty well-filled with the
larger half of an enormous potato. I thought he would never get it in,
but something you said caused him to laugh at the time, and before the
laugh was over the bite had disappeared. Before it was properly
swallowed he was helping himself to another slice from the leg of
mutton! I declare to you, Kate, that many a time I have dined
altogether on less than that one bite!"
Poor Miss Seaward had stated a simple truth in regard to herself, but
that truth was founded on want of food, not on want of appetite or
capacity for more.
At first it had been arranged that an account-book should be kept, and
that the captain should pay for one-third of the food that was consumed
in the house, but he had consumed so much, and the sisters so
ridiculously little, that he refused to fall in with such an arrangement
and insisted on paying for all the food consumed, with the exception of
the cup of coffee, cream, and sugar, with which he regaled himself every
day after dinner. Of course they had had a battle over this matter
also, but the captain had carried the day, as he usually did, for he had
marvellous powers of suasion. He had indeed so argued, and talked, and
bamboozled the meek sisters--sometimes seriously, oftener jocularly,--
that they had almost been brought to the belief that somehow or other
their lodger was only doing what was just! After all, they were not so
far wrong, for all that they ate of the captain's provisions amounted to
a mere drop in the bucket, while the intellectual food with which they
plied their lodger in return, and the wealth of sympathy with which they
surrounded him, was far beyond the power of gold to purchase.
"No," said Captain Bream, sipping his coffee and shaking his head, when
Jessie again pressed on him the propriety of sitting in the parlour of
an evening, "I can't do it. The fact is that I'm studying--though you
may think I'm rather an oldish student--and I can't study except when
I'm alone."
"What are you studying?" asked Kate, and then, observing that the
captain looked slightly confused, and feeling that she ought not to have
put the question, she quickly changed the subject by adding--"for
whatever it is, you will be quite free from interruption here. My
sister and I often sit for hours without talking, and--"
"No, no, dear Miss Kate. Say no more," interrupted the captain; "I must
stick to my own cabin except at meal-times, and, of course, when we want
a bit of a talk together. There is one thing, however, that I would
like. I know you have family worship with your little lass. May I join
you?"
"Oh! it would give us such pleasure," exclaimed Kate, eagerly, "if you
would come and conduct worship for us."
The captain protested that he would not do that, but finally gave in,
and afterwards acted the part of chaplain in the family.
"By the way," he said, when about to quit the parlour, "I've brought
another chest to the house."
"Yes," said Kate, "we felt the shock when you put it down."
"Well, it is a bit heavy. I've fairly given up my connection with my
last ship, and as the new commander took possession this morning I was
obliged to bring away my last box. Now, I don't want Liffie to move it
about when putting things to rights, or to meddle with it in any way.
When we want to sweep behind or under it I'll shift it myself. But,
after all, you're safe not to move it, for the three of you together
couldn't if you were to try ever so much. So, good-day. I'll be back
to tea."
"Kate," said Jessie, after he was gone, "I am quite sure that there is
some mystery connected with that box."
"Of course you are," replied Kate, with a laugh, "you always see mystery
in things that you don't understand! You saw mystery too, didn't you,
in the late sitting up and studies of Captain Bream."
"Indeed I did, and I am quite sure that there _is_ some mystery about
that, too."
"Just so, and I have no doubt that you observe mystery of some sort,"
added Kate, with a humorous glance, "in the order for worsted work that
we have just received."
"Undoubtedly I do," replied Jessie, with decision. "The whole affair is
mysterious--ridiculously so. In truth it seems to me that we are
surrounded by mystery."
"Well, well, sister mine," said the matter-of-fact Kate, going to a
small cupboard and producing an ample work-box that served for both,
"whatever mysteries may surround us, it is our business to fulfil our
engagements, so we will at once begin our knitting of cuffs and
comforters for the fishermen of the North Sea."
CHAPTER SIX.
THE CURSE OF THE NORTH SEA; AND THE TRAWLS AT WORK.
There are few objects in nature, we think, more soothing to the feelings
and at the same time more heart-stirring to the soul than the wide ocean
in a profound calm, when sky and temperature, health, hour, and other
surrounding conditions combine to produce unison of the entire being.
Such were the conditions, one lovely morning about the end of summer,
which gladdened the heart of little Billy Bright as he leaned over the
side of the _Evening Star_, and made faces at his own reflected image in
the sea, while he softly whistled a slow melody to which the gentle
swell beat time.
The _Evening Star_ was at that time the centre of a constellation--if we
may so call it--of fishing-smacks, which floated in hundreds around her.
It was the "Short Blue" fleet of deep-sea trawlers; so named because of
the short square flag of blue, by which it was distinguished from other
deep-sea fleets--such as the Grimsby fleet, the Columbia fleet, the
Great Northern, Yarmouth, Red Cross, and other fleets--which do our
fishing business from year's end to year's end on the North Sea.
But Billy was thoughtless and apt to enjoy what was agreeable, without
reference to its being profitable. Some of the conditions which
rejoiced his heart had the reverse effect on his father. That
gruff-spirited fisherman did not want oily seas, or serene blue skies,
or reflected clouds and sunshine--no, what he wanted was fish, and
before the _Evening Star_ could drag her ponderous "gear" along the
bottom of the sea, so as to capture fish, it was necessary that a
stiffish breeze should not only ruffle but rouse the billows of the
North Sea--all the better if it should fringe their crests with foam.
"My usual luck," growled David Bright, as he came on deck after a hearty
breakfast, and sat down on the bulwarks to fill his pipe and do what in
him lay to spoil his digestion--though, to do David justice, his powers
in that line were so strong that he appeared to be invulnerable to
tobacco and spirits. We use the word "appeared" advisedly, for in
reality the undermining process was going on surely, though in his case
slowly.
His "hands," having enjoyed an equally good breakfast, were moving
quietly about, paying similar attention to their digestions!
There was our tall friend Joe Davidson, the mate; and Ned Spivin, a man
of enormous chest and shoulders, though short in the legs; and Luke
Trevor, a handsome young fellow of middle size, but great strength and
activity, and John Gunter, a big sour-faced man with a low brow, rough
black hair, and a surly spirit. Billy was supposed to be minding the
tiller, but, in the circumstances, the tiller was left to mind itself.
Zulu was the only active member on board, to judge from the clatter of
his pots and pans below.
"My usual luck," said the skipper a second time, in a deeper growl.
"Seems to me," said Gunter, in a growl that was even more deep and
discontented than that of the skipper, "that luck is always down on us."
"'Tis the same luck that the rest o' the fleet has got, anyhow,"
observed Joe Davidson, who was the most cheerful spirit in the smack;
but, indeed, all on board, with the exception of the skipper and Gunter,
were men of a hearty, honest, cheerful nature, more or less careless
about life and limb.
To the mate's remark the skipper said "humph," and Gunter said that he
was the unluckiest fellow that ever went to sea.
"You're always growling, Jack," said Ned Spivin, who was fond of
chaffing his mates; "they should have named you Grunter when they were
at it."
"I only wish the Coper was alon'side," said the skipper, "but she's
always out of the way when she's wanted. Who saw her last?"
"I did," said Luke Trevor, "just after we had crossed the Silver Pits;
and I wish we might never see her again."
"Why so, mate?" asked Gunter.
"Because she's the greatest curse that floats on the North Sea,"
returned Luke in a tone of indignation.
"Ah!--you hate her because you've jined the teetotallers," returned
Gunter with something of a sneer.
"No, mate, I don't hate her because I've jined the teetotallers, but
I've jined the teetotallers because I hate her."
"Pretty much the same thing, ain't it?"
"No more the same thing," retorted Luke, "than it is the same thing to
put the cart before the horse or the horse before the cart. It wasn't
total-abstainin' that made me hate the Coper, but it was hatred of the
Coper that made me take to total-abstainin'--don't you see?"
"Not he," said Billy Bright, who had joined the group; "Gunter never
sees nothing unless you stick it on to the end of his nose, an' even
then you've got to tear his eyes open an' force him to look."
Gunter seized a rope's-end and made a demonstration of an intention to
apply it, but Billy was too active; he leaped aside with a laugh, and
then, getting behind the mast, invited the man to come on "an' do his
wust."
Gunter laid down the rope's-end with a grim smile and turned to Luke
Trevor.
"But I'm sure you've got no occasion," he said, "to blackguard the
Coper, for you haven't bin to visit her much."
"No, thank God, I have not," said Luke earnestly, "yet I've bin aboard
often enough to wish I had never bin there at all. It's not that,
mates, that makes me so hard on the Coper, but it was through the
accursed drink got aboard o' that floatin' grog-shop that I lost my best
friend."
"How was that, Luke? we never heerd on it."
The young fisherman paused a few moments as if unwilling to talk on a
distasteful subject.
"Well, it ain't surprisin' you didn't hear of it," he said, "because I
was in the Morgan fleet at the time, an' it's more than a year past.
The way of it was this. We was all becalmed, on a mornin' much like
this, not far off the Borkum Reef, when our skipper jumped into the
boat, ordered my friend Sterlin' an' me into it, an' went off cruisin'.
We visited one or two smacks, the skippers o' which were great chums of
our skipper, an' he got drunk there. Soon after, a stiff breeze sprang
up, an' the admiral signalled to bear away to the nor'-west'ard. We
bundled into our boat an' made for our smack, but by ill luck we had to
pass the Coper, an' nothin' would please the skipper but to go aboard
and have a glass. Sterlin' tried to prevent him, but he grew savage an'
told him to mind his own business. Well, he had more than one glass,
and by that time it was blowin' so 'ard we began to think we'd have some
trouble to get back again. At last he consented to leave, an' a
difficult job it was to get him into the boat wi' the sea that was
runnin'. When we got alongside of our smack, he laid hold of Sterlin's
oar an' told him to throw the painter aboard. My friend jumped up an'
threw the end o' the painter to one of the hands. He was just about to
lay hold o' the side an' spring over when the skipper stumbled against
him, caused him to miss his grip, an' sent him clean overboard. Poor
Sterlin' had on his long boots an' a heavy jacket. He went down like a
stone. We never saw him again."
"Did none o' you try to save him?" asked Joe quickly.
"We couldn't," replied Luke. "I made a dash at him, but he was out o'
sight by that time. He went down so quick that I can't help thinkin' he
must have struck his head on the side in goin' over."
Luke Trevor did not say, as he might have truly said, that he dived
after his friend, being himself a good swimmer, and nearly lost his own
life in the attempt to save that of Sterling.
"D'ye think the skipper did it a' purpose, mate?" asked David.
"Sartinly not," answered Luke. "The skipper had no ill-will at him, but
he was so drunk he couldn't take care of himself, an' didn't know what
he was about."
"That wasn't the fault o' the Coper," growled Gunter. "You say he got
half-screwed afore he went there, an' he might have got dead-drunk
without goin' aboard of her at all."
"So he might," retorted Luke; "nevertheless it _was_ the Coper that
finished him off at that time--as it has finished off many a man before,
and will, no doubt, be the death o' many more in time to come."
The Copers, which Luke Trevor complained of so bitterly, are Dutch
vessels which provide spirits and tobacco, the former of a cheap, bad,
and peculiarly fiery nature. They follow the fleets everywhere, and are
a continual source of mischief to the fishermen, many of whom, like men
on shore, find it hard to resist a temptation which is continually
presented to them.
"There goes the admiral," sang out little Billy, who, while listening to
the conversation, had kept his sharp little eyes moving about.
The admiral of the fleet, among North Sea fishermen, is a very important
personage. There is an "admiral" to each fleet, though we write just
now about the admiral of the "Short Blue." He is chosen for steadiness
and capacity, and has to direct the whole fleet as to the course it
shall steer, the letting down of its "gear" or trawls, etcetera, and his
orders are obeyed by all. One powerful reason for such obedience is
that if they do not follow the admiral they will find themselves at last
far away from the steamers which come out from the Thames daily to
receive the fish; for it is a rule that those steamers make straight for
the admiral's vessel. By day the admiral is distinguished by a flag
half way up the maintop-mast stay. By night signals are made with
rockets.
While the crew of the _Evening Star_ were thus conversing, a slight
breeze had sprung up, and Billy had observed that the admiral's smack
was heading to windward in an easterly direction. As the breeze came
down on the various vessels of the fleet, they all steered the same
course, so that in a few minutes nearly two hundred smacks were
following him like a shoal of herring. The glassy surface of the sea
was effectually broken, and a field of rippling indigo took the place of
the ethereal sheet of blue.
Thus the whole fleet passed steadily to windward, the object being to
get to such a position on the "fishing-grounds" before night-fall, that
they could put about and sail before the wind during the night, dragging
their ponderous trawls over the banks where fish were known to lie.
Night is considered the best time to fish, though they also fish by day,
the reason being, it is conjectured, that the fish do not see the net so
well at night; it may be, also, that they are addicted to slumber at
that period! Be the reason what it may, the fact is well-known.
Accordingly, about ten o'clock the admiral hove-to for a few minutes.
So did the fleet. On board the _Evening Star_ they took soundings, and
found twenty-five fathoms. Then the admiral called attention by showing
a "flare."
"Look out now, Billy," said David Bright to his son, who was standing
close by the capstan.
Billy needed no caution. His sharp eyes were already on the watch.
"A green rocket! There she goes, father."
The green rocket signified that the gear was to be put down on the
starboard side, and the fleet to steer to the southward.
Bustling activity and tremendous vigour now characterised the crew of
the _Evening Star_ as they proceeded to obey the order. A clear starry
sky and a bright moon enabled them to see clearly what they were about,
and they were further enlightened by a lantern in the rigging.
The trawl which they had to put down was, as we have said, a huge and
ponderous affair, and could only be moved by means of powerful blocks
and tackle aided by the capstan. It consisted of a thick spar called
the "beam", about forty-eight feet long, and nearly a foot thick,
supported on a massive iron hoop, or runner, at each end. These irons
were meant to drag over the bottom of the sea and keep the beam from
touching it. Attached to this beam was the bag-net--a very powerful
one, as may be supposed, with a small mesh. It was seventy feet long,
and about sixteen feet of the outermost end was much stronger than the
rest, and formed the bag, named the cod-end, in which the fish were
ultimately collected. Besides being stronger, the cod-end was covered
by flounces of old netting, to prevent the rough bottom from chafing it
too much. The cost of such a net alone is about 7 pounds. To the beam,
attached at the two ends, was a very powerful rope called the bridle.
It was twenty fathoms long. To this was fastened the warp--a rope made
of best manilla and hemp, always of great strength. The amount of this
paid out depended much on the weather; if very rough it might be about
40 fathoms, if moderate about 100. Sometimes such net and gear is
carried away, and this involves a loss of about 60 pounds sterling. We
may dismiss these statistics by saying that a good night's fishing may
be worth from 10 pounds to 27 pounds, and a good trip--of eight weeks--
may produce from 200 to 280 pounds.
Soon the gear was down in the twenty-five fathom water, and the
trawl-warp became as rigid almost as an iron bar, while the speed of the
smack through the water was greatly reduced--perhaps to three miles an
hour--by the heavy drag behind her, a drag that ever increased as fish
of all sorts and sizes were scraped into the net. Why the fish are such
idiots as to remain in the net when they could swim out of it at the
rate of thirty miles an hour is best known to themselves.
Besides the luminaries which glittered in the sky that night the sea was
alive with the mast-head lights of the fishing smacks, but these lower
lights, unlike the serenely steady lights above, were ever changing in
position, as well as dancing on the crested waves, giving life to the
dark waters, and creating, at least in the little breast of Billy
Bright, a feeling of companionship which was highly gratifying.
"Now, lad, go below and see if Zulu has got something for us to eat,"
said David to his son. "Here, Luke Trevor, mind the helm."
The young fisherman, who had been labouring with the others at the gear
like a Hercules, stepped forward and took the tiller, while the skipper
and his son descended to the cabin, where the rest of the men were
already assembled in anticipation of supper. The cabin was remarkably
snug, but it was also pre-eminently simple. So, also, was the meal.
The arts of upholstery and cookery had not been brought to bear in
either case. The apartment was about twelve feet long by ten broad, and
barely high enough to let Joe Davidson stand upright. Two wooden
lockers ran along either side of it. Behind these were the bunks of the
men. At the inner end were some more lockers, and aft, there was an
open stove, or fireplace, alongside of the companion-ladder. A clock
and a barometer were the chief ornaments of the place. The atmosphere
of it was not fresh by any means, and volumes of tobacco smoke rendered
it hazy.
But what cared these heavy-booted, rough-handed, big-framed,
iron-sinewed, strong-hearted men for fresh air? They got enough of
that, during their long hours on deck, to counteract the stifling odours
of the regions below!
"Now, then, boys, dar you is," said Zulu, placing a huge pot on the
floor, containing some sort of nautical soup. "I's cook you soup an'
tea, an' dar's sugar an' butter, an' lots o' fish and biskit, so you
fire away till you bu'st yourselves."
The jovial Zulu bestowed on the company a broad and genial grin as he
set the example by filling a bowl with the soup. The others did not
require a second bidding. What they lacked in quality was more than
made up in quantity, and rendered delicious by appetite.
Conversation flagged, of course, while these hardy sons of toil were
busy with their teeth, balancing themselves and their cups and bowls
carefully, while the little vessel rolled heavily over the heaving
waves. By degrees the teeth became less active and the tongues began to
wag.
"I wish that feller would knock off psalm-singin'," said Gunter with an
oath, as he laid down his knife and wiped his mouth.
He referred to Luke Trevor, who possessed a sweet mellow voice, and was
cheering himself, as he stood at the helm, by humming a hymn, or
something like one, for the words were not distinguishable in the cabin.
"I think that Luke, if he was here, would wish some other feller to
knock off cursin' an' swearin'," said Joe.
"Come, Joe," said the skipper, "don't you pretend to be one o' the
religious sort, for you know you're not."
"That's true," returned Joe, "and I don't pretend to be; but surely a
man may object to cursin' without bein' religious. I've heard men say
that they don't mean nothin' by their swearin'. P'raps the
psalm-singin' men might say the same; but for my part if they both mean
nothin' by it, I'd rather be blessed than cursed by my mates any day."
"The admiral's signallin', sir," sung out Luke, putting his head down
the companion at that moment.
The men went on deck instantly; nevertheless each found time to light
the inevitable pipe before devoting himself entirely to duty.
The signal was to haul up the trawl, and accordingly all the fleet set
to work at their capstans, the nets having by that time been down about
three or four hours.
It was hard work and slow, that heaving at the capstans hour after hour,
with the turbulent sea tossing about the little smacks, few of which
were much above seventy tons burden. One or two in the fleet worked
their capstans by steam-power--an immense relief to the men, besides a
saving of time.
"It's hard on the wrists," said Gunter during a brief pause in the
labour, as he turned up the cuffs of his oiled frock and displayed a
pair of wrists that might well have caused him to growl. The constant
chafing of the hard cuffs had produced painful sores and swellings,
which were further irritated by salt water.
"My blessin's on de sweet ladies what takes so much trouble for us,"
said Zulu, pulling up his sleeves and regarding with much satisfaction a
pair of worsted cuffs; "nebber had no sore wrists since I put on dese.
W'y you no use him, Gunter?"
"'Cause I've lost 'em, you black baboon," was Gunter's polite reply.
"Nebber mind, you long-nosed white gorilla," was Zulu's civil rejoinder,
"you kin git another pair when nixt we goes aboard de mission-ship.
Till den you kin grin an enjoy you'self."
"Heave away, lads," said the skipper, and away went the capstan again as
the men grasped the handles and bent their strong backs, sometimes
heaving in a few turns of the great rope with a run, as the trawl
probably passed over a smooth bit of sand; sometimes drawing it in with
difficulty, inch by inch, as the net was drawn over some rough or rocky
place, and occasionally coming for a time to a dead lock, when--as is
not unfrequently the case--they caught hold of a bit of old wreck, or,
worse still, were caught by the fluke of a lost anchor.
Thus painfully but steadily they toiled, until the bridle or rope next
to the beam appeared above the waves, and then they knew that the end of
all their labour was at hand.
CHAPTER SEVEN.
A HAUL AND ITS CONSEQUENCES--MYSTERIOUS NEWS FROM THE LAND.
"Now Billy, you shrimp," cried David Bright, seizing his son by the
collar and giving him a friendly shake that would have been thought
severe handling by any but a fisher-boy, "don't go excitin' of yourself.
You'll never make a man worth speakin' of if you can't keep down your
feelin's."
But Billy could not keep down his feelings. They were too strong for
him. He was naturally of an excitable--what we may call a jovial--
jumping--disposition, and, although he had now been some months at sea,
he had not yet succeeded in crushing down that burst of delight with
which he viewed the cod-end of the great deep-sea net as it was hoisted
over the side by the power of block and tackle.
"You never trouble yourself about my feelin's, father, so long's I do my
dooty," said the boy with native insolence, as he looked eagerly over
the side at the mass of fish which gleamed faintly white as it neared
the surface, while he helped with all his little might to draw in the
net.
"But I want to teach you more than dooty, my boy," returned the skipper.
"I've got to make a man of you. I promised that to your mother, you
know. If you want to be a man, you must foller my example--be cool an'
steady."
"If I'm to foller your example, father, why don't you let me foller it
all round, an' smoke an' drink as well?"
"Shut up, you agrawatin' sinner," growled the skipper. "Heave away,
lads. Here, hand me the rope, an' send aft the tackle."
By this time the heavy beam had been secured to the side of the vessel,
most of the net hauled in, and the bag, or cod-end, was above the
surface filled almost to bursting with upwards of a ton of turbots,
soles, haddocks, plaice, dabs, whitings, etcetera, besides several
hundredweight of mud, weeds, stones, and oysters. Sometimes, indeed,
this bag does burst, and in one moment all the profit and toil of a
night's fishing is lost.
When the skipper had secured a strong rope round the bag and hooked it
on to a block and tackle made fast to the rigging, the order was given
to heave away, and gradually the ponderous mass rose like an oval
balloon, or buoy, over the vessel's side. When it cleared the rail it
was swung inwards and secured in a hanging position, with the lower end
sweeping the deck as the smack rolled from side to side. In all these
operations, from the prolonged heaving at the capstan to the hauling in
of the net, hand over hand, the men were exerting their great physical
powers to the uttermost--almost without a moment's relaxation--besides
being deluged at times by spray, which, however, their oiled frocks,
long boots, and sou'-westers prevented from quite drenching them. But
now all danger of loss was over, and they proceeded to liberate the
fish.
The cod-end had its lower part secured by a strong rope. All that had
to be done, therefore, was to untie the rope and open the bottom of the
net.
It fell to Luke Trevor to do this. Billy was standing by in eager
expectation. Ned Spivin stood behind him. Now, we have said that
Spivin was fond of chaffing his mates and of practical jokes. So was
Billy, and between these two, therefore, there was a species of rivalry.
When Spivin observed that Luke was about to pull out the last loop that
held the bag, he shouted in a loud voice of alarm--
"Hallo! Billy, catch hold of this rope, quick!"
Billy turned like a flash of light and seized the rope held out to him.
The momentary distraction was enough. Before he could understand the
joke the bottom of the bag opened, the ton-and-a-half, more or less, of
fish burst forth, spread itself over the deck like an avalanche, swept
Billy off his little legs, and almost overwhelmed him, to the immense
delight of Spivin, who impudently bent down and offered to help him to
rise.
"Come here, Billy, and I'll help you up," he said, kindly, as the tail
of a skate flipped across the boy's nose, and almost slid into his
mouth.
Billy made no reply, but, clearing himself of fish, jumped up, seized a
gaping cod by the gills, and sent it all alive and kicking straight into
Spivin's face. The aim was true. The man was blinded for a few moments
by the fish, and his mates were well-nigh choked with laughter.
"Come, come--no sky-larking!" growled the skipper. "Play when your work
is done, boys."
Thus reproved, the crew began to clear away the mass of weeds and
refuse, after which all hands prepared the trawl to be ready for going
down again, and then they set to work to clean and sort the fish. This
was comparatively easy work at that season of the year, but when winter
gales and winter frosts sweep over the North Sea, only those who suffer
it know what it is to stand on the slimy pitching deck with naked and
benumbed hands, disembowelling fish and packing them in small oblong
boxes called "trunks," for the London market. And little do Londoners
think, perhaps, when eating their turbot, sole, plaice, cod, haddock,
whiting, or other fish, by what severe night-work, amid bitter cold, and
too often tremendous risks, the food has been provided for them.
It is not, however, our purpose to moralise just now, though we might do
so with great propriety, but to tell our story, on which some of the
seemingly trifling incidents of that night had a special bearing. One
of those incidents was the cutting of a finger. Ned Spivin, whose
tendency towards fun and frolic at all times rendered him rather
slap-dash and careless, was engaged in the rather ignoble work of
cutting off skates' tails--these appendages not being deemed marketable.
This operation he performed with a hatchet, but some one borrowed the
hatchet for a few minutes, and Spivin continued the operation with his
knife. One of the tails being tough, and the knife blunt, the impatient
man used violence. Impatience and violence not unfrequently result in
damage. The tail gave way unexpectedly, and Spivin cut a deep gash in
his left hand. Cuts, gashes, and bruises are the frequent experience of
smacksmen. Spivin bound up the gash with a handkerchief, and went on
with his work.
Before their work was quite done, however, a gale, which had been
threatening from the nor'-west, set in with considerable force, and
rapidly increased, so that the packing of the last few trunks, and
stowing them into the hold, became a matter not only of difficulty but
of danger.
By that time the sky had clouded over, and the lantern in the rigging
alone gave light.
"It will blow harder," said Trevor to Billy as they stood under shelter
of the weather bulwarks holding on to the shrouds. "Does it never come
into your mind to think where we would all go to if the _Evening Star_
went down?"
"No, Luke. I can't say as it does. Somehow I never think of father's
smack goin' down."
"And yet," returned Luke in a meditative tone, "it may happen, you know,
any night. It's not six months since the _Raven_ went down, with all
hands, though she was as tight a craft as any in the fleet, and her
captain was a first-rate seaman, besides bein' steady."
"Ay, but then, you see," said Billy, "she was took by three heavy seas
one arter the other, and no vessel, you know, could stand that."
"No, not even the _Evening Star_ if she was took that fashion, an' we
never know when it's goin' to happen. I suspect, Billy, that the
psalm-singers, as Gunter calls 'em, has the best of it. They work as
well as any men in the fleet--sometimes I think better--an' then they're
always in such a jolly state o' mind! If good luck comes, they praise
God for it, an' if bad luck comes they praise God that it's no worse.
Whatever turns up they appear to be in a thankful state o' mind, and
that seems to me a deal better than growlin', swearin', and grumblin',
as so many of us do at what we can't change. What d'ee think, Billy?"
"Well, to tell 'ee the truth, Luke, I don't think about it at all--
anyhow, I've never thought about it till to-night."
"But it's worth thinkin' about, Billy?"
"That's true," returned the boy, who was of a naturally straightforward
disposition, and never feared to express his opinions freely.
Just then a sea rose on the weather quarter, threatening, apparently, to
fall inboard. So many waves had done the same thing before, that no one
seemed to regard it much; but the experienced eye of the skipper noticed
a difference, and he had barely time to give a warning shout when the
wave rushed over the side like a mighty river, and swept the deck from
stem to stern. Many loose articles were swept away and lost, and the
boat which lay on the deck alongside of the mast, had a narrow escape.
Billy and his friend Luke, being well under the lee of the bulwarks,
escaped the full force of the deluge, but Ned Spivin, who steered, was
all but torn from his position, though he clung with all his strength to
the tiller and the rope that held it fast. The skipper was under the
partial shelter of the mizzenmast, and clung to the belaying-pins. John
Gunter was the only one who came to grief. He was dashed with great
violence to leeward, but held on to the shrouds for his life. The mate
was below at the moment and so was Zulu, whose howl coming from the
cabin, coupled with a hiss of water in the fire, told that he had
suffered from the shock.
The immense body of water that filled the main-sail threw the vessel for
a short time nearly on her beam-ends--a position that may be better
understood when we say that it converts one of the sides of the vessel
into the floor, the other side into the ceiling, and the floor and deck
respectively into upright walls!
Fortunately the little smack got rid of the water in a few seconds,
arose slowly, and appeared to shake herself like a duck rising out of
the sea. Sail had already been reduced to the utmost; nevertheless, the
wind was so strong that for three hours afterwards the crew never caught
sight of the lee-bulwarks, so buried were they in foam as the _Evening
Star_ leaned over and rushed madly on her course.
Towards morning the wind moderated a little, and then the crew gazed
anxiously around on the heaving grey waves, for well did they know that
such a squall could not pass over the North Sea without claiming its
victims.
"It blowed that 'ard at one time," said Ned Spivin to Joe Davidson,
"that I expected to see the main-mast tore out of 'er."
"I'm afeard for the _Rainbow_," said Joe. "She's nothin' better than a
old bunch o' boards."
"Sometimes them old things hold out longer than we expect," returned
Ned.
He was right. When the losses of that night came to be reckoned up,
several good vessels were discovered to be missing, but the rotten old
_Rainbow_ still remained undestroyed though not unscathed, and a sad
sight met the eyes of the men of the fleet when daylight revealed the
fact that some of the smacks had their flags flying half-mast,
indicating that many men had been washed overboard and lost during the
night.
As the day advanced, the weather improved, and the fishermen began to
look anxiously out for the steamer which was to convey their fish to
market, but none was to be seen. Although a number of steamers run
between Billingsgate and the Short Blue fleet, it sometimes happens that
they do not manage to find the fleet at once, and occasionally a day or
more is lost in searching for it--to the damage of the fish if the
weather be warm. It seemed as if a delay of this kind, had happened on
the occasion of which we write; the admiral therefore signalled to let
down the nets for a day haul.
While this was being done, a vessel was seen to join the fleet from the
westward.
"That's Singin' Peter," said David Bright to his mate. "I'd know his
rig at any distance."
"So it is. P'raps he's got letters for us."
Singing Peter was one of the many fishermen who had been brought to a
knowledge of Jesus Christ and saved from his sins. Wild and careless
before conversion, he afterwards became an enthusiastic follower of the
Lamb of God, and was so fond of singing hymns in His praise that he
became known in the fleet by the sobriquet of Singing Peter. His
beaming face and wholly changed life bore testimony to what the Holy
Spirit had wrought in him.
Peter had been home to Gorleston on his week of holiday, and had now
returned to the fleet for his eight weeks' fishing-cruise, carrying a
flag to show that he had just arrived, bringing letters and clothes,
etcetera, for some of the crews.
"I used to think Peter warn't a bad feller," said David Bright, as the
new arrival drew near; "he was always good company, an' ready for his
glass, but now he's taken to singin' psalms, I can make nothin' of 'im."
"There's them in the fleet that like him better since he took to that,"
said Luke Trevor.
"It may be so, lad, but that's not accordin' to _my_ taste," retorted
the skipper.
David was, however, by no means a surly fellow. When Peter's vessel
came within hail, he held up his hand and shouted--
"What cheer! what cheer, Peter!" as heartily as possible.
Singing Peter held up his hand in reply, and waved it as he shouted
back--
"What cheer! All well, praise the Lord!"
"D'ye hear that Billy?" said Luke, in a low voice. "_He_ never forgets
to praise the Lord."
When the vessels drew nearer, Peter again waved his hand, and shouted--
"I've got letters for 'ee."
"All right my hearty! I'll send for 'em."
In less than five minutes the boat of the _Evening Star_ was launched
over the side, stern-foremost, and she had scarce got fairly afloat on
the dancing waves when Joe and Luke "swarmed" into her, had the oars out
and were sweeping off so as to intercept Peter's vessel They soon
reached her, received a packet wrapped up in a bit of newspaper, and
quickly returned.
The packet contained two letters--one for the skipper, the other for the
mate--from their respective wives.
"Joe," said the skipper, when he had perused his letter, "come down
below. I want to speak to 'ee."
"That's just what I was goin' to say to yourself, for the letter from my
missis says somethin' that consarns you."
When master and mate were alone together in the cabin, each read to the
other his letter.
"My missis," said the skipper, unfolding his letter and regarding it
with a puzzled expression, "although she's had a pretty good edication,
has paid little attention to her pot-hooks--but this is how it runs--
pretty near. `Dear old man,' (she's always been an affectionate woman,
Joe, though I do treat her badly when I'm in liquor), `I hope you are
having a good time of it and that darling Billy likes the sea, and is a
good boy. My reason for writing just now is to tell you about that dear
sweet creature, Miss Ruth Dotropy. She has been down at Yarmouth again
on a visit, and of course she has been over to see me and Mrs Davidson,
in _such_ a lovely blue--' (ah! well, Joe, there's no need to read you
that bit; it's all about dress--as if dress could make Miss Ruth better
or worse! But women's minds will run on ribbons an' suchlike. Well,
after yawin' about for a bit, she comes back to the pint, an' steers a
straight course again. She goes on, after a blot or two that I can't
make nothin' of), `You'll be surprised to hear, David, that she's been
making some particular inquiries about you and me; which I don't
understand at all, and looking as if she knew a deal more than she cared
to tell. She's been asking Mrs Davidson too about it, and what puzzles
me most is--' There's another aggrawatin' blot here, Joe, so that I
can't make out what puzzles her. Look here. Can you spell it out?"
Joe tried, but shook his head.
"It's a puzzler to _her_," he said, "an' she's took good care to make it
a puzzler to everybody else, but go on."
"There's nothin' else to go on wi', Joe, for after steerin' past the
blot, she runs foul o' Miss Ruth's dress again, and the only thing worth
mentionin' is a post-script, where she says, `I think there's something
wrong, dear David, and I wish you was here.' That's all."
"Now, that is strange, for my missis writes about the wery same thing,"
said Joe, "only she seems to have gone in for a little more confusion
an' blots than your missis, an' that blessed little babby of ours is
always gittin' in the way, so she can't help runnin' foul of it, but
that same puzzler crops up every now an' then. See, here's what she
writes:--
"`Darlin' Joe,' (a touch more affectionate than yours--eh! skipper?) `if
our dear darlin' babby will let me, I'm a-goin' to write you a letter--
there, I know'd she wouldn't. She's bin and capsized the wash-tub,
though, as you know, she can't walk yet, but she rolls about most awful,
Joe, just what you say the _Evening Star_ does in a gale on the North
Sea. An' she's got most dreadful heels--oh! you've no idear! Whativer
they comes down upon goes--' There's a big blot here," said Joe, with a
puzzled look, "`goes--whativer they comes down upon goes--' No, I can't
make it out."
"`Goes to sticks an' stivers,' p'raps," said the skipper.
"No, my Maggie never uses words like that," said Joe with decision.
"`Goes all to smash,' then," suggested the skipper.
"No, nor it ain't that; my Maggie's too soft-tongued for that."
"Well, you know, things must go somewhere, or somehow, Joe, when such a
pair o' heels comes down on 'em--but steer clear o' the blot and the
babby, an' see what comes next."
"`Well,'" continued Joe, reading on, "`I was goin' to tell you, when
babby made that last smash, ("I _told_ you it was a smash," said David,
softly), that dear Miss Ruth has bin worritin' herself--if babby would
only keep quiet for two minutes--worritin' herself about Mrs Bright in
a way that none of us can understand. She's anxious to make inquiries
about her and her affairs in a secret sort o' way, but the dear young
lady is so honest--there's babby again! Now, I've got her all right.
It was the milk-can this time, but there warn't much in it, an' the
cat's got the benefit. Well, darlin' Joe, where was I--oh, the dear
young lady's so honest an' straitfor'ard, that even a child could see
through her, though none of us can make out what she's drivin' at.
Yesterday she went to see Mrs Bright, an' took a liar with her--'"
"Hallo! Joe, surely she'd niver do that," said the skipper in a
remonstrative tone.
"She means a lawyer," returned Joe, apologetically, "but Maggie niver
could spell that word, though I've often tried to teach 'er--`Maggie,'
says I, `you mustn't write _liar_, but _law-yer_.'
"`La! yer jokin',' says she.
"`No,' says I, `I'm not, that's the way to spell it,' an' as Maggie's a
biddable lass, she got to do it all right, but her memory ain't over
strong, so, you see, she's got back to the old story. Howsever, she
don't really mean it, you know."
"Just so," returned the skipper, "heave ahead wi' the letter, Joe."
Knitting his brows, and applying himself to the much-soiled and crumpled
sheet, the mate continued to read:--
"`An' the liar he puzzled her with all sorts o' questions, just as if he
was a schoolmaster and she a school-girl. He bothered her to that
extent she began to lose temper, ("he better take care," muttered the
skipper, chuckling), but Miss Ruth she sees that, an' putt a stop to it
in her own sweet way, ("lucky for the liar," muttered the skipper), an'
so they went away without explainin'. We've all had a great talk over
it, an' we're most of us inclined to think--oh! that babby, she's bin an
rammed her darlin' futt into the tar-bucket! but it ain't much the
worse, though it's cost about half-a-pound o' butter to take it off, an'
that ain't a joke wi' butter at 1 shilling, 4 pence a pound, an' times
so bad--well, as I was goin' to say, if that blessed babby would only
let me, we're all inclined to think it must have somethin' to do wi'
that man as David owes money to, who said last year that he'd sell his
smack an' turn him an' his family out o' house an' home if he didn't pay
up, though what Miss Ruth has to do wi' that, or how she come for to
know it we can't make out at all.'"
"The blackguard!" growled the skipper, fiercely, referring to `that
man,' "if I only had his long nose within three futt o' my fist, I'd let
him feel what my knuckles is made of!"
"Steamer in sight, father," sang out Billy at that moment down the
companion-hatch.
The conference being thus abruptly terminated, the skipper and mate of
the _Evening Star_ went on deck to give orders for the immediate hauling
up of the trawl and to "have a squint" at the steamer, which was seen at
that moment like a little cloud on the horizon.
CHAPTER EIGHT.
DANGERS, DIFFICULTIES, AND EXCITEMENTS OF THE TRAFFIC; LOADING THE
STEAMER.
Bustling activity of the most vigorous kind was now the order of the day
in the Short Blue fleet, for the arrival of the carrying-steamer, and
the fact that she was making towards the admiral, indicated that she
meant to return to London in a few hours, and necessitated the hauling
of the trawls, cleaning the fish, and packing them; getting up the
"trunks" that had been packed during the night, launching the boats, and
trans-shipping them in spite of the yet heavy sea.
As every one may understand, such perishable food as fish must be
conveyed to market with the utmost possible despatch. This is
accomplished by the constant running of fast steamers between the fleets
and the Thames. The fish when put on board are further preserved by
means of ice, and no delay is permitted in trans-shipment. As we have
said, the steamers are bound to make straight for the admiral's smack.
Knowing this, the other vessels keep as near to the admiral as they
conveniently can, so that when the steamer is preparing to return, they
may be ready to rush at her like a fleet of nautical locusts, and put
their fish on board.
Hot haste and cool precision mark the action of the fishermen in all
that is done, for they know well that only a limited time will be
allowed them, and if any careless or wilful stragglers from the fleet
come up when the time is nearly past, they stand a chance of seeing the
carrier steam off without their fish, which are thus left to be shipped
the following day, and to be sold at last as an inferior article, or,
perhaps, condemned and thrown away as unfit for human food.
The _Evening Star_ chanced to be not far from the admiral when the
steamer appeared. It was one of the fleet of steam-carriers owned by
the well-known fish firm of Messrs. Hewett and Company of London. When
it passed David Bright's smack the crew had got in the trawl and were
cleaning and packing the catch--which was a good one--as if their very
lives depended on their speed. They immediately followed in the wake of
the carrier toward the admiral.
As all the smacks were heading towards the same centre, they came in on
every tack, and from all points of the compass.
"Look sharp, boys," said David Bright, who was steering, "we must git
every fish aboard. It's now eight o'clock, an' she won't wait beyond
eleven or twelve, you may be sure."
There was no need for the caution. Every man and boy was already doing
his utmost.
It fell to Billy's lot to help in packing the trunks, and deftly he did
it,--keeping soles, turbot, and halibut separate, to form boxes, or
"trunks of prime," and packing other fish as much as possible according
to their kind, until he came to roker, dabs, gurnets, etcetera, which he
packed together under the name of "offal." This does not mean refuse,
but only inferior fish, which are bought by hawkers, and sold to the
poor. The trunks were partly open on top, but secured by cords which
kept the fish from slipping out, and each trunk was labelled with the
name of the smack, to which it belonged, and the party to whom it was
consigned.
As the fleet converged to the centre, the vessels began to crowd
together and friends to recognise and hail each other, so that the scene
became very animated, while the risk of collision was considerable.
Indeed, it was only by consummate skill, judgment and coolness that, in
many cases, collisions were avoided.
"There's the _Sparrow_," said Billy to Trevor, eagerly, as he pointed to
a smack, whose master, Jim Frost, he knew and was fond of. It bore down
in such a direction as to pass close under the stern of the _Evening
Star_.
"What cheer! what cheer!" cried Billy, holding one of his little hands
high above his head.
"What cheer!" came back in strong, hearty tones from the _Sparrow's_
deck.
"What luck, Jim?" asked David Bright, as the vessel flew past.
"We fouled an old wreck this mornin', an' tore the net all to pieces,
but we got a good haul last night--praise the Lord."
"Which piece o' luck d'ye praise the Lord for?" demanded David, in a
scoffing tone.
"For both," shouted Frost, promptly. "It might have bin worse. We
might have lost the gear, you know--or one o' the hands."
When this reply was finished, the vessels were too far apart for further
intercourse.
"Humph!" ejaculated Gunter, "one o' the psalm-singin' lot, I suppose."
"If it's the psalm-singin'," said Spivin, "as makes Jim Frost bear his
troubles wi' good temper, an' thank God for foul weather an' fair, the
sooner you take to it the better for yourself."
"Ay, an' for his mates," added Zulu, with a broad grin.
"Shove out the boat now, lads," said the skipper.
At this order the capacious and rather clumsy boat, which had hitherto
lain on the deck of the _Evening Star_ like a ponderous fixture, was
seized by the crew. A vigorous pull at a block and tackle sent it up on
the side of the smack. A still more vigorous shove by the men--some
with backs applied, some with arms, and all with a will--sent it
stern-foremost into the sea. It took in a few gallons of water by the
plunge, but was none the worse for that.
At the same moment Zulu literally tumbled into it. No stepping or
jumping into it was possible with the sea that was running. Indeed the
fishermen of the North Sea are acrobats by necessity, and their tumbling
is quite as wonderful, though not quite so neat, as that of
professionals. Perchance if the arena in which the latter perform were
to pitch about as heavily as the _Evening Star_ did on that occasion,
they might be beaten at their own work by the fishermen!
Zulu was followed by Ned Spivin, while Gunter, taking a quick turn of
the long and strong painter round a belaying-pin, held on.
The _Evening Star_ was now lying-to, not far from the steam-carrier.
Her boat danced on the waves like a cork, pitching heavily from side to
side, with now the stern and now the bow pointing to the sky; at one
moment leaping with its gunwale above the level of the smack's bulwarks;
at the next moment eight or ten feet down in the trough of the waves;
never at rest for an instant, always tugging madly at its tether, and
often surging against the vessel's side, from actual contact with which
it was protected by strong rope fenders. But indeed the boat's great
strength of build seemed its best guarantee against damage.
To one unaccustomed to such work it might have seemed utterly impossible
to put anything whatever on board of such a pitching boat. Tying a
mule-pack on the back of a bouncing wild horse may suggest an equivalent
difficulty to a landsman. Nevertheless the crew of the _Evening Star_
did it with as much quiet determination and almost as much speed as if
there was no sea on at all. Billy and Trevor slid the trunks to the
vessel's side; the mate and Gunter lifted them, rested them a moment on
the edge; Zulu and Spivin stood in the surging boat with outstretched
arms and glaring eyes. A mighty swing of the boat suggested that the
little craft meant to run the big one down. They closed, two trunks
were grappled, let go, deposited, and before the next wave swung them
alongside again, Spivin and Zulu were glaring up--ready for more--while
Joe and Gunter were gazing down--ready to deliver.
When the boat was loaded the painter was cast off and she dropped
astern. The oars were shipped, and they made for the steamer. From the
low deck of the smack they could be seen, now pictured against the sky
on a wave's crest, and then lost to view altogether for a few seconds in
the watery valley beyond.
By that time quite a crowd of little boats had reached the steamer, and
were holding on to her, while their respective smacks lay-to close by,
or sailed slowly round the carrier, so that recognitions, salutations,
and friendly chaff were going on all round--the confusion of masts, and
sails, and voices ever increasing as the outlying portions of the fleet
came scudding in to the rendezvous.
"There goes the _Boy Jim_," said Luke Trevor, pointing towards a smart
craft that was going swiftly past them.
"Who's the _Boy Jim_?" growled Gunter, whose temper, at no time a good
one, had been much damaged by the blows he had received in the fall of
the previous night.
"He's nobody--it's the name o' that smack," answered Luke.
"An' her master, John Johnston, is one o' my best friends," said Billy,
raising his fist on high in salutation. "What cheer, John! what cheer,
my hearty!"
The master of the _Boy Jim_ was seen to raise his hand in reply to the
salutation, and his voice came strong and cheerily over the sea, but he
was too far off to be heard distinctly, so Billy raised his hand again
by way of saying, "All right, my boy!"
At the same time a hail was heard at the other side of the vessel. The
crew turned round and crossed the deck.
"It's our namesake--or nearly so--the _Morning Star_," said Trevor to
Gunter, for the latter being a new hand knew little of the names of
either smacks or masters.
"Is her skipper a friend o' yours too?" asked Gunter of Billy.
"Yes, Bowers _is_ a friend o' mine--an' a first-rate fellow too; which
is more than you will ever be," retorted Billy, again stretching up the
ready arm and hand. "What cheer, Joseph, what cheer!"
"What cheer! Billy--why, I didn't know you, you've grow'd so much,"
shouted the master of the _Morning Star_, whose middle-sized, but broad
and powerful frame was surmounted by a massive countenance, with good
humour in the twinkling eyes, and kindly chaff often in the goodly-sized
mouth.
"Yes, I've grow'd," retorted Billy, "an' I mean to go on growin' till
I'm big enough to wallop _you_."
"Your cheek has been growin' too, Billy."
"So it has, but nothin' like to your jaw, Joseph."
"What luck?" shouted David as the _Morning Star_ was passing on.
"Fifteen trunks. What have _you_ got?"
The skipper held up his hand to acknowledge the information, and shouted
"nineteen," in reply.
"You seem to have a lot o' friends among the skippers, Billy," said
Gunter, with a sneer, for he was fond of teasing the boy, who, to do him
justice, could take chaff well, except when thrown at him by ill-natured
fellows.
"Yes, I have a good lot," retorted Billy. "I met 'em all first in
Yarmouth, when ashore for their week's holiday. There's Joseph White,
master of the mission smack _Cholmondeley_, a splendid feller he is; an'
Bogers of the _Cephas_, an' Snell of the _Ruth_, an' Kiddell of the
_Celerity_, an' Moore of the M.A.A., an' Roberts of the _Magnet_, an'
Goodchild and Brown, an' a lot more, all first-rate fellers, whose
little fingers are worth the whole o' your big body."
"Well, well, what a lucky fellow you are!" said Gunter, with affected
surprise; "an' have you no bad fellers at all among your acquaintance?"
"Oh yes," returned the boy quickly, "I knows a good lot o' them too.
There's Dick the Swab, of the _White Cloud_, who drinks like a fish, an'
Pimply Brock, who could swear you out o' your oiled frock in five
minutes, an' a lot of others more or less wicked, but not one of 'em so
bad as a big ugly feller I knows named John Gunter, who--"
Billy was interrupted by Gunter making a rush at him, but the boy was
too nimble for the man, besides which, Gunter's bruises, to which we
have before referred, were too painful to be trifled with. Soon
afterwards the boat returned for another cargo of trunks, and the crew
of the _Evening Star_ went to work again.
Meanwhile the "power of littles" began to tell on the capacious hold of
the steamer. Let us go on board of her for a few minutes and mount the
bridge. The fleet had now closed in and swarmed around her so thickly,
that it seemed a miracle that the vessels did not come into collision.
From the smacks, boat after boat had run alongside and made fast, until
an absolute flotilla was formed on either side. As each boat came up it
thrust itself into the mass, the man who had pulled the bow-oar taking
the end of the long painter in his hand ready for a leap. Some boats'
crews, having trans-shipped their trunks, were backing out; others were
in the midst of that arduous and even dangerous operation; while still
more came pouring in, seeking a place of entrance through the heaving
mass.
The boat of the _Evening Star_ was ere long among the latter with her
second load--Zulu grinning in the bow and Spivin in the stern. Zulu was
of that cheery temperament that cannot help grinning. If he had been
suddenly called on to face Death himself, we believe he would have met
him with a grin. And, truly, we may say without jesting, that Zulu had
often so faced the King of Terrors, for it is a sad fact that many a
bold and brave young fellow meets his death in this operation of
trans-shipping the fish--a fall overboard is so very easy, and, hampered
as these men are with huge sea-boots and heavy garments, it too often
happens that when they chance to fall into the sea they go down like a
stone.
They never seem to think of that, however. Certainly Zulu did not as he
crouched there with glittering eyes and glistening teeth, like a dark
tiger ready for a spring.
There was strict discipline, but not much interference with the work, on
board the steamer. No boat was permitted to put its trunks aboard abaft
a certain part of the vessel, but in front of that the fishermen were
left to do the work as best they could. They were not, however,
assisted--not even to the extent of fastening their painters--the crew
of the steamer being employed below in stowing and iceing the fish.
When the _Evening Star's_ boat, therefore, had forced itself alongside,
Zulu found himself heaving against the steamer's side, now looking up at
an iron wall about fifteen feet high, anon pitching high on the billows
till he could see right down on the deck. He watched his opportunity,
threw himself over the iron wall, with the painter in one hand, (while
Spivin and the boat seemed to sink in the depths below), rolled over on
the deck, scrambled to his feet, made the painter fast to the foremast
shrouds, and ran to look over the side.
Spivin was there ready for him, looking up, with a trunk on the boat's
gunwale. Next moment he was looking down, for a wave had lifted the
boat's gunwale absolutely above the vessel's bulwark for an instant. No
words were needed. Each knew what to do. Zulu made a powerful grab,
Spivin let go, the trunk was on the steamer's rail, whence it was hurled
to the deck, narrowly missing the legs and toes of half-a-dozen reckless
men who seized it and sent it below. Almost before Zulu could turn
round Spivin was up again with another trunk, another wild grab was
made, but not successfully, and Spivin sank to rise again. A second
effort proved successful--and thus they went on, now and then missing
the mark, but more frequently hitting it, until the boat was empty.
You have only to multiply this little scene by forty or fifty, and you
have an idea of the loading of that steamer on the high seas. Of course
you must diversify the picture a little, for in one place you have a man
hanging over the side with a trunk in mid-air, barely caught when in its
descent, and almost too heavy for him by reason of his position. In
another place you have a man glaring up at a trunk, in another glaring
down;--in all cases action the most violent and most diversified,
coupled with cool contempt of crushed fingers and bruised shins and
toes.
At last the furore began to subside. By degrees the latest boats
arrived, and in about three hours from the time of commencing, the crew
of the steamer began to batten down the hatches. Just then, like the
"late passenger," the late trawler came up. The captain of the steamer
had seen it long before on the horizon doing its best to save the
market, and good-naturedly delayed a little to take its fish on board,
but another smack that came up a quarter of an hour or so after that,
found the hatches closed, and heard the crushing reply to his hail--"Too
late!"
Then the carrying-steamer turned her sharp bow to the sou'-west, put on
full steam, and made for the Thames--distant nearly 300 miles--with over
2000 trunks of fresh fish on board, for the breakfast, luncheon and
dinner tables of the Great City. Thus, if the steamer were to leave
early on a Monday, it would arrive on Tuesday night and the fish be sold
in the market on Wednesday morning about five o'clock.
With little variation this scene is enacted every day, all the year
round, on the North Sea. It may not be uninteresting to add, that on
the arrival of the steamer at Billingsgate, the whole of her cargo would
probably be landed and sold in less than one hour and a half.
CHAPTER NINE.
ANOTHER DRAG-NET HAULED--THE MISSION SMACK.
When the steamer left the fleet the wind was beginning to moderate, and
all eyes were turned as usual towards the admiral's smack to observe his
movements.
The fishing vessels were still crowded together, running to and fro, out
and in, without definite purpose, plunging over the heaving swells--some
of them visible on the crests, others half hidden in the hollows--and
behaving generally like living creatures that were impatiently awaiting
the signal to begin a race.
While in this position two smacks came so near to the _Evening Star_, on
opposite sides, that they seemed bent on running her down. David Bright
did not concern himself, however. He knew they were well able to take
care of themselves. They both sheered off to avoid him, but after doing
so, ran rather near to each other.
"One o' them b'longs to the Swab," said Billy.
"Ay," said Joe, "if he hadn't swabbed up too much liquor this morning,
he wouldn't steer like that. Why, he _will_ foul her!"
As he spoke the Swab's bowsprit passed just inside one of the ropes of
the other vessel, and was snapped off as if it had been a pipe-stem.
"Sarves him right," growled Gunter.
"It's a pity all the same," said Trevor. "If we all got what we
deserve, we'd be in a worse case than we are to-day mayhap."
"Come, now, Gunter," said Joe, "don't look so cross. We'll have a
chance this arternoon, I see, to bear away for the mission-ship, an' git
somethin' for your shins, and a bandage for Spivin's cut, as well as
some cuffs for them that wants 'em."
Captain Bright did not like visiting the mission-ship, having no
sympathy with her work, but as she happened to be not far distant at the
time, and he was in want of surgical assistance, he had no reasonable
ground for objecting.
By this time the admiral had signalled to steer to the nor'-east, and
the fleet was soon racing to windward, all on the same tack. Gradually
the _Evening Star_ overhauled the mission-ship, but before she had quite
overtaken her, the wind, which had been failing, fell to a dead calm.
The distance between the two vessels, however, not being great, the boat
was launched, and the skipper, Luke Trevor, Gunter and Billy went off in
her.
The mission vessel, to which reference has more than once been made, is
a fishing-smack in the service of the Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen, and
serves the purpose of a floating church, a dispensary, a temperance halt
and a library to a portion of the North Sea fleet. It fills a peculiar
as well as a very important position, which requires explanation.
Only a few years ago a visitor to the North Sea fleet observed, with
much concern, that hundreds of the men and boys who manned it were
living godless as well as toilsome lives, with no one--at least in
winter--to care for their souls. At the same time he noted that the
Dutch _copers_, or floating grog-shops, were regularly appointed to
supply the fleets with cheap and bad spirits, and stuck to them through
fair-weather and foul, in summer and winter, enduring hardship and
encountering danger and great risk in pursuit of their evil calling. Up
to that time a few lay missionaries and Bible-readers had occasionally
gone to visit the fleets in the summer-time, [see Appendix], but the
visitor of whom we write felt that there was a screw loose here, and
reasoned with himself somewhat thus:--
"Shall the devil have his mission-ships, whose crews are not afraid to
face the winter gales, and shall the servants of the Lord be mere
fair-weather Christians, carrying their blessed and all-important
message of love and peace to these hard-working and almost forsaken men
only during a summer-trip to the North Sea? If fish _must_ be caught,
and the lives of fathers, husbands, brothers, and sons be not only
risked but lost for the purpose, has not the Master got men who are
ready to say, `The glorious Gospel _must_ be carried to these men, and
we will hoist our flag on the North Sea summer and winter, so as to be a
constant witness there for our God and His Christ?'"
For thirty years before, it has been said, a very few earnest Christians
among the fishermen of the fleet had been praying that some such
thoughts might be put into the hearts of men who had the power to render
help.
We venture to observe in passing that, perchance, those praying
fishermen were not so "few" as appearances might lead us to suppose, for
God has His "hidden ones" everywhere, and some of these may have been at
the throne of grace long prior to the "thirty years" here mentioned.
Let not the reader object to turn aside a few minutes to consider how
greatly help was needed--forty-six weeks or so on the sea in all
weathers all the year round, broken by a week at a time--or about six or
seven weeks altogether--on shore with wife and family; the rest, hard
unvarying toil and exposure, with nothing to do during the brief
intervals of leisure--nothing to read, nothing new to think of, no
church to raise the mind to the Creator, and distinguish the Sabbath
from the week-day, and no social intercourse of a natural kind, (for a
society of men only is not natural), to elevate them above the lower
animals, and with only drinking and gambling left to degrade them below
these creatures; and this for forty or fifty years of their lives, with,
in too many cases, neither hope nor thought beyond!
At last the fishermen's prayers were answered, the thoughts of the
visitor bore fruit, and, convinced that he was being led by God, he
began to move in the matter with prayer and energy. The result was that
in the year 1881 he received the unsolicited offer of a smack which
should be at his entire disposal for mission purposes, but should
endeavour to sustain herself, if possible, by fishing like the rest of
the fleet. The vessel was accepted. A Christian skipper and fisherman,
named Budd, and a like-minded crew, were put into her; she was fitted
out with an extra cabin, with cupboards for a library and other
conveniences. The hold was arranged with a view to being converted into
a chapel on Sundays, and it was decided that, in order to keep it clear
on such days, the trawl should not be let down on Saturday nights; a
large medicine-chest--which was afterwards reported to be "one of the
greatest blessings in the fleet,"--was put on board; the captain made a
colporteur of the Bible Society, agent for the Shipwrecked Mariners'
Society and of the Church of England Temperance Society. The Religious
Tract Society, and various publishers, made a grant of books to form the
nucleus of a free lending library; the National Lifeboat Institution
presented an aneroid barometer, and Messrs. Hewett and Company made a
present of the insurance premium of 50 pounds. Thus furnished and
armed, as aforesaid, as a Mission Church, Temperance Hall, Circulating
Library, and Dispensary, the little craft one day sailed in amongst the
smacks of the "Short Blue" fleet, amid the boisterous greetings of the
crews, and took up her position under the name of the _Ensign_, with a
great twenty-feet Mission-flag flying at the main-mast-head.
This, then was the style of vessel towards which the boat of the
_Evening Star_ was now being pulled over a superficially smooth but
still heaving sea. The boat was not alone. Other smacks, the masters
of which as well as some of the men were professed Christians, had
availed themselves of the opportunity to visit the mission smack, while
not a few had come, like the master of the _Evening Star_, to procure
medicine and books, so that when David Bright drew near he observed the
deck to be pretty well crowded, while a long tail of boats floated
astern, and more were seen coming over the waves to the rendezvous.
It was no solemn meeting that. Shore-going folk, who are too apt to
connect religious gatherings with Sunday clothes, subdued voices, and
long faces, would have had their ideas changed if they had seen it. Men
of the roughest cast, mentally and physically, were there, in heavy
boots and dirty garments, laughing and chatting, and greeting one
another; some of the younger among them sky-larking in a mild way--that
is, giving an occasional poke in the ribs that would have been an
average blow to a "land-lubber," or a tip to a hat which sent it on the
deck, or a slap on the back like a pistol-shot. There seemed to be "no
humbug," as the saying goes, among these men; no pretence, and all was
kindly good-fellowship, for those who were on the Lord's side showed
it--if need were, said it--while those who were not, felt perhaps, that
they were in a minority and kept quiet.
"Come along, Joe, what cheer!"
"Here you are, Bill--how goes it, my hearty!"
"All well, praise the Lord."
"Ay, hasn't He sent us fine weather at the right time? just to let us
have a comfortable meetin'!"
"That's so, Dick, the Master does all things well."
"What cheer! Johnson, I'm glad to see _you_ here. The boy has got some
cocoa for'ard--have some?"
"Thank 'ee, I will."
Such were some of the expressions heartily uttered, which flew about as
friend met friend on the mission deck.
"I say, Harry," cried one, "was it you that lost your bowsprit this
mornin'?"
"No, it was the Swab," said Harry, "but we lost our net and all the gear
last night."
"That was unfort'nit," remarked a friend in a tone of sympathy, which
attracted the attention of some of those who stood near.
"Ah! lads," said the master of the mission-ship, "that was a small
matter compared with the loss suffered by poor Daniel Rodger. Did you
hear of it?"
"Yes, yes," said some. "No," said another. "I thought I saw his flag
half-mast this mornin', but was too fur off to make sure."
Most of the men crowded round the master of the smack, while, in deep
sad tones, he told how the son of Daniel Rodger had, during the night,
been swept overboard by a heavy sea and drowned before the boat could be
launched to rescue him. "But," continued the speaker in a cheerful
voice, "the dear boy was a follower of Jesus, and he is now with Him."
When this was said, "Praise the Lord!" and "Thank God!" broke from
several of the men in tones of unmistakable sincerity.
It was at this point that the boat of the _Evening Star_ ranged
alongside. The master of the mission smack went to the side and held
out his hand, which David Bright grasped with his right, grappling the
smack's rail at the same time with his left, and vaulted inboard with a
hearty salutation. As heartily was it returned, especially by the
unbelievers on board, who, perchance, regarded him as a welcome
accession to their numbers!
Billy, Gunter, and the others tumbled on to the deck in the usual
indescribable manner, and the former, making fast the long painter,
added the _Evening Star's_ boat to the lengthening flotilla astern.
"Your man seems to be hurt," said the master of the mission smack--whom
we may well style the missionary--"not badly, I hope. You're limpin' a
bit."
"Oh! nothin' to speak of," growled Gunter, "on'y a bit o' skin knocked
off."
"We'll put that all right soon," returned the missionary, shaking hands
with the other members of the crew. "But p'r'aps you'd like to go below
with us, first. We're goin' to hold a little service. It'll be more
comfortable under hatches than on deck."
"No, thank 'ee," replied Gunter with decision. "I'll wait till yer
done."
"P'r'aps _you_ would like to come?" said the missionary to the captain.
"Well, I--I may as well as not," said David with some hesitation.
"Come along then, lads," and the genial sailor-missionary led the way to
the capacious hold, which had been swept clean, and some dozens of
fish-boxes set up on end in rows. These, besides being handy, formed
excellent seats to men who were not much used to arm-chairs.
In a few seconds the little church on the Ocean Wilderness was nearly
full of earnest, thoughtful men, for these fishermen were charmingly
natural as well as enthusiastic. They did not assume solemn
expressions, but all thought of sky-larking or levity seemed to have
vanished as they entered the hold, and earnestness almost necessarily
involves gravity.
With eager expectation they gazed at their leader while he gave out a
hymn.
"You'll find little books on the table here, those of you who haven't
got 'em," he said, pointing to a little pile of red-covered booklets at
his side. "We'll sing the 272nd.
"`Sing them over again to me,
Wonderful words of life!'"
Really, reader, it is not easy to convey in words the effect of the
singing of that congregation! Nothing that we on land are accustomed to
can compare with it. In the first place, the volume of sound was
tremendous, for these men seemed to have been gifted with leathern lungs
and brazen throats. Many of the voices were tuneful as well as
powerful. One or two, indeed, were little better than cracked
tea-kettles, but the good voices effectually drowned the cracked
kettles. Moreover, there was deep enthusiasm in many of the hearts
present, and the hold was small. We leave the rest to the reader's
imagination, but we are bound to say that it had a thrilling effect.
And they were sorry, too, when the hymn was finished. This was obvious,
for when one of the singers began the last verse over again the others
joined him with alacrity and sang it straight through. Even Gunter and
those like-minded men who had remained on deck were moved by the fervour
of the singing.
Then the sailor-missionary offered a prayer, as simple as it was
straightforward and short, after which a chapter was read, and another
hymn sung. Then came the discourse, founded on the words, "Whosoever
will."
"There you have it, lads--clear as the sun at noonday--free as the
rolling sea. The worst drunkard and swearer in the Short Blue comes
under that `whosoever'--ay, the worst man in the world, for Jesus is
able and willing to save to the uttermost." ("Praise God!" ejaculated
one of the earnest listeners fervently.)
But fear not, reader, we have no intention of treating you to a
semi-nautical sermon. Whether you be Christian or not, our desire is
simply to paint for you a true picture of life on the North Sea as we
have seen it, and, as it were unwise to omit the deepest shadows from a
picture, so would it be inexcusable to leave out the highest lights--
even although you should fail to recognise them as such.
The discourse was not long, but the earnestness of the preacher was very
real. The effect on his audience was varied. Most of them sympathised
deeply, and seemed to listen as much with eyes as ears. A few, who had
not come there for religious purposes, wore somewhat cynical, even
scornful, expressions at first, but these were partially subdued by the
manner of the speaker as he reasoned of spiritual things and the world
to come.
On deck, Gunter and those who had stayed with him became curious to know
what the "preachin' skipper" was saying, and drew near to the
fore-hatch, up which the tones of his strong voice travelled. Gradually
they bent their heads down and lay at full-length on the deck listening
intently to every word. They noted, also, the frequent ejaculations of
assent, and the aspirations of hope that escaped from the audience.
Not one, but two or three hymns were sung after the discourse was over,
and one after another of the fishermen prayed. They were very loath to
break up, but, a breeze having arisen, it became necessary that they
should depart, so they came on deck at last, and an animated scene of
receiving and exchanging books, magazines, tracts, and pamphlets ensued.
Then, also, Gunter got some salve for his shins, Ned Spivin had his cut
hand dressed and plastered. Cuffs were supplied to those whose wrists
had been damaged, and gratuitous advice was given generally to all to
give up drink.
"An' don't let the moderate drinkers deceive you lads," said the
skipper, "as they're apt to do--an' no wonder, for they deceive
themselves. Moderate drinkin' may be good, for all I know, for old folk
an' sick folk, but it's _not_ good for young and healthy men. They
don't need stimulants, an' if they take what they don't need they're
sure to suffer for it. There's a terrible _line_ in drinkin', an' if
you once cross that line, your case is all but hopeless. I once knew a
man who crossed it, and when that man began to drink he used to say that
he did it in `moderation,' an' he went on in `moderation,' an' the evil
was so slow in workin' that he never yet knew when he crossed the line,
an' he died at last of what he called moderate drinkin'. They all begin
in moderation, but some of 'em go on to the ruin of body, soul, an'
spirit, rather than give up their moderation! Come now, lads, I want
one or two o' you young fellows to sign the temperance pledge. It can't
cost you much to do it just now, but if you grow up drinkers you may
reach a point--I don't know where that point lies--to come back from
which will cost you something like the tearing of your souls out o' your
bodies. You'll come, won't you?"
"Yes, I'll go," said a bright young fisherman with a frame like Hercules
and a face almost as soft as that of a girl.
"That's right! Come down."
"And I've brought two o' my boys," said a burly man with a cast-iron
sort of face, who had been himself an abstainer for many years.
While the master of the mission smack was producing the materials for
signing the pledge in the cabin, he took occasion to explain that the
signing was only a help towards the great end of temperance; that
nothing but conversion to God, and constant trust in the living Saviour,
could make man or woman safe.
"It's not hard to understand," he said, looking the youths earnestly in
the eyes. "See here, suppose an unbeliever determines to get the better
of his besettin' sin. He's man enough to strive well for a time. At
last he begins to grow a little weary o' the battle--it _is_ so awful
hard. Better almost to die an' be done with it, he sometimes thinks.
Then comes a day when his temptation is ten times more than he is able
to bear. He throws up the sponge; he has done his best an' failed, so
away he goes like the sow that was washed to his wallowing in the mire.
But he has _not_ done his best. He has _not_ gone to his Maker; an'
surely the maker of a machine is the best judge o' how to mend it. Now,
when a believer in Jesus comes to the same point o' temptation he falls
on his knees an' cries for help; an' he gets it too, for faithful is He
that has promised to help those who call upon Him in trouble. Many a
man has fallen on his knees as weak as a baby, and risen up as strong as
a giant."
"Here," said a voice close to the speaker's elbow, "here, hand me the
pen, an' I'll sign the pledge."
"What, _you_, Billy Bright!" said the missionary, smiling at the
precocious manliness of the little fellow. "Does your father want you
to do it?"
"Oh! you never mind what my father wants. He leaves me pretty much to
do as I please--except smoke, and as he won't let me do that. I mean to
spite him by refusin' to drink when he wants me to."
"But I'm afraid, Billy," returned the missionary, laughing, "that that's
not quite the spirit in which to sign the pledge."
"Did I say it was, old boy!" retorted Billy, seizing the pen, dabbing it
into the ink, and signing his name in a wild straggling sort of way,
ending with a huge round blot.
"There, that'll do instead of a full stop," he said, thrusting his
little hands into his pockets as he swaggered out of the cabin and went
on deck.
"He'll make a rare good man, or an awful bad 'un, that," said the
missionary skipper, casting a kindly look after the boy.
Soon afterwards the boats left the mission smack, and her crew began to
bustle about, making preparation to let down the gear whenever the
Admiral should give the signal.
"We carry two sorts of trawl-nets, Andrew," said the captain to his
mate, who was like-minded in all respects, "and I think we have caught
some men to-day with one of 'em--praise the Lord!"
"Yes, praise the Lord!" said the mate, and apparently deeming this, as
it was, a sufficient reply, he went about his work in silence.
The breeze freshened. The shades of night gathered; the Admiral gave
his signal; the nets were shot and the Short Blue fleet sailed away into
the deepening darkness of the wild North Sea.
Note. Since that day additional vessels have been attached to the
Mission-fleet, which now, 1886, consists of five smacks--and will
probably, ere long, number many more--all earning their own maintenance
while serving the Mission cause. But these do by no means meet the
requirements of the various North Sea fleets. There are still in those
fleets thousands of men and boys who derive no benefit from the Mission
vessels already sent out, because they belong to fleets to which
Mission-ships have not yet been attached; and it is the earnest prayer
of those engaged in the good work that liberal-minded Christians may
send funds to enable them not only to carry on, but to extend, their
operations in this interesting field of labour.
CHAPTER TEN.
A STRONG CONTRAST--A VICTIM OF THE COPER.
Birds of a feather flock together, undoubtedly--at sea as well as on
land. As surely as Johnston, and Moore, and Jim Frost, and such men,
hung about the mission-ship--ready to go aboard and to have a little
meeting when suitable calms occurred, so surely did David Bright, the
Swab, and other like-minded men, find themselves in the neighbourhood of
the Coper when there was nothing to be done in the way of fishing.
Two days after the events narrated in the last chapter, the Swab--whose
proper name was Dick Herring, and who sailed his own smack, the _White
Cloud_--found himself in the neighbourhood of the floating grog-shop.
"Get out the boat, Brock," said Herring to his mate--who has already
been introduced to the reader as Pimply Brock, and whose nose rendered
any explanation of that name unnecessary; "take some fish, an' get as
much as you can for 'em."
The Swab did not name what his mate was to procure in barter with the
fish, neither did Brock ask. It was an old-established order, well
understood.
Soon Brock and two hands were on their way to the floating
"poison-shop," as one of the men had named it. He was affectionately
received there, and, ere long, returned to the _White Cloud_ with a
supply of fire-water.
"You're good at a bargain, Brock," said his master, with an approving
nod, tossing off a glass of the demon that held him as if in chains of
steel--chains that no man could break. "I wish," he added, looking
round on the sea wistfully, "that some of our friends would come to join
us in a spree."
"So do I," said Brock, slightly inflaming his nasal pimples, by pouring
a glass of spirits down his throat.
There must be some strange, subtle sympathy between drunkards, for, at
the very time these two men expressed their wish, the master of the
_Evening Star_ said to Gunter, "Get out the boat. I'll go cruisin'."
It must not be supposed that by this he meant to declare his intention
of going off on a lengthened voyage in his little boat. David Bright
only meant that, having observed through his telescope the little
transaction between the _White Cloud_ and the Coper, his intention was
to pay that vessel a visit--to go carousing, or, as the North Sea
smacksmen have it, "cruisin'."
Gunter obeyed the order with satisfaction and alacrity.
"Jump in, Spivin, and you come too, Billy."
"I say, father," said the boy in a low voice, "are ye goin' to drink wi'
the Swab after what ye heard aboard the mission smack?"
"You clap a stopper on your jaw an' obey orders," replied the skipper
angrily.
Although full of light-hearted insolence, which his mates called cheek,
Billy was by no means a rebellious boy. He knew, from sad experience,
that when his father made up his mind to "go in for a drinking-bout,"
the consequences were often deplorable, and fain would he have dissuaded
him, but he also knew that to persist in opposing him would only make
matters worse, and probably bring severe chastisement on himself. With
an air of quiet gravity, therefore, that seemed very unnatural to him,
he leaped into the boat and took an oar.
"What cheer, David?" said the Swab, offering his rugged hand when the
former jumped on the deck of the _White Cloud_. "I thought you'd come."
"You was right, Dick," returned David, shaking the proffered hand.
"Come below, an' wet your whistle. Bring your men too," said Dick.
"This is a new hand?" pointing to Ned.
"Ay, he's noo, is Ned Spivin, but he can drink."
"Come down, then, all of 'ee."
Now, Ned Spivin was one of those yielding good-natured youths who find
it impossible to resist what may be styled good-fellowship. If you had
tried to force Ned Spivin, to order him, or to frighten him into any
course, he would have laughed in your face and fought you if necessary;
but if you tempted Ned to do evil by kindly tones and looks, he was
powerless to resist.
"You're right, skipper, I can drink--sometimes." They all went below,
leaving Billy on deck "to look after the boat," as his father said,
though, being made fast, the boat required no looking after.
Immediately the party in the little cabin had a glass round. Ere long
it occurred to them that they might have another glass. Of course they
did not require to be reminded of their pipes, and as nearly all the
crew was in the little cabin, besides the visitors, the fumes from pipes
and glasses soon brought the atmosphere to a condition that would have
failed to support any but the strongest kind of human life. It
supported these men well enough, however, for they soon began to use
their tongues and brains in a manner that might have surprised a
dispassionate observer.
It is, perhaps, needless to say that they interlarded their conversation
with fearful oaths, to which of course we can do no more than make
passing reference.
By degrees the conversation degenerated into disputation, for it is the
manner of some men, when "in liquor," to become intensely pugnacious as
well as owlishly philosophical. The subject-matter of dispute may be
varied, but the result is nearly always the same--a series of amazing
convolutions of the brain, which is supposed to be profound reasoning,
waxing hotter and hotter as the utterances grow thicker and thicker, and
the tones louder and louder, until the culminating point is reached when
the point which could not be proved by the mind is hammered home with
the fist.
To little Billy, who had been left in sole charge of the deck, and whose
little mind had been strangely impressed on board the mission-ship, the
words and sounds, to say nothing of the fumes, which proceeded from the
cabin furnished much food for meditation. The babel of tongues soon
became incessant, for three, if not four or five, of the speakers had
become so impressed with the importance of their opinions, and so
anxious to give their mates the benefit, that they all spoke at once.
This of course necessitated much loud talking and gesticulation by all
of them, which greatly helped, no doubt, to make their meaning clear.
At least it did not render it less clear. As the din and riot increased
so did the tendency to add fuel to the fire by deeper drinking, which
resulted in fiercer quarrelling.
At last one of the contending voices shouted so loud that the others for
a few moments gave way, and the words became audible to the little
listener on deck. The voice belonged to Gunter.
"You said," he shouted fiercely, "that I--"
"No, I didn't," retorted Brock, breaking in with a rather premature
contradiction.
"Hear him out. N-nothin' like fair play in ar-argiment," said an
extremely drunken voice.
"Right you are," cried another; "fire away, Gunter."
"You said," resumed Gunter with a little more of argument in his tone,
though still vehemently, "that I said--that--that--well, whativer it was
I said, I'll take my davy that I niver said anything o' the sort."
"That's a lie," cried Brock.
"You're another," shouted Gunter, and waved his hand contemptuously.
Whether it was accident or design we know not, but Gunter's hand knocked
the pipe out of Brook's mouth.
To Billy's ear the well-known sound of a blow followed, and he ran to
look down into the cabin, where all was instantly in an uproar.
"Choke him off," cried David Bright. "Knock his brains out," suggested
Herring. Billy could not see well through the dense smoke, but
apparently the more humane advice was followed, for, after a good deal
of gasping, a heavy body was flung upon the floor.
"All right, shove him into a bunk," cried the Swab.
At the same moment Ned Spivin sprang on deck, and, stretching himself
with his arms extended upwards, drew a long breath of fresh air.
"There, Billy," he said, "I've had enough of it."
"Of grog, d'ye mean?" asked the boy.
"No, but of the hell-upon-earth down there," replied the young man.
"Well, Ned, I should just think you _have_ had enough o' that," said
Billy, "an' of grog too--though you don't seem much screwed after all."
"I'm not screwed at all, Billy--not even half-seas-over. It's more the
smoke an' fumes that have choked me than the grog. Come, lad, let's go
for'ard an' git as far from it as we can."
The man and boy went to the bow of the vessel, and seated themselves
near the heel of the bowsprit, where the sounds from the cabin reached
them only as a faint murmur, and did not disturb the stillness of the
night.
And a day of quiet splendour it certainly was--the sea as calm as glass,
insomuch that it reflected all the fleecy clouds that hung in the bright
sky. Even the ocean-swell had gone to rest with just motion enough left
to prove that the calm was not a "dead" one, but a slumber. All round,
the numerous vessels of the Short Blue fleet floated in peaceful
idleness. At every distance they lay, from a hundred yards to the
far-off horizon.
We say that they floated peacefully, but we speak only as to appearance,
for there were other hells in the fleet, similar to that which we have
described, and the soft sound of distant oars could be distinguished now
and then as boats plied to and fro between their smacks and the Coper,
fetching the deadly liquid with which these hells were set on fire.
Other sounds there were, however, which fell pleasantly on the ears of
the two listeners.
"Psalm-singers," said Billy.
"They might be worse," replied Ned. "What smack does it come from,
think 'ee?"
"The _Boy Jim_, or the _Cephas_--not sure which, for I can't make out
the voices. It might be from the _Sparrow_, but that's it close to us,
and there could be no mistake about Jim Frost's voice if he was to
strike up."
"What! has Jim Frost hoisted the Bethel-flag?"
"Ay, didn't you see it flyin' last Sunday for the first time?"
"No, I didn't," returned Ned, "but I'm glad to hear it, for, though I'm
not one o' that set myself. I do like to see a man not ashamed to show
his colours."
The flag to which they referred is supplied at half cost to the fleet by
the Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen--and is hoisted every Sabbath-day by
those skippers in the fleet who, having made up their minds boldly to
accept all the consequences of the step, have come out decidedly on the
Lord's side.
While the two shipmates were conversing thus in low tones, enjoying the
fresh air and the calm influences around them, the notes of an accordion
came over the water in tones that were sweetened and mellowed by
distance.
"Ha! that's Jim Frost now," said Billy, in subdued excitement, while
pleasure glittered in his eyes. "Oh! Ned, I _does_ like music. It
makes my heart fit to bu'st sometimes, it does. An' Jim plays that--
that what's 'is name--so beautiful!"
"His accordion," said Ned.
"Yes--his accordium--"
"No, Billy, not accordium, but accordion."
"Well, well--no matter. I don't care a button what you calls it, so
long as Jim plays it. Why, he'd make his fortin' if he was to play that
thing about the streets o' Lun'on. Listen."
Jim Frost deserved all the praise that the enthusiastic boy bestowed on
him, for, besides possessing a fine ear and taste for music, and having
taught himself to play well, he had a magnificent tenor voice, and took
great delight in singing the beautiful hymns which at that time had been
introduced to the fleet. On this particular day he was joined by his
crew, whose voices--more or less tuneful--came rolling over the water in
a great volume of melody.
"He's got Singin' Peter a-visitin' him," said Billy. "Don't you hear
him?"
"Ay, I hear him, boy. There's no mistakin' Singin' Peter's voice. I'd
know it among a thousand."
"If it's hell here," remarked Billy, with a great sigh of satisfaction,
after the hymn was done, "it do seem like heaven over there. I only
wish we had Jim Frost on board of us instead of that brute Gunter."
"Don't be hard on Gunter, Billy," said Ned. "We don't know what he's
got to bear. Some men are born, you see, wi' narves that are for ever
screwin' at 'em, an' ticklin' of 'em up; an' other men have narves that
always keep smoothin' of 'em down. The last are the pleasantest to have
to do with, no doubt, but the others ain't quite so bad as they look
sometimes. Their bark is worse than their bite."
"Hush!" exclaimed the boy, holding up a finger at the moment, for Jim
Frost's accordion again sent forth its rich tones in the prelude to a
hymn. A few moments later and the tuneful voices came rolling towards
them in that beautiful hymn, the chorus of which ends:--
"We shall know each other better when the mists are rolled away."
When the last verse was sung little Billy found a tear struggling to get
out of each eye, and a lump sticking in his throat, so he turned his
head away to conceal them.
"Ain't it beautiful?" he said, when the lump had disappeared.
"And ain't it curious," answered Ned, "that it should touch on what we
was talkin' about afore they began? P'r'aps we shall know John Gunter
better `when the mists are rolled away.'"
Billy shook his head dubiously. "I'm not so sure o' that," he said.
"Anyhow, there's a deal o' mist to be rolled away before we can know
_him_ better."
"There's a breeze comin' up from the south'ard," remarked Ned, who, to
say truth, did not seem to care very much about getting to know his
surly shipmate better; "we'll have to get your father aboard soon."
"That won't be an easy matter," said Billy, and he was right, for when
David Bright was set down with a friend, and a glass, and a pack of
cards, it was very difficult to move him. He was, indeed, as fond of
gambling as of drinking, and lost much of his hardly earned gains in
that way. Billy, therefore, received little but abuse when he tried to
induce him to return to his own vessel, but the freshing of the breeze,
and a sudden lurch of the smack, which overturned his glass of grog into
Gunter's lap, induced him at last to go on deck.
There the appearance of things had changed considerably. Clouds were
beginning to obscure the bright sky, the breeze had effectually
shattered the clear mirror of the sea, and a swell was beginning to roll
the _White Cloud_, so that legs which would have found it difficult to
steady their owners on solid land made sad work of their office on the
heaving deck.
"Haul up the boat," cried Brock in a drivelling voice as he came on
deck; "where are you steerin' to? Let me take the helm."
He staggered toward the tiller as he spoke, but Dick Herring and one of
his mates, seeing that he was quite unable to steer, tried to prevent
him. Brock, however, had reached that stage of drunkenness in which men
are apt to become particularly obstinate, and, being a powerful man,
struggled violently to accomplish his purpose.
"Let him have it," said Herring at last. "He can't do much damage."
When set free, the miserable man grasped the tiller and tried to steady
himself. A lurch of the vessel, however, rendered his effort abortive.
The tiller fell to leeward. Brock went headlong with it, stumbled over
the side, and, before any one could stretch out a hand to prevent it,
fell into the sea and sank.
His comrades were apparently sobered in an instant. There was no need
for the hurried order to jump into the boat alongside. Ned Spivin and
Billy were in it with the painter cast off and the oars out in a couple
of seconds. The boat of the _White Cloud_ was also launched with a
speed, that only North Sea fishermen, perhaps, can accomplish, and both
crews rowed about eagerly while the smack lay-to. But all without
success. The unfortunate man was never more seen, and the visitors left
the vessel in sobered silence, and rowed, without exchanging a word, to
their own smack, which lay about a quarter of a mile distant on the port
quarter.
CHAPTER ELEVEN.
RUTH AND CAPTAIN BREAM TAKE TO SCHEMING.
Returning to London, we will follow Captain Bream, who, one fine
morning, walked up to Mrs Dotropy's mansion at the west end, and
applied the knocker vigorously.
"Is Miss Ruth at home?"
Yes, Miss Ruth was at home, and would he walk in.
He was ushered into the library of the mansion; that room in which the
Dotropy ancestors, who could not find space among their kindred in the
dining-room, held, so to speak, an overflow meeting to themselves. Ruth
soon joined him.
"I'm so glad to see you, Captain Bream," she said, shaking with much
fervency the hand held out to her. "Sit down. It is so kind of you to
come at once to help me in my little schemes--though I have not seen you
to explain why I asked you--but there, I was almost off on another
subject before I had begun the one I wish to consult you about. And, do
you know, captain," added Ruth, with a slightly perplexed look, "I find
scheming a very troublesome business!"
"I should think you did, Miss Ruth, and it seems to me that it's always
better to go straight at what you've got to do without scheming--all
fair an' aboveboard. Excuse me, my dear, but an old man who has sailed
your lamented father's ships for over thirty years, and known you since
you were a baby, may be allowed to say he's surprised that _you_ should
take to scheming."
"An old man who has not only sailed my dear father's ships for over
thirty years," said Ruth, "but has brought me toys from all parts of the
world, and has, besides, been as true to the family as the needle to the
pole--or truer, if all be true that is said of needles--may say to my
father's daughter exactly what he pleases without the smallest chance of
giving offence. But, let me tell you, sir, that you are a foolish old
man, and much too quick in forming your opinions. Scheming is both
justifiable and honourable at times--as I shall soon convince you."
A beaming smile overspread the captain's visage as he said--
"Very well, Miss Ruth. Go on."
"But before I go on tell me how are the Miss Seawards?"
"Quite well, I believe. At least I have no reason to think otherwise.
Rather thinnish if anything, but filled out wonderfully since I first
saw 'em."
"That's good," said Ruth, laughing. "And now, do you know why I asked
you to go and lodge with them?"
"Well, I always thought it was because you knew I wanted a lodgin',
though I confess it has puzzled me to make out why you wanted me to come
to such an out-o'-the-way part o' the city; and, to tell you the truth,
it _is_ rather inconvenient, but your letter was so urgent, Miss Ruth,
that I knew you must have some good reason, and as your dear father's
daughter has a right to command me, I obeyed, as you know, without
question."
"You are a good old man," returned Ruth, laying her hand on the brown
fist of the captain and looking up in his face with the same loving
girlish look that she had bestowed on him many a time in years past on
his frequent visits with foreign toys, "and I shall test your goodness a
good deal before I have done with you."
"Test away, Miss Ruth. You'll find I can stand a good deal of testin'.
I haven't sailed the salt sea for forty years for nothing."
"Well then," said Ruth, looking slightly perplexed again. "What would
you do, Captain Bream, if you knew of two ladies who were unable to
work, or to find suitable work, and so poor as to be literally
starving--what would you do?"
"Give 'em money, of course."
"But suppose that, owing to some delicacy of feeling, or, perhaps, some
sort of mistaken pride, they would not accept money, and flushed very
much and felt hurt, if you ventured to offer it to them?"
"Why, then, I'd send 'em victuals."
"But suppose," continued Ruth, "that there were great difficulties in
the way of doing that, and they felt as much objection to receive
gratuitous victuals as money, what would you do then? you would not let
them starve, would you?"
"Of course not," returned the captain, promptly. "If it fairly came to
that I'd be apt to treat 'em as nurses do obstinate infants and castor
oil. I'd take 'em on my knee, force open their mouths, and shove the
victuals down their throats."
Ruth burst into a merry little laugh at this.
"But," said she, "don't you think that before proceeding to such
forcible treatment you might scheme a little to get them to take it
willingly, as nurses sometimes disguise the taste of the oil with coffee
or milk?"
"Well, you _might_ scheme a little on that sort of principle, Miss Ruth;
but in ordinary cases I prefer straightforward plans myself."
"Then why, let me ask," said Ruth with some severity in her look, "do
you dare to scheme with the wind as you and all sailors do when it is
dead against you?"
"You're becomin' too deep for me now, my dear; what d'ee mean?"
"When the wind blows dead against you, say from the north," replied
Ruth, "don't you begin your naughty--at least your nautical--scheming at
once? Don't you lay your course to the nor'-west and pretend you are
going in that direction, and then don't you soon tack about--isn't that
what you call it--and steer nor'-east, pretending that you are going
_that_ way, when all the time you are wanting to go due north? What do
you call that, sir, if it is not scheming to circumvent the wind?"
While she was speaking, Captain Bream's smile expanded and broke forth
at last in one of his bass broadsides of laughter, which gave Ruth great
delight for she had, as a little girl, enjoyed these thunderous laughs
excessively, and her taste for them had not departed.
"Well, my dear," said her visitor, "I admit that there are some sorts o'
fair-an'-above-board schemin' which ain't dishonourable, or unworthy of
a British sailor."
"Very good," returned Ruth; "then listen while I reveal some of my
recent scheming. Some time ago I found out that two very dear friends
of mine--who were in delicate health and quite unable to work hard, as
well as being unable to find any kind of work whatever--were on the
point of starvation. They would not accept money. I schemed a little
to get them to earn money, but it was not easy, and the result was not a
sufficiently permanent income. At last I thought I would try to get
them a boarder--a somewhat rich boarder, whose powerful appetite and
large meals might leave some crumbs for--"
"You don't mean to tell me, Miss Ruth," interrupted the captain, in
amazement, "that the Miss Seawards were in a state of starvation when I
went to 'em!"
"Indeed I do," replied Ruth; "at least as nearly in that state as was
compatible with existence."
"Well, well," said the captain, "no wonder they looked so thin; and no
wonder they're beginnin' to be a little better in flesh now, wi' the
legs o' mutton an' chops an' such like things that I get in to take the
edge off my appetite--which, as you justly observe, Miss Ruth, is not a
bad one. I'm glad you've told me this, however, for I'll go in for
extra heavy feedin' now."
"That's right. But stay, Captain Bream, I have not nearly done with my
scheming yet. And I shall still want you to help me."
"Go ahead, my dear. I'm your man, for, to tell 'ee the downright truth,
I've taken a great fancy to these two sisters, an' would steer a long
way out o' my course to help 'em."
"I knew you would," returned Ruth with a little look of triumph.
"Whoever comes in contact with these dear friends of mine thinks exactly
as you do. Now, their health is not nearly as good as it ought to be,
so I want them to have a change of air. You see, the poor little street
in which they live is not the freshest in London."
"Exactly so. They want a trip to Brighton or Broadstairs or Ramsgate,
and a whiff of fresh sea-air, eh?" said the captain with a look of
satisfaction.
"No not to these places," said Ruth; "I thought of Yarmouth."
"Well, Yarmouth--just as good. Any part o' the coast will do to blow
the London cobwebs out o' their brains--say Yarmouth."
"Very good, captain, but my difficulty is, how to manage it."
"Nothing easier, Miss Ruth. I will take an afternoon train, run down,
hire a lodgin', come up to-morrow, an' carry the Miss Seawards off wi'
me."
"But suppose they won't go?"
"But they must go. I'm quite able to take up one under each arm an'
carry 'em off by force if they won't."
"I would highly approve of that method, captain, if it were possible,
but I'm afraid such things are not permitted in this free country. No,
if done at all, the thing must be gone about with a little more care and
delicacy."
"Well then, I'll go down an' take a lodgin', an' write up and ask them
to pay me a visit for the benefit of their health."
Ruth shook her pretty little head and frowned.
"Won't do," she said. "I know them too well. They're so unselfish that
they won't budge a step to benefit themselves."
"H'm! I see, Miss Ruth, we want a little scheming here--eh? Well, I'll
manage it. You leave this little matter in my hands, and see if I don't
get 'em to visit Yarmouth, by hook or by crook. By the way, Miss Ruth,
was it one o' your little schemes, givin' 'em these mitts and comforters
to make?"
"Of course it was," Ruth replied with a laugh and a blush. "You see
these things are really very much wanted by the North sea fishermen, and
a great many benevolent women spend much time in knitting for them--and
not only women, but also boys."
"Boys!" echoed the captain in surprise--"boys knit mitts and
comforters?"
"Yes. I assure you that the telegraph boys of the Notting Hill branch
of the Post-office have actually spent some of their spare time in doing
this work."
"I'll look upon telegraph boys with more respect ever after this," said
the captain with emphasis.
"Well, as I was saying," continued Ruth, "Mamma bought far more worsted
for me than I could ever find time to work up into mitts or comforters,
so I have employed the Miss Seawards to do it for me--at so much a pair.
But they don't know it's for me, so be careful not to--"
"Yes, yes, I see--more scheming. Well, I'll take care not to blab."
"And I sent the worsted and arranged the transaction through such a dear
pretty little fisher-boy from Yarmouth. But perhaps you have seen him
at your lodging."
"No, I haven't seen him, but I've heard a good deal about him. The
ladies seem to be as much impressed with his sweetness and prettiness as
yourself, Miss Ruth. For my part, I'm not over fond o' sweet pretty
boys. I prefer 'em rough-cast or even ugly, so long's they're smart an'
willin'."
"Oh! but you have no idea what a smart and willing boy he is," said
Ruth, firing up in defence of her little friend. "I assure you he is
most willing and intelligent, and I do believe he would scratch his face
and twist his little nose into a screw if by so doing he could make
himself ugly, for I have observed that he is terribly annoyed when
people call him pretty--as they often foolishly do."
"Well, I'll be off now on this little business," said the captain,
rising and smoothing his hat with his cuff. "But--but--Miss Ruth--
excuse me, you said something about sending the Miss Seawards a _rich_
lodger when you sent me. How d'ee know I'm rich?"
"Well, I only guessed it," returned Ruth with a laugh, "and, you know,
more than once you have hinted to me that you had got on very well--that
God had prospered you--I think these were the words you have sometimes
used."
"These are the words I would always use," returned the captain. "The
prosperity that has attended me through life I distinctly recognise at
being the result of God's will, not of my wisdom. Don't we see that the
cleverest of men sometimes fail, and, on the other hand, the most stupid
fellows sometimes succeed? It is God that setteth up one and putteth
down another."
"I'm glad to hear that you think so clearly on this point, captain,
though I did not know it before. It is another bond between us.
However, if I have been wrong in supposing you to be rich, I--"
"Nay, I did not deny it, Miss Ruth, but it does not follow that a man
means to say he is rich when he says that he has got on very well.
However, my dear, I don't mind tellin' you, as a secret that I _am_
rich--as rich, that is, as there's any use to be, an' far richer than I
deserve to be. You must know," continued the captain, sinking his voice
to a hoarse whisper, "that your dear father used to allow me to put my
savin's into his hands for investment, and the investments succeeded so
well that at last I found myself in possession of five hundred a year!"
Captain Bream said this with much deliberation and an emphatic nod for
each word, while he gazed solemnly in Ruth's face. "Not a bad fortune
for an old bachelor, eh? Then," he continued, after a moment's pause,
"when I was wrecked, two years ago in Australia, I took a fancy to have
a look at the gold diggin's, so off I went to Bendigo, and I set to work
diggin' for the mere fun o' the thing, and the very first day I turned
up a nugget as big as my fist and two of the same sort the day after,
an' then a lot o' little ones; in fact I had got hold of a first-rate
claim, an' when I had dug away for a month or so I put it all in a big
chest, sold the claim, and came straight home, bringin' the chest with
me. I have it now, up in my cabin yonder. It well-nigh broke my back
gittin' it up the stair, though my back ain't a weak one."
"And how much is the gold worth?" eagerly asked Ruth, who had listened
with a sympathetic expression on her face.
"That's more than I can tell. I scarce know how to go about convertin'
it into cash; but I'm in no hurry. Now mind, Miss Ruth, not a word o'
this to any livin' soul. Not even to your own mother, for she ain't
_my_ mother, d'ee see, an' has no right to know it. In fact I've never
told it to any one till this day, for I have no one in the wide world to
care about it. Once, indeed, I had--"
He stopped short.
"Ah! you are thinking of your sister?" said the sympathetic Ruth; "the
sister whom you once told me about long ago."
"Yes, Miss Ruth, I _was_ thinkin' o' her; but--" He stopped again.
"Do tell me about her," said Ruth, earnestly. "Has she been long dead?"
"Dead! my dear. I didn't say she was dead, an' yet it ain't unlikely
she is, for it's long, long since I heard of her. There's not much to
tell about her after all," said the captain, sadly. "But she was a dear
sweet little girl at the time--just turned eighteen--an' very fond o'
me. We had no parents living, an' no kindred except one old aunt, with
whom my sister lived. I was away at the time on a long voyage, and had
to take a cargo from the East Indies to China before returnin' home. At
Hongkong I fell ill, an' was laid up there for months. Altogether a
good many troubles came on me at that time--though they were blessed
troubles to me, for they ended in the saving o' my soul through my eyes
bein' opened to see my sins and Jesus Christ as my Saviour. It was
three years before I set foot in England again, and when I got back I
found that my old aunt was dead, and that my dear sister had married a
seaman and gone away--no one knew where."
"And you've never heard of her since?" asked Ruth.
"Never."
"And don't know who she married?"
"Know nothin' more about her, my dear, than I've told 'ee. Good-bye
now, Miss Ruth. I must look sharp about this business of yours."
He showed such evident disinclination to continue the painful subject,
that Ruth forbore to press it, and they parted to prosecute their
respective schemes.
CHAPTER TWELVE.
CAPTAIN BREAM DEVELOPS A CAPACITY FOR SCHEMING.
At dinner that day Captain Bream paused in the act of conveying a whole
potato to his mouth on the end of his fork, and said--
"Miss Seaward, I'm going to leave you--"
"Leave us!" cried Kate, interrupting him with a look of consternation,
for she and Jessie had both become so fond of the amiable seaman, with
the frame of Goliath and the heart of Samuel, that they were now as much
afraid of losing, as they had formerly been of possessing him. "Leave
us, captain!"
"Only for a time, Miss Kate--only for a time," he replied, hastily, as
he checked the power of further utterance with the potato. "Only for a
time," he repeated, on recovering the power. "You see, I've got a
little bit of business to transact down at Yarmouth, and it will take me
a good while to do it. Some weeks at the least--perhaps some months--
but there's no help for it, for the thing _must_ be done."
The captain said this with so much decision, that Kate could scarcely
forbear laughing as she said--
"Dear me, it must be very important business since you seem so
determined about it. Is there anything or any one likely to oppose you
in transacting the business?"
"Well, not exactly at present," returned the captain blandly, "but there
are two obstinate friends of mine who, I have been told, would oppose me
pretty stoutly if I was to tell 'em all the truth about it."
"Is there any necessity," asked Jessie, "for telling these obstinate
friends anything about the business at all?"
"Well, yes," replied the captain with a chuckle that almost brought on a
choking fit; "I can't well avoid tellin' them somethin' about it, for
they've a right to know, but--"
"Wouldn't it save you all trouble, then," broke in Kate, seeing his
hesitation, "to tell them just as much of the business as they were
entitled to know, and no more."
"That's just the very thing I mean to do," replied the captain, bursting
into a laugh so deep and thunderous that the small domestic, Liffie Lee,
entered the room abruptly to ask if anything was wanted, but in reality
to find out what all the fun was about. Having been dismissed with a
caution not to intrude again till rung for, the captain helped himself
to an enormous slice of beef; earnestly, but unsuccessfully, pressed the
sisters to "go in for more and grow fat," and then continued his
discourse.
"You must know, ladies, that I have taken to studyin' a good deal in my
old age. Another potato--thank 'ee."
"Yes, we have observed that," said Kate. "May I ask what is the nature
of your studies--navigation?"
"Navigation!" shouted the captain with another laugh so rich and racy
that poor Liffie Lee almost entered in defiance of orders; "no, Miss
Kate, it ain't navigation! I've bin pretty well grounded in that
subject for the last forty years. No, my study _now_ is theology."
"Theology!" exclaimed the sisters in surprise.
"Yes, theology. Is it so strange, then, that a man drawin' near the
close of life should wish to be more particular than when he was young
in tryin' to find out all he can about his Maker?" returned the captain
gravely.
"Forgive us," said Jessie, hastening to explain; "it is not that. If
you had said you had taken to reading the Bible carefully and
systematically, we would not have been surprised, but it--it was--your
talking so quietly about theology that made us--"
"Yes, yes, I see," interrupted the good-natured seaman; "well, it _is_
reading the Word of God that I mean. You see, I regard the Bible as my
class-book, my book o' logarithms, chart compass, rudder, etcetera, all
rolled into one. Now, I don't mind tellin' you a secret. When I first
went to sea I was a very wild harum-scarum young fellow, an' havin' some
sort of influence over my mates, I did 'em a deal of damage and led 'em
astray. Well, when the Lord in His great mercy saved my soul, I could
not forget this, and although I knew I was forgiven, my heart was
grieved to think of the mischief I had done. I felt as if I would give
anything in life to undo it if I could. As this was not possible,
however, I bethought me that the next best thing would be to do as much
good as I could to the class that I had damaged, so, when I came home
and left the sea for good, I used to go down about the docks and give
away Bibles and Testaments to the sailors. Then I got to say a word or
two to 'em now and then about their souls but I soon found that there
are professed unbelievers among the tars, an' they put questions that
puzzled me at times, so I took to readin' the Bible with a view to
answering objectors an' bein' able to give a reason of the hope that is
in me--to studyin', in fact, what I call theology. But I ain't above
takin' help," continued the captain with a modest look, "from ordinary
good books when I come across 'em--my chief difficulty bein', to find
out what are the best books to consult, and this has led me sometimes to
think of buyin' up all the theological books I can lay hands on, an'
glancin' 'em all through so as to make notes of such as seemed worth
readin' with care. The labour however seems so great, that up to now
I've bin kept back, but I've had a talk with a friend to-day which has
decided me, so I'll go off to Yarmouth to-morrow an' buy a whole lot o'
theological books--a regular library in fact--and set to work to read
up. But there's one thing I would like, which would save me an enormous
amount o' labour, if I could get it."
"What is that?" asked the sisters, eagerly, and in the same breath, for
they had become quite interested in their friend's aspirations.
"I would like," said the captain, slowly, and fixing his eyes on his
plate, for he was now beginning to scheme, "I would like to find some
one--a clever boy perhaps, though a girl would be preferable--who would
take the trouble off my hands of glancin' through the books first, an'
makin' notes of their contents for me, so as to prevent my wastin' time
on those that are worthless."
"I fear," said Jessie, "that few boys or girls would be capable of such
work, for it would require not only intelligence but a considerable
amount of scriptural knowledge."
The captain heaved a deep sigh. "Yes," he said, shaking his head
slowly, "you're right, and I'm afraid I'll have to get some grown-up
person to help me, but that won't be easy. And then, d'ee know, I don't
feel as if I could git on in such investigations with a stranger."
"What a pity," said Kate, "that you could not bring the books here, and
then _I_ could help you, for although I do not pretend to be deeply
learned in scriptural knowledge, I daresay I know enough for your
purpose; but why not get the books in London? Is there any necessity
for buying them in Yarmouth?"
Poor Captain Bream was so unused to scheming, that he had made no
preparation for such a question, and felt much confused. He could give
no good reason for making his purchase in Yarmouth, and nothing would
have induced him to tell a falsehood.
"Well, really," he said, after a few moments' hesitation, "there are
circumstances sometimes in a man's life which render it difficult for
him to explain things, but--but I _have_ a reason for wishin' to buy
this library in Yarmouth, an' it seems to me a good one. Besides, I've
got a likin' for sea-air, bein' my native air, so to speak, and I've no
doubt that theology would come more easy to me if I was in a snug little
room facin' the sea, where I could see the blue waters dancin', an' the
shipping go by, an' the youngsters playin' on the sands. Yes, it _must_
be done at Yarmouth. London would never do; it's too hot an' stuffy.
Not that I care for that, but then you might--ah--that is--I mean to
say--you might agree with me on this point if you were there. But why,"
he added with fresh animation as he saw the way opening up before him,
"why, Miss Kate, since you are so kind as to say you'd like to help me,
why might you not take a run down to Yarmouth with me, an' help me
there?"
"Because," answered Kate, laughing, "I could not very well leave my
sister alone."
"Of course not--quite right, but there's no need for that; she could
come too, and it would do you both much good, not to speak o' the
_immense_ advantage to me! I do assure you I'd feel well-nigh as
helpless as an infant, if left to tackle this business alone."
From this point there began a regular skirmish between the captain and
the sisters; the one trying to convince the others that it would be
doing him a favour for which he could never find words to thank them,
and the others endeavouring to show by every sort of argument that the
thing was utterly unpossible, that the captain little knew what a burden
he proposed to take on his shoulders, and that there was no use whatever
in talking about it.
But Captain Bream was a man of resolution. He stuck to his point and
pleaded his own cause so powerfully that the sisters began to waver.
"But think," urged Kate, who did the most of the fighting, "you forget
Liffie Lee. She is no longer a mere visitor for an hour or two of a
morning, as she used to be, but a regular hired servant and we could not
leave her behind."
"I know that. It was my coming that made you hire her; and, now I think
of it, I've a right to claim at least part of her, so she can come too,
an' we'll lock up the house an' get Mr Green-grocer to look after it--
air it now and then. Come, just make up your minds. Only think, how
beautiful the blue sea will be just now, an' the sunny skies, an' the
yellow sands--I declare it makes me long to go. An' then you'll see
that pretty boy you've taken such a fancy to--what's 'is name?"
"Billy Bright," said Kate.
"Just so--Billy Bright--though I can't say that I'm over fond o' pretty
little boys. They're too often soft an'--"
"But I tell you he's as bold as a lion, and wise as a man, and tough
as--as--"
"As a beefsteak," said the captain; "yes, yes, I know all that, and I'm
quite prepared to believe that he is an exception. Well, now, it's
agreed to--is it?"
But the sisters did not at once give in. They fought on with true
feminine courage until the captain tried the effect of deep dejection
and innocent submission, when their tender hearts could stand out no
longer, and, hauling down their colours, they finally agreed to become
librarians and accompany their lodger to Yarmouth.
Then the captain left them to report the victory to his commodore, Ruth
Dotropy.
"I never had such a battle in my life!" he said to that scheming young
creature. "They didn't give in till they'd fired off every shot in
their locker. Trafalgar and the Nile were nothin' to it."
"But do you really mean to say," asked Ruth, who could hardly speak at
first for laughing, "that you intend to buy all these theological books
and set the sisters to work?"
"To be sure I do. You didn't suppose that I was goin' to tell a parcel
o' lies to help out your schemes, my dear? It has been for some months
past simmerin' in my brain that I ought to go through a small course of
education in that line. And all you have done for me is to make me go
in for it somewhat sooner, and a little heavier than I had intended in
the way of books. And there's no doubt I'll study better at the
sea-side than in London. Besides, I shall have the fishermen to try the
effects of my studies on, and you may be sure I won't let the poor
things work too hard at the books."
"I'll trust you for that," said Ruth.
Now, while these little plans were being arranged, an event was pending
in the North Sea fleet which merits particular notice.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
RUN DOWN IN A FOG--CAPTAIN BREAM ACTS SURPRISINGLY.
One day a fishing-smack was on the eve of quitting the Short Blue fleet
for its little holiday of a week in port. It was the _Sparrow_, of
which Jim Frost was master. A flag was flying to indicate its
intention, and invite letters, etcetera, for home, if any of the crews
should feel disposed to send them.
Several boats put off from their respective smacks in reply to the
signal. One of these belonged to Singing Peter.
"Glad to see you, Peter," said Jim Frost as the former leaped on the
_Sparrow's_ deck.
"Same to you, lad. I wish you a pleasant spell ashore, and may the
Master be with you," returned Peter.
"The Master is sure to be with me," replied Frost, "for has he not said,
`I will never leave thee?' Isn't it a fine thing, Peter, to think that,
whatever happens, the Lord is here to guard us from evil?"
"Ay, Jim, an' to take us home when the time comes."
"`Which is far better,'" responded Jim.
"You'll not get away to-night," remarked Peter as he gazed out upon the
sea. "It's goin' to fall calm."
"No matter. I can wait."
"What say ye, lad, to a hymn?" said Peter.
"I'm your man," replied Jim, with a laugh, "I thought it wouldn't be
long before Singin' Peter would want to raise his pipe."
"He can't help it, d'ee see," returned Peter, answering the laugh with a
smile; "if I didn't sing I'd blow up. It's my safety-valve, Jim, an' I
like to blow off steam when I gets alongside o' like-minded men."
"We're all like-minded here. Fetch my accordion," said Jim, turning to
one of his men.
In a few minutes a lively hymn was raised in lusty tones which rolled
far and wide over the slumbering sea. Then these like-minded men
offered up several prayers, and it was observed that Jim Frost was
peculiarly earnest that night. Of course they had some more hymns, for
as the calm was by that time complete, and it was not possible for any
sailing vessel to quit the fleet, there was no occasion to hurry.
Indeed there is no saying how long these iron-framed fishermen would
have kept it up, if it had not been for a slight fog which warned the
visitors to depart.
As the night advanced the fog thickened, so that it was not possible to
see more than fifty yards around any of the fishing-smacks.
Now it is probably known to most people that the greatest danger to
which those who do business on the sea are exposed is during fog.
When all around is calm and peaceful; when the sound of voices comes
with muffled sound over the smooth water; when the eye sees nothing save
a ghostly white horizon all round close at hand; when almost the only
sound that breaks on the ear is the gentle lapping of the sea, or the
quiet creak of plank and spar, as the vessel slowly lifts and falls on
the gentle swell, and when landsmen perchance feel most secure--then it
is that the dark cloud of danger lowers most heavily, though perhaps
unrecognised, over the mariner, and stirs him to anxious watchfulness,
when apparently in profoundest repose.
Jim Frost knew well the dangers of the situation, but he had been long
accustomed to face all the dangers peculiar to his calling on the deep
without flinching--strong in the confidence of his well-tried courage
and seamanship, and stronger still in his trust in Him who holds the
water in the hollow of His hand. Many a time had he been becalmed in
fog on the North Sea. He knew what to do, kept the fog-horn blowing,
and took all the steps for safety that were possible in the
circumstances.
But, somehow, the young fisherman did not feel his usual easy-going
indifference on that particular night, though his trust in God was not
less strong. He felt no fear, indeed, but a solemn sobriety of spirit
had taken the place of his wonted cheery temperament, and, instead of
singing in lively tones as he paced the deck, he hummed airs of a slow
pathetic kind in a soft undertone.
It is often said that men receive mysterious intimations, sometimes, of
impending disaster. It may be so. We cannot tell. Certainly it seemed
as if Jim Frost had received some such intimation that night.
"I can't understand it, Evan," he said to his mate when the latter came
on deck a little after midnight to relieve him. "A feeling as if
something was going to happen has taken possession of me, and I can't
shake it off. You know I'm not the man to fancy danger when there's
none."
Evan--a youth whom he had been the means of rescuing when about to fall,
under great temptation--replied that perhaps want of sleep was the
cause.
"You know," he said, "men become little better than babbies when they
goes long without sleep, an' you've not had much of late. What with
that tearin' o' the net an' the gale that's just gone, an' that book,
you know--"
"Ah!" interrupted Jim, "you mustn't lay the blame on the book, Evan. I
haven't bin sittin' up _very_ late at it; though I confess I'm uncommon
fond o' readin'. Besides, it's a good book, more likely to quiet a
man's mind than to rouse it. How we ever got on without readin' before
that mission-ship came to us, is more than I can understand! Why, it
seems to have lifted me into a new world."
"That's so. I'm fond o' readin' myself," said Evan, who, although not
quite so enthusiastic or intellectual as his friend, appreciated very
highly the library-bags which had been recently sent to the fleet.
"But the strange thing is," said Jim, returning to the subject of his
impressions--"the strange thing is, that my mind is not runnin' on
danger or damaged gear, or books, or gales, but on my dear wife at home.
I've bin thinkin' of Nancy in a way that I don't remember to have done
before, an' the face of my darlin' Lucy, wi' her black eyes an' rosy
cheeks so like her mother, is never absent from my eyes for a moment."
"Want o' sleep," said the practical Evan. "You'd better turn in an'
have a good spell as long as the calm lasts."
"You remember the patch o' green in front o' my cottage in Gorleston?"
asked Jim, paying no attention to his mate's advice.
"Yes," answered Evan.
"Well, when I was sittin' for'ard there, not half-an-hour since, I seed
my Nancy a-sittin' on that green as plain as I see you, sewin' away at
somethin', an' Lucy playin' at her knee. They was so real-like that I
couldn't help sayin' `Nancy!' an' I do assure you that she stopped
sewin' an' turned her head a-one side for a moment as if she was
listenin'. An' it was all so real-like too."
"You was dreamin'; that was all," said the unromantic Evan.
"No, mate. I wasn't dreamin'," returned Jim. "I was as wide awake as I
am at this moment for I was lookin' out all round just as keen as if I
had not bin thinkin' about home at all."
"Well, you'd as well go below an' dream about 'em now if you can,"
suggested Evan, "an' I'll keep a sharp look-out."
"No, lad, I can't. I'm not a bit sleepy."
As Jim said this he turned and went to the bow of the smack.
At that moment the muffled sound of a steamer's paddles was heard.
Probably the fog had something to do with the peculiarity of the sound,
for next moment a fog-whistle sounded its harsh tone close at hand, and
a dark towering shadow seemed to rush down upon the _Sparrow_.
Even if there had been a breeze there would have been no time to steer
clear of the danger. As it was, the little vessel lay quite helpless on
the sea, Evan shouted down the companion for the men to turn out for
their lives. The man at the bow sounded the fog-horn loud and long. At
the same instant Jim Frost's voice rang out strong and clear a warning
cry. It was answered from above. There were sudden screams and cries.
The fog-whistle shrieked. Engines were reversed. "Hard a-port!" was
shouted. Steam was blown off, and, amid confusion and turmoil
indescribable, an ocean steamer struck the little _Sparrow_ amidships,
and fairly rammed her into the sea.
It could scarcely be said that there was a crash. The one was too heavy
and the other too light for that. The smack lay over almost gracefully,
as if submitting humbly to her inevitable doom. There was one great
cry, and next moment she was rolling beneath the keel of the monster
that had so ruthlessly run her down.
Not far off--so near indeed that those on board almost saw the
catastrophe--lay the _Evening Star_. They of course heard the cries and
the confusion, and knew only too well what had occurred.
To order out the boat was the work of an instant. With powerful strokes
Joe, Spivin, Trevor, and Gunter, caused it to leap to the rescue. On
reaching the spot they discovered and saved the mate. He was found
clinging to an oar, but all the others had disappeared. The steamer
which had done the deed had lowered a boat, and diligent search was made
in all directions round the spot where the fatal collision had occurred.
No other living soul, however, was found. Only a few broken spars and
the upturned boat of the smack remained to tell where Jim Frost, and the
rest of his like-minded men, had exchanged the garb of toil for the
garments of glory!
As a matter of course this event made a profound impression for a time
on board of the _Evening Star_ and of such vessels as were near enough
next morning to be informed of the sad news. A large portion of the
fleet, however, was for some time unaware of what had taken place, and
some of the masters and crews, who were averse to what they styled
"psalm-singin' and prayin'," did not seem to be much affected by the
loss.
Whether grieved or indifferent however, the work of the fleet had to be
done. Whether fishermen live or die, sink or swim, the inexorable
demand of Billingsgate for fish must be met! Accordingly, next day
about noon, a fresh breeze having sprung up, and a carrier-steamer being
there ready for her load, the same lively scene which we have described
in a previous chapter was re-enacted, and after the smacks were
discharged they all went off as formerly in the same direction, like a
shoal of herrings, to new fishing-grounds.
When they had got well away to the eastward and were beating up against
a stiff northerly breeze, David Bright who stood near the helm of the
_Evening Star_, said to his son in a peculiarly low voice--
"Now, Billy, you go below an' fetch me a glass of grog."
Billy went below as desired, but very unwillingly, for he well knew his
father's varying moods, and recognised in the peculiar tone in which the
order was given, a species of despondency--almost amounting to despair--
which not unfrequently ushered in some of his worst fits of
intemperance.
"Your fadder's in de blues to-day," said Zulu, as he toiled over his
cooking apparatus in the little cabin; "when he spok like dat, he goes
in for heavy drink."
"I know that well enough," returned Billy, almost angrily.
"Why you no try him wid a 'speriment?" asked the cook, wrinkling up his
nose and displaying his tremendous gums.
"For any sake don't open your mouth like that, Zulu, but tell me what
you mean by a 'speriment," said the boy.
"How kin I tell what's a 'speriment if I'm not to open my mout'?"
"Shut up, you nigger! an' talk sense."
"Der you go agin, Billy. How kin I talk sense if I'm to shut up? Don't
you know what a 'speriment is? Why it's--it's--just a 'speriment you
know--a dodge."
"If you mean a dodge, why don't you say a dodge?" retorted Billy; "well,
what is your dodge? look alive, for daddy'll be shoutin' for his grog in
a minute."
"You jus' listen," said the cook, in a hoarse whisper, as he opened his
enormous eyes to their widest, "you jus' take a wine-glass--de big 'un
as your fadder be fond of--an' put in 'im two teaspoonfuls o' vinegar,
one tablespoonful o' parafine hoil, one leetle pinch o' pepper, an' one
big pinch ob salt with a leetle mustard, an' give 'im dat. Your fadder
never take time to smell him's grog--always toss 'im off quick."
"Yes, an' then he'd toss the wine-glass into my face an' kick me round
the deck afterwards, if not overboard," said Billy, with a look of
contempt. "No, Zulu, I don't like your 'speriment, but you've put a
notion into my head, for even when a fool speaks a wise man may learn--"
"Yes, I often tink dat," said the cook, interrupting, with a look of
innocence. "You quite right, so speak away, Billy, an' I'll learn."
"You fetch me the wine-glass," said the boy, sharply.
Zulu obeyed.
"Now, fill it up with water--so, an' put in a little brown sugar to give
it colour. That's enough, stir him up. Not bad rum--to _look_ at.
I'll try father wi' that."
Accordingly, our little hero went on deck and handed the glass to his
father--retreating a step or two, promptly yet quietly, after doing so.
As Zulu had said, David Bright did not waste time in smelling his
liquor. He emptied the glass at one gulp, and then gazed at his son
with closed lips and gradually widening eyes.
"It's only sugar and water, daddy," said Billy, uncertain whether to
laugh or look grave.
For a few moments the skipper was speechless. Then his face flushed,
and he said in a voice of thunder, "Go below an' fetch up the keg."
There was no disobeying _that_ order! The poor boy leaped down the
ladder and seized the rum-keg.
"Your 'speriment might have been better after all, Zulu," he whispered
as he passed up again, and stood before his father.
What may have passed in the mind of that father during the brief
interval we cannot tell, but he still stood with the empty wine-glass in
his hand and a fierce expression on his face.
To Billy's surprise, however, instead of seizing the keg and filling out
a bumper, he said sternly--"See here," and tossed the wine-glass into
the sea. "Now lad," he added, in a quiet voice, "throw that keg after
it."
The poor boy looked at his sire with wondering eyes, and hesitated.
"Overboard with it!" said David Bright in a voice of decision.
With a mingling of wild amazement, glee, and good-will, Billy, exerting
all his strength, hurled the rum-keg into the air, and it fell with a
heavy splash upon the sea.
"There, Billy," said David, placing his hand gently on the boy's head,
"you go below and say your prayers, an' if ye don't know how to pray,
get Luke Trevor to teach you, an' don't forget to thank God that your
old father's bin an' done it at last."
We are not informed how far Billy complied with these remarkable orders,
but certain we are that David Bright did not taste a drop of strong
drink during the remainder of that voyage. Whether he tasted it
afterwards at all must be left for this chronicle to tell at the proper
time and place.
At present it is necessary that we should return to Yarmouth, where
Captain Bream, in pursuance of his deep-laid schemes, entered a
bookseller's shop and made a sweeping demand for theological literature.
"What particular work do you require, sir?" asked the surprised and
somewhat amused bookseller.
"I don't know that I want any one in particular," said the captain, "I
want pretty well all that have bin published up to this date. You know
the names of 'em all, I suppose?"
"Indeed no, sir," answered the man with a look of uncertainty.
"Theological works are very numerous, and some of them very expensive.
Perhaps if--"
"Now, look here. I've got neither time nor inclination to get upon the
subject just now," said the captain. "You just set your clerk to work
to make out a list o' the principal works o' the kind you've got on
hand, an' I'll come back in the evenin' to see about it. Never mind the
price. I won't stick at that--nor yet the quality. Anything that
throws light on religion will do."
"But, sir," said the shopman, "some of the theological works of the
present day are supposed--at least by the orthodox--to throw darkness
instead of light on religion."
"All right," returned the captain, "throw 'em all in. I don't expect
divines to agree any more than doctors. Besides, I've got a chart to
steer by, called the Bible, that'll keep me clear o' rocks an' shoals.
You make your mind easy, an' do as I bid you. Get the books together by
six o'clock this evening, an' the account made out, for I always pay
cash down. Good-day."
Leaving the bookseller to employ himself with this astounding "order,"
Captain Bream next went to that part of the town which faces the
sea-beach, and knocked at the door of a house in the window of which was
a ticket with "lodgings" inscribed on it.
"Let me see your rooms, my good girl," said the captain to the little
maid who opened the door.
The little maid looked up at the captain with some surprise and no
little hesitancy. She evidently feared either that the rooms would not
be suitable for the applicant or that the applicant would not be
suitable for the rooms. She admitted him, however, and, leading him
up-stairs, ushered him into the parlour of the establishment.
"Splendid!" exclaimed the captain on beholding the large window, from
which there was seen a glorious view of the sea, so near that the ships
passing through the deep water close to the beach seemed as if they were
trying which of them could sail nearest to land without grounding.
"Splendid!" he repeated with immense satisfaction as he turned from the
view to the room itself; "now this is what I call fortunate. The very
thing--sofa for Miss Jessie--easy-chair for Miss Kate--rocking chair for
both of 'em. Nothin' quite suitable for me, (looking round), but that's
not difficult to remedy. Glass over the chimney to see their pretty
faces in, and what have we here--a press?"
"No, sir," said the little maid, pushing open the door, "a small room
off this one, sir."
"Glorious!" shouted the captain, entering and striking the top of the
door-way with his head in doing so. "Nothing could be better. This is
the theological library! Just the thing--good-sized window, same view,
small table, and--well, I declare! if there ain't _empty_ bookshelves!"
"Very sorry, sir," said the little maid, hastening to apologise; "we
have no books, but they'll be handy for any books you may bring to the
sea-side with you, sir, or for any little knick-knacks and odds and
ends."
"Yes, yes, my good girl. I'll fetch a few theological odds and ends
to-night that'll p'r'aps fill 'em up. By the way, you've a bedroom, I
hope?"
He looked anxious, and the maid, who seemed inclined to laugh, said that
of course they had, a nice airy bedroom on the same floor on the other
side of the passage--also commanding the sea.
The captain's face beamed again.
"And now, my girl--but, by the way, I shall want another bedroom. Have
you--"
"I'm sorry to say that we have not. The rest of the house is quite
full."
Captain Bream's face again became anxious. "That's bad," he said; "of
course I can get one out o' the house, but it would be inconvenient."
"There _is_ a hattic, sir," said the maid, "but it is 'igh up, and so
very small, that I fear--"
"Let me see the attic," said the captain, promptly.
The maid conducted him up another flight of steps to a room, or rather
closet, which did not appear to be more than five feet broad and barely
six feet long; including the storm-window, it might have been perhaps
seven feet long. It was situated in a sort of angle, so that from the
window you could have a view of a piece of slate roof, and two crooked
chimney pots with a slice of the sea between them. As there was much
traffic on the sea off that coast, the slice referred to frequently
exhibited a ship or a boat for a few seconds.
"My study!" murmured the captain, looking round on the bare walls, and
the wooden chair, and a low bedstead which constituted the furniture.
"Not much room for the intellect to expand here. However, I've seen
worse."
"We consider it a very good hattic, sir," said the little maid, somewhat
hurt by the last remark.
"I meant no offence, my dear," said the captain, with one of his
blandest smiles, "only the berth _is_ rather small, d'ee see, for a man
of my size. It is first-rate as far as it goes, but if it went a little
further--in the direction of the sea, you know--it might give me a
little more room to kick about my legs. But it'll do. It'll do. I'll
take all the rooms, so you'll consider them engaged."
"But you haven't asked the price of 'em yet sir," said the little maid.
"I don't care tuppence about the price, my dear. Are you the landlady?"
"La! no, sir," replied the girl, laughing outright as they returned to
the parlour.
"Well then, you send the landlady to me, and I'll soon settle matters."
When the landlady appeared, the captain was as good as his word. He at
once agreed to her terms, as well as her stipulations, and paid the
first week's rent in advance on the spot.
"Now," said he, on leaving, "I'll come back this evening with a lot of
books. To-morrow forenoon, the ladies for whom the rooms are taken will
arrive, please God, and you will have everything ready and in apple-pie
order for 'em. I'll see about grub afterwards, but in the meantime you
may give orders to have sent in to-morrow a lot o' fresh eggs and milk
and cream--lots of cream--and fresh butter and tea and coffee an'
suchlike. But I needn't do more than give a wink to a lady of your
experience."
With this last gallant remark Captain Bream left the lodging and
strolled down to the sea-beach.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN.
RUTH'S HOPES AS TO HER PLOT BRIGHTEN A LITTLE.
"Mother," said Ruth one day to her dignified parent, "shall you be soon
free of engagements?"
"Yes, probably by the end of next week. Why do you ask?"
"Because I am longing to get away to Yarmouth. I had a letter from dear
Kate Seaward to-day. They have been a week in their lodging now, and
are enjoying it immensely. Here is the letter. Let me read a bit of it
to you. She says: `You have no idea how much we are charmed with this
place. It is a perfect paradise! Perhaps part of our feeling of
delight is due to the great change from our smoky little residence in
London, but you would not wonder at my enthusiasm if you saw the sweet
little window beside which I am writing, and the splendid sea--like a
great field of clear glass, which spreads away on all sides to the
horizon. Oh! I do love the sea--to look at, I mean. You must not
suppose, dear, that I have any love left when I am _on_ it. Oh no! The
memory of my last crossing of the Channel--that dreadful British
Channel--is as fresh as if it had happened yesterday--the heaving of the
steamer and the howling of the wind, the staggering of the passengers,
and the expression of their faces, to say nothing of their colour. And
then the sensations! Appalling is a mild word. It is not appropriate.
If I might coin a word, horrific seems more suitable. But words utterly
fail when deep and powerful sensations are concerned. I do assure you,
Ruth, that I was absolutely indifferent as to what should become of me
that dreadful day as I lay extended flat on my back on one of the saloon
sofas. And when that nurse with the baby was forced by a lurch of the
ship to sit down on me, I do believe that I could have thanked her if
she had crushed me out of existence. Yes, I hate the sea as a place of
residence, but I love it as an object to be looked at, especially when
it is calm and glittering, as it now is, in the early morning sun.
"Talking of the early morning reminds me of good Captain Bream, who is
one of the most singular and incomprehensible creatures I ever met with.
He is an early riser--not that that makes him singular--but instead of
going out to walk he remains up in his pigeon-hole of a room studying
theology! And such a miscellaneous collection of books he has got on
all sorts of religious controversy! He say he wants to be able to meet
the objections of unbelievers whom he sometimes encounters when
preaching to sailors. Jessie and I have heard him preach to a number of
sailors and fishermen assembled in an old boat-shed, and you have no
idea, Ruth, how delightful it is to hear him. _So_ different from what
one expected, and so very unlike the preaching of many men. I have
often wondered why it is that some men--sensible men, too, in other
matters--should think it necessary to talk in a sing-song, or whiny
voice, with a pathetic drawl, or through their noses, when they have to
speak on religious subjects! I once heard an indignant clergyman say
that he thought it was a device of the devil to turn sacred things into
ridicule, but I cannot agree with that. It seems to me that men are
often too ready to saddle Satan with evil devices which they ought to
fix on their own stupid shoulders. Captain Bream simply _talks_ when he
preaches; just as if he were talking on any business matter of great
importance, and he does it so nicely, too, and so earnestly, like a
father talking to his children. Many of the rough-looking fishermen
were quite melted, and after the meeting a good many of them remained
behind to talk with him privately. Jessie and I are convinced that he
is doing a great and good work here. But he is a most eccentric man,
and seems a good deal perplexed by his theological studies. The other
day Jessie ventured to question him about these, and he became quite
energetic as he said:--
"`I tell 'ee what it is, ladies, when I go cruisin' out and in among
these theological volumes until I lose my reckoning altogether an' git
among shoals an' quicksands that I never so much as heard of before, I
just lay hold o' the cable that's made fast to my sheet-anchor, and I
haul in on that. Here is the sheet-anchor, he said, pulling his little
Bible from his pocket, the Word of God. That's it. When I feel how
ignorant an' stoopid an' unlearned I am, I just keep haulin' on the
cable till I come to some such word as this, "Not by might, nor by
power, but by my Spirit, saith the Lord," an' so I'm comforted, an' my
mind's made easy, for, after all we may think and say and read, it
_must_ come to this--"Let every man be fully persuaded in his own mind."
Every man must work out his own theology for himself, accordin' to that
Word, and I've worked it out so far by God's blessin', that Jesus
Christ--the God--man--is my foundation, the Holy Spirit is my guide, and
salvation from sin is my aim and end--not only for myself but for my
fellow-sinners.
"`But I must not go on quoting the Captain's sayings and eccentric
doings, else I shall never stop.
"`When are you and your mother coming down? I cannot tell how much we
long to have you with us to share in our enjoyment of this charming
place. And the fisher-people are so interesting too. I don't wonder
you took such a fancy to them. Of course we have not had time to make
acquaintance with many of them yet. And Jessie has become so engrossed
with the Captain's theological books that I can't tear her away from
them. At first she began to inspect their contents with a view to
tabulate them and help the captain, but she gets so deep in them that
she forgets time altogether, and I have often found her, after having
been several hours in the library, sitting there poring over a huge
volume without having made a single note or jotting! The captain is
quite facetious about it, and said yesterday that if she didn't work a
little harder he'd have to dismiss her from the service an' ship a new
hand. Then he dragged us both out for a long walk on the beach. We
cannot resist him. Nobody can. And _such_ cream as we have!--more like
thin butter than cream. And such quantities of it too, for he declares
he is very fond of it, and must always have plenty on hand. But I
cannot help thinking it is for our sakes he has it, for although he
talks much about it and makes great demonstration and noise when he
drinks it, he does not really consume much--and you know it must be
drunk by somebody, else it would spoil. Oh! we are having, as the
captain himself says, a remarkably jolly time of it here, and only want
you to make our happiness complete. But with all his fun and energy and
cheerfulness, I cannot avoid noticing that dear Captain Bream is
frequently very pensive and absent. I cannot help thinking sometimes
that he is the victim of some secret sorrow.'"
At this point Ruth looked up in her mother's face and burst into a fit
of hilarious laughter.
"Only think, mother," she said, "of great big, stout, jolly old Captain
Bream having a secret sorrow!"
"My dear," said Mrs Dotropy in a reproachful tone, "you are too
flippant in your references to stout old people. You should remember
that even the stoutest of them may once have been thin. And it is not
impossible that Captain Bream may still be suffering from unrequited
affection, or--"
Again Ruth burst into silvery laughter, but checked it and apologised.
"I can't help it mother. It does seem so funny to think of Captain
Bream having ever been thin, or with hair on his head, or suffering from
disappointed love. I wonder that it does not occur to Kate that the
good man is perhaps suffering because of the sorrows of others. It
would be much more like his generous and unselfish nature. But now,
mother, may I write to Kate and tell her to expect us next week?"
"Yes, I think you may. But why are you in such haste, child?"
"Because I'm burning to clear up that little mystery that I told you
of--if indeed it is a mystery, and not a mere fancy."
Ruth sighed as if her spirit were slightly troubled. "Really, child,
you have quite raised my curiosity about that mystery as you call it.
Why will you not confide in me?"
"Because I may be all wrong, and when I find out that I'm right--if I
find out that I'm right--then you shall know all about it."
"And there's that chest, too, that the captain sent here for us to take
care of when he left town," continued Mrs Dotropy, "you make quite a
mystery about that too, for I see that you know something about it. If
I had not perfect confidence in your heart, child, I should feel quite
anxious, for it is the first time in your life that you have concealed
anything from me."
"Thank you, mother, for trusting my heart," said Ruth, putting an arm
round the dignified lady's neck and kissing her.
"That's all very well, Ruth, but I do not put so much trust in your
head."
"I'm sorry for that, Mother, but meantime my head says that while it
would be wrong in me to keep any secret about myself from you, I have no
right to reveal the secrets of others. But about this chest--has the
banker sent for it yet?"
"No, not yet but I expect some one from the bank every minute, (she
consulted a small jewelled watch), and it is probable that our young
friend Mr Dalton himself may come."
"Mr Dalton!" exclaimed Ruth, with a sudden flush that might have
indicated pleasure or annoyance. Mrs Dotropy, however, did not observe
the flush, but continued--
"The chest seems miraculously heavy. I told James to put it into the
store-room, but he could not lift it, although he is a strong man, and
had to get the butler's assistance."
At that moment the conversation was interrupted by the door being thrown
open, and Mr Dalton was announced.
He was a young man of handsome face and figure, with dark eyes, short
curly hair, and a pleasing address.
Apologising for not being more punctual in calling for the chest, he
explained that pressing-business had detained him.
"Of course, of course," said Mrs Dotropy, with the familiarity of an
old friend--for such she was to the youth--"you men of business always
carry about that cloak of pressing-business to cover your sins and
shortcomings with."
"Nay, you are unjust," said the young man, "I appeal to Miss Ruth. Did
I not say to Captain Bream that I might perhaps have difficulty in
getting away at the hour named, as it was a business hour, and, the
transaction being of a friendly and private nature--"
"My dear sir," interrupted Mrs Dotropy, "if it is private, pray do not
make it public."
"Has not Miss Ruth, then, told you--"
He stopped and looked from one lady to the other.
"Miss Ruth," said that young lady, flushing deeply, "is supposed to know
nothing whatever about your transactions with Captain Bream. Shall I go
and tell James to carry the box down-stairs, mother?"
Mrs Dotropy gave permission, and Ruth retired. A few minutes later,
young Dalton drove away with the captain's chest of gold.
A week after that the mother and daughter drove away from the same door
to the railway station, and in process of time found themselves one
pleasant afternoon at Yarmouth, in the little parlour with the window
that commanded the gorgeous view of the sea, taking tea with the captain
himself and his friends Jessie and Kate Seaward.
A lodging had been secured quite close to their own by the Dotropys.
"Now," said Ruth to Jessie that evening in private, with flushed cheeks
and eager eyes, "I shall be able to carry out my little plot, and see
whether I am right, now that I have at last got Captain Bream down to
Yarmouth."
"What little plot?" asked Jessie.
"I may not tell you yet," said Ruth with a laugh. "I shall let you know
all about it soon."
But Ruth was wrong. There was destined to be a slip 'twixt the cup and
her sweet lip just then, for that same evening Captain Bream received a
telegram from London, which induced him to leave Yarmouth hastily to see
a friend, he said, and keep an old-standing engagement. He promised,
however, to be back in two or three days at furthest.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN.
A CLOUD COMES OVER RUTH'S HOPES, AND DIMS THEIR BRIGHTNESS.
To prevent the reader supposing that there is any deep-laid scheme or
profound mystery, with which we mean to torment him during the course of
our tale, we may as well say at once that the little plot, which Ruth
had in view, and which began to grow quite into a romance the longer she
pondered it, was neither more nor less than to bring Captain Bream and
Mrs David Bright face to face.
Ruth had what we may style a constructive mind. Give her a few rough
materials, and straight-way she would build a castle with them. If she
had not enough of material, she immediately invented more, and thus
continued her castle-building. Being highly imaginative and romantic,
her structures were sometimes amazing edifices, at which orthodox
architects might have turned up their noses--and with some reason, too,
for poor little Ruth's castles were built frequently on bad foundations,
and sometimes even in the air, so that they too often fell in splendid
ruins at her feet!
It would not be just however, to say that none of Ruth's buildings stood
firm. Occasionally she built upon a good foundation. Now and then she
made a straight shot and hit the mark. For instance, the little edifice
of cuffs and comforters to the North Sea trawlers survived, and remains
to the present day a monument of usefulness, (which few monuments are),
and of well-placed philanthropy. It may not, perhaps, be just to say
that Ruth actually laid the foundation--conceived the first idea--of
that good work, but she was at all events among the first builders,
became an active overseer, and did much of the work with her own hands.
Still, as we have said, too many of Ruth's castles came to the ground,
and the poor thing was so well used to the sight of falling material
that she had at last begun to be quite expert in detecting the first
symptoms of dissolution, and often regarded them with despairing
anxiety. It was so with her when Captain Bream was summoned so suddenly
away from Yarmouth.
Eagerly, anxiously, had she planned to get him down to that town for the
purpose of confronting him with Mrs David Bright--the reason being
that, from various things the captain had said to her at different
times, and from various remarks that Mrs Bright had made on sundry
occasions, she felt convinced that the North Sea fisherman's wife was
none other than Captain Bream's long-lost sister!
It would be well-nigh impossible, as well as useless, to investigate the
process of reasoning and the chain of investigation, by which she came
to this conclusion, but having once laid the foundation, she began to
build on it with her wonted enthusiasm, and with a hopefulness that
partial failure could not destroy.
The captain's departure, just when she hoped to put the copestone on her
little edifice was a severe blow, for it compelled her to shut up her
hopes and fears in her own breast, and, being of a sympathetic nature,
that was difficult. But Ruth was a wise little woman as well as
sympathetic. She had sense enough to know that it might be a tremendous
disappointment to Captain Bream, if, after having had his hopes raised,
it were discovered that Mrs Bright was _not_ his sister. Ruth had
therefore made up her mind not to give the slightest hint to him, or to
any one else, about her hopes, until the matter could be settled by
bringing the two together, when, of course, they would at once recognise
each other.
Although damped somewhat by this unlooked-for interruption to her little
schemes, she did not allow her efforts to flag.
"I see," she said one day, on entering the theological library, where
Jessie, having laid down a worsted cuff which she had been knitting, was
deep in Leslie's _Short and Easy method with the Deists_, and Kate,
having dropped a worsted comforter, had lost herself in Chalmers's
_Astronomical Discourses_. "I see you are both busy, so I won't disturb
you. I only looked in to say that I'm going out for an hour or two."
"We are never too busy, darling," said Jessie, "to count _your_ visits
an interruption. Would you like us to walk with you?"
"N-no. Not just now. The fact is, I am going out on a little private
expedition," said Ruth, pursing her mouth till it resembled a cherry.
"Oh! about that little plot?" asked Jessie, laughing. Ruth nodded and
joined in the laugh, but would not commit herself in words.
"Now, don't work too hard, Kate," she cried with an arch look as she
turned to leave.
"It is harder work than you suppose, Miss Impudence," said Kate; "what
with cuffs and contradictions, comforters and confusion, worsted helmets
and worse theology, my brain seems to be getting into what the captain
calls a sort of semi-theological lop-scowse that quite unfits me for
anything. Go away, you naughty girl, and carry out your dark plots,
whatever they are."
Ruth ran off laughing, and soon found herself at the door of Mrs
Bright's humble dwelling.
Now, Mrs Bright, although very fond of her fair young visitor, had
begun, as we have seen, to grow rather puzzled and suspicious as to her
frequent inquiries into her past history.
"You told me, I think, that your maiden name was Bream," said Ruth,
after a few remarks about the weather and the prospects of the _Short
Blue_ fleet, etcetera.
"Yes, Miss Ruth," answered Mrs Bright; but the answer was so short and
her tone so peculiar that poor scheming little Ruth was quelled at once.
She did not even dare to say another word on the subject nearest her
heart at the time, and hastily, if not awkwardly, changed the subject to
little Billy.
Here indeed she had touched a theme in regard to which Mrs Bright was
always ready to respond.
"Ah! he _is_ a good boy, is Billy," she said, "an uncommonly good boy--
though he is not perfect by any means. And he's a little too fond of
fighting. But, after all, it's not for its own sake he likes it, dear
boy! It's only when there's a good reason for it that he takes to it.
Did I ever tell you about his kicking a boy bigger than himself into the
sea off the end of the pier?"
"No, you never told me that."
"Well, this is how it was. There's a small girl named Lilly Brass--a
sweet little tot of four years old or thereabouts, and Billy's very fond
of her. Lilly has a brother named Tommy, who's as full of mischief as
an egg is full of meat, and he has a trick of getting on the edge of the
pier, near where they live, and tryin' to walk on it and encouraging
Lilly to follow him. The boy had been often warned not to do it, but he
didn't mind, and my Billy grew very angry about it.
"`I don't care about little Brass himself mother,' said Billy to me one
day; `he may tumble in an' be drownded if he likes, but I'm afeared for
little Lilly, for she likes to do what he does.'
"So, one day Billy saw Tommy Brass at his old tricks, with Lilly looking
on, quite delighted, and what did my boy do, think ye? He went up to
Brass, who was bigger and older than himself, and gave him such a hearty
kick that it sent him right off into the sea. The poor boy could not
swim a stroke, and the water was deep, so my Billy, who can swim like a
fish, jumped in after him and helped to get him safe ashore. Tommy
Brass was none the worse; so, after wringing the water out of his
clothes, he went up to Billy and gave him a slap in the face. Billy is
not a boastful boy. He does not speak much when he's roused; but he
pulled off his coat and gave Brass such a thump on the nose that he
knocked him flat on the sand. Up he jumped, however, in a moment and
went at Billy furiously, but he had no chance. My boy was too active
for him. He jumped a' one side, struck out his leg, and let him tumble
over it, giving him a punch on the head as he went past that helped to
send his nose deeper into the sand. At last he beat him entirely, and
then, as he was puttin' on his jacket again, he said--`Tommy Brass, it
ain't so much on account o' that slap you gave me, that I've licked you,
but because you 'ticed Lilly into danger. And, you mark what I say:
every time I catch you walkin' on that there pier-edge, or _hear_ of you
doin' of it, I'll give you a lickin'.'
"Tommy Brass has never walked on that pier-edge since," concluded Mrs
Bright, "but I'm sorry to say that ever since that day Lilly Brass has
refused to have a word to say to Billy, and when asked why, she says,
`'cause he sowsed an' whacked my brudder Tommy!'"
Thus did Mrs Bright entertain her visitor with comment and anecdote
about Billy until she felt at last constrained to leave without having
recovered courage to broach again the subject which had brought her to
the fisherman's home.
That same afternoon Mrs Bright paid a friendly visit to the wife of her
husband's mate.
"I can't think whatever Miss Ruth Dotropy is so curious about me for,
she's bin at me again," said Mrs Bright to Mrs Davidson, who was busy
with her needle on some part of the costume of her "blessed babby,"
which lay, like an angel, in its little crib behind the door.
"P'r'aps it's all along of her bein' so interested in you," replied
pretty Mrs Davidson. "She asks me many odd questions at times about
myself, and my dear Joe, and the babby--though I admit she don't inquire
much about my past life."
"Well, that's not surprising," said Mrs Bright with a laugh, as she sat
down on a stool to have a chat. "You see, Maggie, you haven't got much
of a past life to inquire about, and Joe is such a good man that you've
no call to be suspecting anything; but it wasn't always so with my dear
David. I wouldn't say it even to you, Maggie, if it wasn't that
everybody in Yarmouth knows it--my David drinks hard sometimes, and
although I know he's as true as gold to me, an' never broke the laws of
the land, everybody won't believe that, you know, and the dear man
_might_ fall under suspicion."
"But you don't suppose, if he did," said Mrs Davidson, with a look of
surprise, "that Miss Ruth would go about actin' the part of a detective,
do you?"
"Well, no, I don't," replied her friend, looking somewhat puzzled. "All
the same it _is_ mysterious why she should go on as she's bin doin',
asking me what my maiden name was, and who my relations were, and if I
ever had any brothers, and when and where I first met wi' David. But
whatever her reasons may be I'm resolved that she'll get nothing more
out of me."
"Of course," returned Maggie, "you must do as you think right in that
matter. All I can say is, I would tell Miss Ruth all that was in _my_
mind without any fear that she'd abuse my confidence."
"Ah! Maggie, I might say that too if my mind and conscience were as
clear as yours. But they're not. It is true I have long ago brought my
sins to Jesus and had them washed away in His precious blood. And I
never cease to pray for my dear David, but--but--"
"Don't you fear, Nell," said Mrs Davidson, earnestly, and in a tone of
encouragement. "Your prayer is sure to be answered."
"Oh! Maggie, I try to believe it--indeed I do. But when I see David go
down to that--that public-house, and come up the worse o' liquor, an'
sometimes little Billy with him with a cigar in his sweet little mouth
an' the smell o' drink on him, my heart fails me, for you know what an
_awful_ snare that drink is, once it gets the upper hand--and--"
Poor Mrs Bright fairly broke down at this point for a few seconds; and
no wonder, for, not even to her most confidential and sympathetic friend
could she tell of the terrible change for the worse that came over her
husband when the accursed fire-water burned in his veins.
"Nell," said Maggie, laying her work in her lap and taking her friend's
hand. "Don't give way like that. God would never ask us to pray for
one another, if He didn't mean to answer us. Would He, now?"
"That's true, Maggie, that's true," said Mrs Bright, much comforted.
"I never thought of that before. You're young, but you're wise, dear.
Of course, the good Lord will never mock us, and if there's anything I
have asked for of late, it has been the salvation of David and Billy.
What was it, Maggie, that made your Joe first turn his thoughts to the
Lord?"
"It was one of his mates. You remember when he sailed wi' that good
man, Singin' Peter? Well, Peter used often to speak to him about his
soul to no purpose; but that fine man, Luke Trevor, who also sailed wi'
Singin' Peter at the time, had a long talk with Joe one night, an' the
Holy Spirit made use of his words, for Joe broke down an' gave in.
They're both wi' your David and Billy now, so you may be sure they won't
throw away the chance they have of speakin' to 'em."
"God grant them success!" murmured Mrs Bright, earnestly.
"Amen!" responded the younger woman. "But, Nell, you haven't told me
yet what you think o' the Miss Seawards."
"Think? I think that next to Miss Ruth they are the sweetest ladies I
ever met," returned Mrs Bright with enthusiasm. "They are so modest
and humble, that when they are putting themselves about to serve you,
they almost make you feel that you're doing them a favour. Don't you
remember only last week when they came to see poor Jake's boy that was
nearly drowned, and insisted on sitting up with him all night--first one
and then the other taking her turn till daylight, because Mrs Jake was
dead-drunk and not able for anything."
"Remember it?" exclaimed Maggie, "I should think I does, and the awful
way Mrs Jake swore at them afore she rightly understood what was
wrong."
"Well, did you hear what Mrs Jake said in the afternoon of that same
day?"
"No--except that she was more civil to 'em, so I was told."
"Civil! yes, she was more civil indeed. She'd got quite sober by the
afternoon, and the neighbours told her how near the boy was to death,
and that the doctor said if it hadn't been for the wise and prompt
measures taken by the Miss Seawards before he arrived, he didn't believe
the boy would have lived--when they told her that, she said nothing.
When the Miss Seawards came back in the afternoon, they tapped so gently
at the door that you would have thought they were beggars who expected a
scolding, an' when Mrs Jake cried out gruffly in her man-like voice,
`Who's that?' they replied as softly as if they had been doing some
mischief, `May we come in?' `May you come in?' shouted Mrs Jake, so
that you might have heard her half way down the street, as she flung the
door wide open, `may angels from heaven come in? yes, you _may_ come
in!' an' with that she seized the younger one round the neck an' fairly
hugged her, for you see Mrs Jake has strong feelin's, an' is very fond
of her boy, an' then she went flop down on a chair, threw her apron over
her head, and howled. I can call it by no other name."
"The poor ladies were almost scared, and didn't seem rightly to know how
to take it, and Miss Kate--the younger one you know--had her pretty new
summer dress awfully crushed by the squeeze, as well as dirtied, for
Mrs Jake had been washin', besides cleaning up a bit just before they
arrived."
"Well, I never!" exclaimed Maggie in great admiration. "I always
thought there was a soft spot in Mrs Jake's heart, if only a body could
find it out."
"My dear," said Mrs Bright, impressively, "there's a soft spot I
believe in everybody's heart, though in some hearts it's pretty well
choked up an' overlaid--"
At that moment a bursting yell from the crib behind the door went
straight to the soft spot in Mrs Davidson's heart, and sank deeply into
it.
"That blessed babby!" she cried, leaping up in such haste that her work
went into the grate, in which, however, there was happily no fire.
"Oh! my darling! you're Joe to the back-bone--though you _are_ a girl--
all bounce, an' bang, an' tenderness!"
Seizing the infant in her strong arms she gave it a hug which ought to
have produced another yell, but the little one was tough, besides which,
she was used to it, and said nothing. The calm did not last long,
however. Little Mag, as she was called, felt that her interior
somewhere was somehow in want of something, and took the usual way to
publish the fact.
After that, conversation became impossible. A storm had burst upon the
friends which increased rapidly, so Mrs Bright rose to say good-bye in
the midst of a squall which ought to have blown her through the door-way
or out at the window into the street. She was not irritated, however.
As she left the house followed by the squall, which was soon moderated
to a stiffish breeze by distance, the sound called up reminiscences of
little Billy, and she smiled as she thought of the unvarying continuity
of human affairs--the gush of infant memories, and the squalls of other
days.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN.
TEMPTATION ON THE DEEP.
Let us return once more to the North Sea.
It was drawing towards the close of another fishing period, and the crew
of the _Evening Star_ were beginning to think of the pleasures of their
week on shore when, one afternoon, their vessel found herself becalmed
near to the Dutch man-trap--the vessel laden with that greatest of the
world's curses--strong drink.
It is usual, we believe, in ordinary warfare, that, on the eve of a
great battle, there should be preparations and indications, more or less
obvious, of the coming fight; but it is not always so in spiritual
warfare. Sometimes the hardest and most important battles of the Great
War are fought on unselected ground, the assault having been delivered
unexpectedly and when the soul was off its guard, or, perchance, when it
was presuming on fancied security, and relying on its own might instead
of the strength of the Lord. So it was at this time with David Bright,
skipper of the _Evening Star_.
Who would have thought, as he sat that day on the rail of his little
vessel, calmly looking out to the horizon in anticipation of a good
fishing-breeze, that the mighty forces of Good and Evil were mustering
unseen for a tremendous conflict, on which, perchance, the angels were
permitted to look down with interest, and that the battle-field was to
be the soul of that rugged fisherman of the North Sea! He knew not,
little dreamed of, what was pending; but the Captain of his salvation
knew it all.
There was but one entrance to that battle-field--the gate of man's
Free-will. Through that portal the powers of darkness must enter if
they gained admittance at all. Elsewhere the walls were high as heaven,
deeper than hell, for, except at this point, the fortress was
impregnable.
Yet, although David Bright knew not the power nor the number of the
mighty forces that were marshalling, he was not entirely ignorant of the
war that was going on. There had been some skirmishing already, in
front of the gate, in which he had come off victorious. The demon Habit
had assaulted him more than once, and had pressed him sore; for a
terrible thirst--such, it is said, as only confirmed drunkards
understand--had more than once tormented him. When the first attack was
made, the sturdy fisherman stood quietly on his deck with hands in
pockets and eyes on the horizon, looking as if nothing were going on,
and he smiled grimly as he muttered to himself rather than to the demon:
"Lucky for me that I made Billy heave it overboard!"
"Oh! but," said the demon, "you were a weak fool when you did that.
There's the Coper alongside now; go, get another keg. It is cheap, and
you can just take a little drop to relieve that desperate craving.
Come, now, be a man, and show that you have powers of self-restraint.
You have always boasted of the strength of your will, haven't you? Show
it now."
"Ay, an' prove the strength of my will," replied David, with another
grim smile, "by givin' in to _your_ will. No, devil! I _am_ a fool,
but not quite such a fool as that comes to."
The demon fell back at that and left him.
On the next attack the skipper was worn-out with fatigue and watching.
They had had a long spell of dirty weather. Work of the hardest kind--
even for a hardy frame--had been done, and there was still work to do,
and David's great physical powers were well-nigh used up. The gear was
down, and a stiff nor'-west breeze not only drove the smack over the
surging waves, but caused her to plunge into them like a wild horse
bridled and held back.
"You can't hold out much longer at this rate," whispered the demon.
"Take a drop just by way of a medicine to keep you awake and tide you
over this bout; and, by good luck, your man Gunter has some grog left in
that bottle he got yesterday from the Coper."
"Billy," said David, in a quiet voice, without deigning a reply to his
foe, "Billy, my lad, you fetch me a pot o' coffee or tea--whatever's
ready, an' let it be hot."
"Yes, father," said Billy, hastening smartly to obey, for he had a very
slight suspicion of the conflict that was raging, though his conceptions
were far, far short of the reality.
The demon received a staggering blow that time, and he slunk away
scowling when he noted the gleam of satisfaction on the victor's face as
he handed back the empty pot to his son.
Warfare! yes, little do those who are "dead in trespasses and sins," and
those who swim gaily with the current of self-indulgence, know of the
ferocious fights, the raging storms, that are going on all round them on
battle-grounds which, to all outward appearance, are calm and
undisturbed.
But we have said that this was merely skirmishing outside the gate.
It was not till the afternoon referred to at the beginning of this
chapter that the grand assault was made.
On that day the skipper of the _Evening Star_ had been subjected to more
than ordinary troubles. In the first place, he had brought up a dead
man in his net along with the fish--a by no means unknown incident in
trawl-fishing experience, for bodies of men who have been washed out of
vessels in gales, or drowned in other ways, are sometimes entangled in
the gear and brought to the surface. At other times bales and boxes--
goods that have been cast away or wrecked--are fished up in this way.
Being in a depressed state of mind, the sight of the dead man made David
uncomfortable for a time, but, having thrown the corpse overboard again,
he soon forgot it. The next thing that happened was the fishing up of
an enormous mass of wreckage, which tore the net almost to pieces, and
compelled him to bend on a new one. This was not only a heavy loss of
itself, but entailed the loss of the fish that would otherwise have been
in the net and poor David Bright, already at zero in his spirits, sank
considerably below that point.
But the final disaster was reserved for a later hour. The new net had
been shot, and one of the best banks of the fishing-ground had been gone
over. The breeze which had carried the fleet along was just beginning
to die down when the Admiral made the signal to haul up.
To work they went, therefore--all through the fleet--to hoist in the
harvest of the deep.
It was slow and weary work, as well as hard, that hauling in of the
great cable with its gear. Between two or three hours they laboured and
toiled at it, while the thick veins stood out like cords on the men's
necks, and beads of perspiration trickled down their brows.
"It's goin' to be a big haul, father," said Billy, as the crew stopped
for a few moments to rest.
"P'r'aps another lump of wreck," replied the skipper, somewhat bitterly.
"I hope not," returned Billy, in a cheery voice, resuming his work of
passing the warp down below as it came off the capstan.
At last the end of the bridle came inboard, and the fishermen knew that
their toil, for that time at least, was drawing to a close. Excitement
of a mild type began to arise in the enthusiastic and hopeful among
them.
"Now, boys, heave away," said Joe Davidson, setting the example.
"It seems unwillin' to come, don't it," growled Gunter.
"Dat's 'cause him full ob fishes," said Zulu; "heave away, boys--
altogidder!"
He strained with all his might. So did the rest of the crew. Round
went the capstan, and in a few minutes the great forty-eight feet beam
appeared. This was soon hoisted up by means of tackle, and made fast to
the side, and then began the hauling in--we might almost say clawing
in--of the net, hand over hand, until the cod-end was visible near the
surface. It now became evident that a grand haul had indeed been made,
and that it had been the mere weight of the fish that had delayed them
so long.
Great was the anxiety of course to secure the prize, and energetic the
action displayed. Zulu, being the most active and cat-like, was ordered
to pass a rope round the net to which a powerful double block was
applied.
"Haul away now, boys," said the skipper, whose spirits were somewhat
revived by the sight.
Soon the great balloon-shaped cod-end with its solid mass of fish rose
slowly into the air, and some of the men laid hold to be ready to swing
it inboard and deposit it on the deck, when, suddenly, the stout rope
that bound the lower end of the bag gave way. The entire mass of fish
dropped back into the sea, and sank to the bottom!
For a few seconds dead silence ensued, while the men glanced at the
empty cod-end, and at each other. Then a terrible oath burst from John
Gunter, and a sort of sigh broke from some of the others, as if words
were incapable of expressing their feelings--as, indeed, they were! The
skipper was standing by the companion-hatch at the moment with a
handspike in his grasp. A deep-toned curse issued from his lips when
the fish went down, and he dashed the handspike to the deck with fearful
violence.
Once again, at this critical moment, the demon ventured to raise his
head.
"The Coper's close on the port bow!" he whispered; "go, drown it all in
grog, man, and be jolly!"
Jolly! How many men have cast away their souls, for the sake of what is
implied in that little word!
And now, alas! the gate of man's Free-will was creaking on its hinges.
No created power above or below could have moved that gate save the
power of David Bright himself.
"Shove out the boat!" shouted the miserable man, with a fierceness of
expression and tone that there was no misunderstanding. Poor Billy
understood it well enough.
"Oh! no, father! Don't do it father!" he cried in an entreating voice;
but already the little boat was dancing on the waves alongside, with
John Gunter in her.
"Jump in, Luke," said Joe Davidson, hastily, for he was anxious that at
least one trusty man should be of the party.
Luke jumped in at once, and was instantly followed by Billy. The
painter was cast off, and they pulled towards the floating grog-shop.
The tempter received them with a hearty salute.
"Cheap spirits an' cheap baccy!" said John Gunter, as he sat on the rail
of the Coper drinking the one and smoking the other, "that's what I
likes, an' plenty of both."
"That's so, John," returned David Bright, who sat beside him, and,
having already drained several bumpers of the fiery fluid, had quite got
over his troubles. "You an' I are of the same mind, John; nevertheless
you're a great sulky-faced humbug for all that!"
"What d'ee mean by that?" demanded Gunter, who was becoming rapidly
drunk and quarrelsome.
"What do I mean? why, I mean that you're the best man in the smack, out
o' sight, an' it's a rare pity that your mother hasn't got half-a-dozen
more like you. If she had I'd man the _Evening Star_ with your whole
family. Here, give us a hold o' your grapplin'-iron, old man."
He seized Gunter's fist as he spoke, and gave it a shake so hearty and
powerful, that he almost hurled that lover of cheap grog and baccy
overboard.
"Hold on, skipper!" growled the fisherman, who was for a moment
uncertain whether to return the friendly grasp or fight; but the fierce,
wild, contemptuous laugh with which David Bright concluded the speech
decided him.
"Y'you--you're a jolly good fellow," he stammered; "here, fill up
again."
The poor skipper filled up again, and again, until his speech began to
grow thick and unsteady.
"Yesh," continued Gunter, doubling his fist and smiting his knee, "I do
like sheap grog an' sheap baccy, an' the Coper's the place to get 'em
both. Ain't it?"
He looked up sharply at the owner of the Coper, who stood in front of
him, and who of course assented cheerfully to the question.
"Ain't it?" he repeated still more sharply, turning to Luke Trevor, who
sat close to him with a grave, anxious look. "Why don't you drink?" he
added.
"Because I don't want to," returned Luke, quietly.
"D-do-don't want to," returned Gunter, angrily--for it takes little to
make some drunk men angry--"You don't want to spend your money, you
young miser--that's what you m-mean. An' yet it's sheap enough, I'm
sure. You'll not git anything in the fleet so sheap as you will in the
Coper."
"There you are wrong," returned Luke, decidedly. "You'll get things
cheaper aboard the mission-ship, for they'll give you physic, an' books,
an good advice, and help as far as they can, all for nothing--which is
cheaper than the Coper's wares."
"Right you are, Luke. Pitch into him," cried David Bright who was fast
drinking himself into a state of madness.
"Father," whispered Billy, with an anxious look, "don't you think you've
had enough?"
The reply to this was a tremendous cuff on the ear which sent the poor
boy staggering backwards, so that he nearly fell. Recovering himself he
retired behind the Coper's boat and tried to crush down the sobs that
rose in his throat. He was to some extent successful, but a few tears
that could not be restrained hopped over his sunburnt cheeks.
It was not pain, nor even the indignity, that drew forth those tears and
choking sobs, but the thought that the father he was so fond of had
dealt the blow.
Meanwhile Luke Trevor, who felt that matters had reached a dangerous
point, rose and went to the place where the boat's painter had been
tied. David Bright was sitting close to the spot.
"Don't you think it is time we were going, skipper?" he said,
respectfully, as he laid his hand on the rope.
"No, I don't," replied the skipper, sharply. "Leave go that rope."
Luke hesitated. Instantly the enraged skipper leaped up and struck him
a blow on the chest which knocked him down. At the same moment,
observing that Gunter looked on with a leer of drunken amusement, he
transferred his wrath to him, flung the remains of the spirits he had
been drinking in the man's face, and made a rush at him. Fortunately
Gunter, who had risen, staggered and fell, so that the skipper missed
his aim and tumbled over him. In a moment Gunter had regained his feet
and prepared for combat, but his adversary's head had struck on the side
of the vessel, and he lay stunned and helpless on the deck.
Luke, who had recovered almost immediately, now assisted Gunter and
Billy to raise the prostrate man. It was not an easy matter to handle
one whose frame was so heavy, but with the assistance of the owner of
the Coper they managed it.
"It's only a slight cut," said Billy, looking anxiously round at Trevor.
"Ay, lad, it ain't the cut or the blow as keeps him down, but the grog.
Come, we must git him aboard sharp. Haul up the boat Gunter, while I
stop the leak in his skull."
With a kerchief, Luke soon bound up the slight wound that the wretched
man had received, and then they tried to rouse him, but the effort was
in vain. David did indeed recover sufficient intelligence to be able to
bellow once or twice for more grog, but he could not be brought to the
condition of helping himself in any way.
"What'll we do, Luke?" asked Billy, in a tone and with a look of deep
distress, as the huge form of his father lay, a scarcely animate mass,
on the deck at his feet. "We _must_ get him aboard somehow."
"Never fear, Billy, my boy," said Luke, cheerfully, "we'll get him
aboard somehow. It's not the first time I've had to do it. Come along,
Gunter, lend a hand."
"Not I!" said Gunter, with a drunken swagger. "_I'm_ not goin' for an
hour or more."
"Oh yes, you are," returned Luke, dipping one of the Coper's buckets
over the side and pulling it up full of water.
"No, I ain't. Who'll make me?"
"I will," said Luke, and he sent the contents of the bucket straight
into his comrade's face.
"Hooray!" shouted Billy, convulsed at once with delight and surprise at
the suddenness of the act to say nothing of its violence. "Give it 'im,
Luke--polish 'im off!"
Luke did not however, take the pugnacious boy's advice; instead of
awaiting the attack of the enraged Gunter, he ran laughing round the
capstan and defied him to catch him. Gunter soon found, after bruising
his shins and elbows, and stumbling over ropes, etcetera, that the
effort was hopeless, and gave it up.
"But I'll pay you off w'en I gits a hold of 'ee, Luke. You make sure o'
that," he growled as he gave up the chase.
"All right, Gunter; I'll give you a chance to-morrow, lad, if you'll
only bear a hand wi' the skipper just now."
Without another word Gunter, who was somewhat sobered by the cold bath,
went to where the skipper lay, and attempted to raise him. Being joined
by the others the skipper was rolled to the side of the vessel, and then
lifted in a half-sitting position on to the rail, where he was held in
the grasp of Gunter and the Coper's skipper, while Luke and Billy,
jumping into the boat, hauled it close under the spot.
There was what Billy called a "nasty jobble of a sea on," so that many
difficulties met in the job they had in hand. These may be best stated
by the actors themselves.
"Now then, boy, haul up a bit--ever so little, there; too much; ease off
a bit. Hold on!"
"All right Luke, but she pitches about so, that a feller can't hit the
exact spot."
"Look out now, Gunter," said Luke; "let 'im go so as he'll come plump
into my arms. Not too soon, else you'll stand a chance o' sendin' us
both through the bottom of the boat."
"No, nor yet too late," cried the anxious Billy, "else he'll go flop
into the sea!"
It was nervous work, for if he should go flop into the sea he would have
been certain to go down like a stone.
One or two attempts were made. The boat, rising up from a hollow in the
sea to a height of several feet, surged close to where the men with
their drunken burden stood.
"Look out!" cried Luke, with arms extended and ten fingers in a
claw-like position.
"Now then," growled Gunter.
But the treacherous wave fell short, and David Bright was on the point
of being dropt into the sea when his friends' fingers clawed him back to
safety.
"Better make fast a rope to him," suggested Billy, in breathless
anxiety.
The skipper of the Coper acted on the advice at once, and made the end
of a rope fast round Bright's waist.
Again the boat rose, surged seaward, then swooped towards the Coper,
against which it would have been dashed but for the strong arms of Luke.
It rose so high that the drunk man was for a moment on a level with the
gunwale. It was too good a chance to be missed.
"Shove!" roared Gunter.
Over went the skipper into the arms of Luke, who lost his balance, and
both rolled into the bottom of the boat as it sank into the succeeding
hollow.
The danger being past, poor Billy signalised the event, and at the same
time relieved his feelings, with a lusty cheer.
In a very short time Joe Davidson steered the _Evening Star_ close to
their tossing boat. Billy stood ready with the painter, and the instant
the sides touched, he was over the rail like a monkey and made fast.
The taking of the drunk man out of the boat was by no means so difficult
as getting him into it had been. Joe, Luke, Spivin, and Zulu, as well
as Billy, leaned over the side of the smack, with their ten arms
extended and their fifty fingers curled like crabs' claws or
grappling-irons, ready to hook on and hold on. David Bright's extended
and helpless form was held in position by Gunter. When it came within
reach the fifty fingers closed; the boat surged away, and David was
safe, though still held in suspense over the deep.
But that was only for a moment. A good heave placed him on the vessel's
rail, and another laid him on the deck.
"Brought on board his own smack like a dead pig!" muttered Gunter, whose
anger at the skipper rekindled when he saw him once more in safety.
"He's fifty times better than you, even as he lies, you surly old
grampus," cried Billy, with flushed cheeks and flashing eyes.
"Come, Billy," said Joe Davidson, kindly, "lend a hand, boy, to carry
him below. It's a sad break-down, but remember--he's not past
redemption. Come."
Four of the fishermen raised the skipper in their strong arms, and
conveyed him to his own bunk, where they left him to sleep off the
effects of his debauch.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.
CONVERSE IN THE CABIN--THE TEMPTER AGAIN--AN ACCIDENT.
One night, some days after the incident just recorded, the _Evening
Star_ shot her gear, in obedience to orders, on the port hand, and
proceeded, with the rest of the fleet, to give a pressing invitation to
those fish which inhabited that particular shoal in the North Sea known
to fishermen by the name of Skimlico. The name, when properly spelt,
runs thus: Schiermonik-oog. But our fishermen, with a happy disregard
of orthography, and, perhaps, with an eye to that brevity which is said
to be the soul of wit, prefer to call it Skimlico.
When the gear was down the men retired to their little cabin to refresh
themselves with a meal and a pipe.
The skipper, who had recovered neither his spirits nor his self-respect
since his recent fall, preferred to remain on deck. Billy, who had
never lost either, joined the revellers below--with all the more
satisfaction that Evan, the rescued mate of the _Sparrow_, was with
them.
"Out o' the road, Zulu," cried Ned Spivin, pushing the cook aside, and
sitting down close to the fire, "I'll have a bit o' fish."
He stuck on the end of his knife a piece of sole, out of which the life
had barely departed, and held it up before the fire to roast.
"Hand me a mug o' tea, an' a biscuit, Zulu," said Joe Davidson; "fill it
up, boy. I like good measure."
"Are them taters ready?" asked Luke Trevor. "An' the plum-duff? You
haven't got any for us to-day, have 'ee?"
"Shut up!" cried Zulu. "How many hands you tink I've got?"
"Eight at the very least," said Spivin, "an' I can prove it."
"How you do dat?" asked Zulu, opening up his great eyes.
"Easy. Hold out your paws. Isn't that one hand?" (pointing to his
left.)
"Yes."
"An' doesn't that make two hands?" (pointing to his right.)
"Yes."
"Well, ain't one hand and two hands equal to three hands, you booby? an'
don't you know that monkeys have hands instead o' feet? So as you're a
monkey, that's six hands. And haven't you a handsome face, an' a
handsome figgur, which is eight, you grampus! Come, use one o' your
many hands an' pass the biscuits."
"Sartinly!" said Zulu, at once kicking a small bit of biscuit which
Spivin still held in his hand to the other end of the cabin, where it
fell into the lap of Trevor, who thanked Zulu kindly, and ate it up.
"Oh! forgib me, massa," cried Zulu, in mock repentance. "I's nebber
nebber do it again! But you know you ax me to use one o' my hands to
pass de biskit. Well, I 'bey orders. I use 'im, an' pass de biskit on
to Luke."
"Come, Ned, Zulu's more than a match for you there. Let him alone,"
cried Joe Davidson, "and don't be so stingy with your sugar, Zulu.
Here, fill up again."
The conversation at this point became what is sometimes styled general,
but was interrupted now and then, as one and another of the men dropped
into the anecdotal tone, and thus secured undivided attention for a
longer or shorter space according to his powers in story-telling.
"What a appetite you've got, Luke," said Joe, as he helped his comrade
to a second large plateful of salt beef, potatoes, and duff.
"Hold on, Joe! I've a pretty fair appetite, but am not quite up to
that."
"Nonsense, Luke, you've only got to try. A man has no notion what 'e
can do till 'e tries."
"Ah, that's true," said Ned Spivin, checking a lump of salt beef on the
end of his clasp-knife half way to his mouth; "did I ever tell 'ee,
lads, that little hanecdote about a man we called Glutton, he was such
an awful eater?"
"No, never heard on it," said several voices.
"Well, then, this is 'ow it was," said Spivin, clearing his voice. "You
must know, I was once in Callyforny, where all the goold comes from. Me
an' most o' my mates had runned away from our ship to the diggin's, you
see, which of course none on us would have thought of doin'--oh dear
no--if it hadn't bin that the skipper runned away too; so it was no use
for us to stop behind, d'ee see? Well, we was diggin' one day, in a
place where there was a lot o' red Injins--not steam engines, you know,
but the sort o' niggers what lives out there. One o' them Injins was
named Glutton--he was such an awful eater--and one o' my mates, whose
name was Samson, bet a bag o' goold-dust, that he'd make the glutton eat
till he bu'sted. I'm afeard that Samson was groggy at the time.
Howiver, we took him up, an' invited Glutton to a feast next day. He
was a great thin savage, over six futt high, with plenty breadth of beam
about the shoulders, and a mouth that seemed made a' purpus for
shovellin' wittles into. We laid in lots of grub because we was all
more or less given to feedin'--an' some of us not bad hands at it.
Before we began the feast Samson, who seemed to be repentin' of his bet,
took us a-one side an' says, `Now mind,' says he, `I can't say exactly
_how_ he'll bu'st, or _when_ he'll bu'st, or what sort of a bu'st he'll
make of it.' `Oh, never mind that,' says we, laughin'. `We won't be
par-tickler how he does it. If he bu'sts at all, in any fashion, we'll
be satisfied, and admit that you've won.'
"Well, we went to work, an' the way that Injin went in for grub was
quite awful. You wouldn't have believed it if you'd seen it."
"P'r'aps not," said Zulu, with a grin.
"An' when we'd all finished we sat glarin' at him, some of us half
believin' that he'd really go off, but he took no notice. On he went
until he'd finished a small leg o' pork, two wild-ducks, six plover,
eight mugs o' tea, an' fifteen hard-boiled eggs. But there was no sign
o' bu'stin'. Glutton was as slim to look at as before he began. At
this pint Samson got up an' went out o' the hut. In a minute or so he
came back with a bark basket quite shallow, but about fourteen inches
square, an' full of all kinds of eggs--for the wild-birds was breedin'
at the time. `What's that for?' says we. `For Glutton, when he's ready
for 'em,' says he. `There's six dozen here, an' if that don't do it,
I've got another basket ready outside.' With that he sets the basket
down in front o' the Injin, who just gave a glance at it over a goose
drumstick he was tearin' away at. Well, Samson turned round to sit down
in his place again, when somethin' or other caught hold of his foot
tripped him up, an' down he sat squash! into the basket of eggs. You
niver did see sich a mess! There was sich a lot, an' Samson was so
heavy, that the yolks squirted up all round him, an' a lot of it went
slap into some of our faces. For one moment we sat glarin', we was so
took by surprise, and Glutton was so tickled that he gave a great roar
of laughter, an' swayed himself from side to side, an' fore an' aft like
a Dutchman in a cross sea. Of course we joined him. We couldn't help
it, but we was brought up in the middle by Samson sayin', while he
scraped himself, `Well, boys, I've won.' `Won!' says I, `how so? He
ain't bu'sted yet.' `Hasn't he?' cried Samson. `Hasn't he gone on
eatin' till he bu'sted out larfin?' We was real mad at 'im, for a'
course that wasn't the kind o' bu'stin we meant; and the end of it was,
that we spent the most o' that night disputin' the pint whether Samson
had lost or won. We continued the dispute every night for a month, an'
sometimes had a free fight over it by way of a change, but I don't think
it was ever settled. Leastways it wasn't up to the time when I left the
country."
"Here, Zulu, hand me a mug o' tea," said Billy Bright; "the biggest one
you've got."
"What's make you turn so greedy?" asked Zulu.
"It's not greed," returned Billy, "but Ned's little story is so hard an'
tough, that I can't get it down dry."
"I should think not. It would take the Glutton himself to swallow it
with a bucket of tea to wash it down," said Luke Trevor.
At this point the conversation was interrupted by an order from the
skipper to go on deck and "jibe" the smack, an operation which it would
be difficult, as well as unprofitable, to explain to landsmen. When it
was completed the men returned to the little cabin, where conversation
was resumed.
"Who'll spin us a _yarn_ now, something more believable than the last?"
asked Billy, as they began to refill pipes.
"Do it yourself, boy," said Joe.
"Not I. Never was a good hand at it," returned Billy, "but I know that
the mate o' the _Sparrow_ there can spin a good yarn. Come, Evan, tell
us about that dead man what came up to point out his own murderer."
"I'm not sure," said Evan, "that the story is a true one, though there's
truth at the bottom of it, for we all know well enough that we sometimes
pick up a corpse in our nets."
"Know it!" exclaimed Joe, "I should think we do. Why, it's not so long
ago that I picked one up myself. But what were ye goin' to say, mate?"
"I was goin' to say that this yarn tells of what happened long before
you an' me was born; so we can't be wery sure on it you know."
"Why not?" interrupted Ned Spivin. "The battle o' Trafalgar happened
long before you an' me was born; so did the battle o' Waterloo, yet
we're sure enough about them, ain't we?"
"Right you are, Ned," returned Evan; "it would be a bad look-out for the
world if we couldn't believe or prove the truth of things that happened
before we was born!"
"Come, shut up your argiments," growled Gunter, "an' let Evan go on wi'
his yarn."
"Well, as I was a-goin' to say," resumed Evan, "the story may or may not
be true, but it's possible, an' it was told to me when I was a boy by
the old fisherman as said he saw the dead man his-self. One stormy
night the fleet was out--for you must know the fishin' was carried on in
the old days in the same way pretty much, though they hadn't steamers to
help 'em like we has now. They was goin' along close-hauled, with a
heavy sea on, not far, it must have been, from the Silver Pits--though
they wasn't discovered at that time."
We may interrupt Evan here, to explain that the Silver Pits is a name
given to a particular part of the North Sea which is frequented by
immense numbers of soles. The man who by chance discovered the spot
kept his secret, it is said, long enough to enable him to make a
considerable amount of money. It was observed, however, that he was in
the habit of falling behind the fleet frequently, and turning up with
splendid hauls of "prime" fish. This led to the discovery of his haunt,
and the spot named the Silver Pits, is still a prolific fishing-ground.
"Well," continued Evan, "there was a sort of half furriner aboard. He
wasn't a reg'lar fisherman--never served his apprenticeship to it, you
know,--an' was named Zola. The skipper, whose name was John Dewks,
couldn't abide him, an' they often used to quarrel, specially when they
was in liquor. There was nobody on deck that night except the skipper
and Zola, but my old friend--Dawson was his name--was in his bunk lyin'
wide awake. He heard that Zola an' the skipper was disputin' about
somethin', but couldn't make out what was said--only he know'd they was
both very angry. At last he heard the skipper say sharply--`Ha! would
you dare?'
"`Yes, I vill dare,' cries Zola, in his broken English, `I vill cut your
throat.' With that there seemed to be a kind of scuffle. Then there
was a loud cry, and Dawson with the other men rushed on deck.
"`Oh!' cried Zola, lookin' wild, `de skipper! him fall into de sea!
Quick, out wid de boat!'
"Some ran to the boat but the mate stopped 'em. `It's no use, boys.
She couldn't live in such a sea, an' our poor skipper is fathoms down by
this time. It would only sacrifice more lives to try.' `This was
true,' Dawson said, `for the night was as dark as pitch, an' a heavy sea
on.'
"Dawson went to the man an' whispered in his ear. `You know you are
lying, Zola; you cut the skipper's throat.'
"`No, I didn't; he felled overboard,' answered the man in such an
earnest tone that Dawson's opinion was shook. But next day when they
was at breakfast, he noticed that the point of Zola's clasp-knife was
broken off.
"`Hallo! Zola,' says he, `what's broke the point of your knife?'
"The man was much confused, but replied quickly enough that he broke it
when cleaning fish--it had dropped on the deck an' broke.
"This brought back all Dawson's suspicion, but as he could prove nothing
he thought it best to hold his tongue. That afternoon, however, it fell
calm, an' they found themselves close aboard of one of the smacks which
had sailed astern of them on the port quarter durin' the night. She
appeared to be signallin', so the mate hove-to till he came up.
"`We've got the body o' your skipper aboard,' they said, when near
enough to hail.
"Dawson looked at Zola. His lips were compressed, and he was very
stern, but said nothin'. Nobody spoke except the mate, who told them to
shove out the boat and fetch the body. This was done, and it was found
that the poor man had been wounded in the breast. `Murdered!' the men
whispered, as they looked at Zola.
"`Why you looks at me so?' he says, fiercely; `skipper falls over an'
sink; git among wrecks at de bottom, an' a nail scratch him.'
"Nobody answered, but when the corpse was put down in the hold the mate
examined it and found the broken point of Zola's knife stickin' in the
breast-bone.
"That night at supper, while they were all eatin' an' talkin' in low
tones, the mate said in an easy off-hand tone, `Hand me your knife,
Zola, for a moment.' Now, his askin' that was so natural-like that the
man at once did what he was asked, though next moment he saw the
mistake. His greatest mistake, however, was that he did not fling the
knife away when he found it was broken; but they do say that `murder
will out.' The mate at once fitted the point to the broken knife. Zola
leaped up and tried to snatch another knife from one o' the men, but
they was too quick for him. He was seized, and his hands tied, and they
were leadin' him along the deck to put him in the hold when he burst
from them and jumped overboard. They hove-to at once, an' out with the
boat, but never saw Zola again; he must have gone down like a stone."
"That was a terrible end," said Joe, "and him all unprepared to die."
"True, Joe, but are _we_ all prepared to die?" rejoined Evan, looking
around, earnestly. "It is said that there's a day comin' when the sea
shall give up _all_ its dead, and the secrets of men, whatever they are,
shall be revealed."
From this point Evan, whose earnest spirit was always hungering after
the souls of men, led the conversation to religious subjects, and got
his audience into a serious, attentive state of mind.
We have said that David Bright had remained that light on deck, but he
did not on that account lose all that went on in the little cabin. He
heard indeed the light conversation and chaff of the earlier part of the
night but paid no heed to it. When, however, Evan began the foregoing
anecdote, his attention was aroused, and as the speaker sat close to the
foot of the companion every word he uttered was audible on deck.
At the time, our fallen skipper was giving way to despair. He had been
so thoroughly determined to give up drink; had been so confident of the
power of his really strong will, and had begun the struggle so well and
also continued for a time so successfully, that this fall had quite
overwhelmed him. It was such a thorough fall, too, accompanied by such
violence to his poor boy, and to one of his best men, that he had no
heart for another effort. And once again the demon tempter came to him,
as he stood alone there, and helpless on the deserted deck. A faint
gleam of light, shooting up the companion, illuminated his pale but
stern features which had an unusual expression on them, but no eye was
there to look upon those features, save the all-searching Eye of God.
"It was soon over with _him_!" he muttered, as he listened to Evan
telling of Zola's leap into the sea. "An' a good riddance to myself as
well as to the world it would be if I followed his example. I could
drop quietly over, an' they'd never find it out till--but--"
"Come, don't hesitate," whispered the demon. "I thought you were a man
once, but now you seem to be a coward after all!"
It was at this critical point that Evan, the mate of the _Sparrow_, all
ignorant of the eager listener overhead, began to urge repentance on his
unbelieving comrades, and pointed to the Crucified One--showing that no
sinner was beyond hope, that Peter had denied his Master with oaths and
curses, and that even the thief on the cross had life enough left for a
saving look.
"We have nothing to _do_, lads, only to _submit_," he said, earnestly.
"Nothing to do!" thought David Bright in surprise, not unmingled with
contempt as he thought of the terrible fight he had gone through before
his fall.
"Nothing to do!" exclaimed John Gunter in the cabin, echoing, as it
were, the skipper's thought, with much of his surprise and much more of
his contempt. "Why, mate, I thought that you religious folk felt bound
to pray, an' sing, an' preach, an' work!"
"No, lad--no--not for _salvation_," returned Evan; "we have only to
_accept_ salvation--to cease from refusing it and scorning it. After we
have got it from and in Jesus, we will pray, and sing, and work, ay, an'
preach too, if we can, for the love of the Master who `loved us and gave
Himself for us.'"
Light began to break in on the dark mind of David Bright, as he listened
to these words, and earnestly did he ponder them, long after the speaker
and the rest of the crew had turned in.
Daylight began to flow softly over the sea, like a mellow influence from
the better land, when the net was hauled.
Soon the light intensified and showed the rest of the fleet floating
around in all directions, and busily engaged in the same work--two of
the nearest vessels being the mission smack and that of Singing Peter.
Ere long the fish were cleaned, packed, put on board the steamer and off
to market. By that time a dead calm prevailed, compelling the fishermen
to "take things easy."
"Billy," said David Bright, "fetch me that bit of wood and a hatchet."
Billy obeyed.
"Now then, let's see how well you'll cut that down to the size o' this
trunk--to fit on where that bit has bin tore off."
The skipper was seated on a pile of boxes; he flung his left hand with a
careless swing, on the fish-box on which Billy was about to cut the
piece of wood, and pointed to the trunk which needed repair. Billy
raised the axe and brought it down with the precision and vigour
peculiar to him. Instead of slicing off a lamp of wood, however, the
hatchet struck a hard knot, glanced off, and came down on his father's
open palm, into which it cut deeply.
"Oh! father," exclaimed the poor boy, dropping the axe and standing as
if petrified with horror as the blood spouted from the gaping wound,
flowed over the fish-box, and bespattered the deck.
He could say no more.
"Shove out the boat, boys," said the skipper promptly, as he shut up the
wounded hand and bound it tightly in that position with his
pocket-handkerchief to stop the bleeding.
Joe Davidson, who had seen the accident, and at once understood what was
wanted, sprang to the boat at the same moment with Luke and Spivin. A
good heave, at the tackle; a hearty shove with strong shoulders, and the
stern was over the rail. Another shove and it was in the sea.
"Lucky we are so close to her," said Joe, as he jumped into the boat
followed by Luke and Gunter.
"Lucky indeed," responded Luke.
Somehow David Bright managed to roll or jump or scramble into his boat
as smartly with one hand as with two. It is a rare school out there on
the North Sea for the practice of free-hand gymnastics!
"Bear away for the mission smack, Joe."
No need to give Joe that order. Ere the words had well passed the
skipper's lips he and Luke Trevor were bending their powerful backs,
and, with little Billy at the steering oar, the boat of the _Evening
Star_ went bounding over the waves towards the fisherman's floating
refuge for wounded bodies and souls.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
A DAY OF CALM FOLLOWED BY A NIGHT OF STORM.
A fine-toned manly voice was heard, as the boat approached the mission
smack, singing one of the popular hymns which are now pretty well-known
throughout the fishing fleets.
"No mistaking that voice," said David Bright turning an amused look on
Billy; "Singin' Peter won't knock off till he's under the sod or under
the sea."
"Then he'll never knock off at all," returned Billy, "for Luke there has
bin tellin' me that we only begin to sing rightly a song of praise that
will never end when we git into the next world."
"That depends, lad, on whether we goes up or down."
"Well, I s'pose it does. But tell me, daddy, ain't the hand very bad?
I'm so awful sorry, you know."
"It might ha' bin worse, Billy, but don't you take on so, my boy. We'll
be all right an' ship-shape when we gets it spliced or fixed up somehow,
on board the mission-ship."
The hand was not however, so easily fixed up as David Bright seemed to
expect.
"Come down an' let's have a look at it, David," said the skipper, when
the vessel's deck was gained.
By that time Singing Peter had stopped his tune, or, rather, he had
changed it into a note of earnest sympathy, for he was a very
tender-hearted man, and on terms of warm friendship with the master of
the _Evening Star_.
"It's a bad cut," said Peter, when the gaping gash in the poor man's
palm was laid bare, and the blood began to flow afresh. "We'll have to
try a little o' the surgeon's business here. You can take a stitch in
human flesh I daresay, skipper? If you can't, I'll try."
The mission skipper was, however, equal to the occasion. He sponged the
wound clean; put a couple of stitches in it with sailor-like neatness--
whether with surgeon-like exactness we cannot tell--drew the edges of
the wound still more closely together by means of strips of sticking
plaster; applied lint and bandages, and, finally, did up our skipper's
fist in a manner that seemed quite artistic to the observant men around
him.
"A regular boxin'-glove," exclaimed David, hitting the operator a gentle
tap on the nose with it.
"Thank 'ee, friend," said the amateur surgeon, as he proceeded to
re-stow his materials in the medicine chest; "you know that the
Fishermen's Mission never asks a rap for its services, but neither does
it expect to receive a rap without asking. Come, David, you mustn't
flourish it about like that. We all know you're a plucky fellow, but
it'll never splice properly if you go on so."
"Hold on, Mr Missionary!" cried Gunter, as the lid of the chest was
being closed, "don't shut up yet. I wants some o' your doctor's stuff."
"All right my hearty! What do _you_ want?"
"He wants a pair o' eye-glasses," cried Billy, whose heart was
comforted, and whose spirits were raised by the success of the operation
on his father's hand; "you see he's so short-sighted that he can't see
no good in nobody but his-self."
"Shut up, you young catfish! See here," said Gunter, stretching out his
wrists, which were red and much swollen.
"Oh! I can give you something for that;" so saying the skipper supplied
the fisherman with a little ointment, and then, going to a cupboard,
produced a pair of worsted cuffs. "You rub 'em well with that first,"
he said, "an' then wear the cuffs."
"He'll want more cuffs than that," said Billy.
"I think not my boy," said the skipper, with a benignant look, as he
stooped to lock the chest. "When these are worn-out he can have more."
"Well, if you'd take my advice," returned Billy, "you'd give him another
pair. A cuff on each side of his head would do him a world of good."
Gunter turned sharply to make a grasp at his young tormentor, but the
lad had taken care to have the cabin table between them, and at once
sprang laughing up the companion.
"He's a smart boy, that," remarked the mission skipper.
"Rather too smart," growled Gunter, as he pocketed his salve and cuffs,
and went on deck.
"Smart enough!" remarked David Bright with a low chuckle of
satisfaction.
"Come now," said the Missionary, "you'll stop and have some coffee or
cocoa with us. You can't work wi' that hand, you know. Besides,
there'll be no fishin' till this calm's over. So we mean to have a
little meetin' in the afternoon. We're in luck too, just now," he added
in a lower voice, "for we've got a real parson aboard. That's him
talkin' to my mate. He's here on a visit--partly for his health, I
believe--a regular clergyman of the Church of England and a splendid
preacher, let me tell you. You'll stop, now, won't you?"
David Bright's countenance grew sad. The memory of his recent failure
and fall came over him.
"What's the use o' _me_ attendin' your meetin's?" he said, almost
angrily; "my soul's past recovery, for I don't believe in your prayin'
an' psalm-singin'."
"You trusted me freely wi' your hand, David, though I'm no surgeon. Why
won't you trust me a little wi' your soul, though I'm no parson--
especially as it seems to be in a very bad way by your own account?
Have a talk wi' the parson. He's got such a way with him that he's sure
to do you good."
It was not so much the words thus spoken as the grave, kind, sensible
tones and looks which accompanied them, that won the despairing
fisherman.
"Well, I'll stop," he said, with a short laugh; "the cocoa may do me
good, even though the meetin' don't."
"Now you're becoming soft and unmanly--a regular old wife," whispered
the demon, who had watched him anxiously throughout the whole morning.
"The boat's alongside, father," Billy called out, at that moment down
the open skylight.
"That's right," replied the father in a strong hearty voice. "You go
aboard wi' the rest, my boy, an' come back in the arternoon when you see
'em hoist the mission-flag. I'm goin' to stop aboard, an we'll all
attend the meetin' together. An' look you, Billy, fetch my Noo
Testament with 'ee--the one your mother gave me."
"Praise the Lord for these words!" said the mission skipper.
He did not say it very loud, for he was not by nature a demonstrative
man; neither did he whisper it, for he was not ashamed to thank his God
for mercies received.
At the same moment the demon fled away for that time--according to the
true word, "Resist the devil, and he will flee from you."
David Bright did not talk much that afternoon. His injured hand gave
him considerable pain, but it was not that which silenced him. Thoughts
too deep for utterance were passing through his brain. It was the
turning-point of his life; and, while his mind was busy with the great
issues that must be faced sooner or later by all mankind, he listened
with mingled surprise, hope, fear, and pleasure, to the free and hearty
converse of the godly crew of the gospel-ship, as they discoursed
pleasantly, now of the homes in Yarmouth or Gorleston, now of the home
above; or sang, with stentorian voices, some of the lively hymns that
are happily current in the present day, or prayed in the ungrammatical
language, and with the intense fervour, of untutored but thoroughly
earnest men.
They thought that David was suffering from his injury, and wisely let
him alone, though they occasionally gave him a cheering word, and
frequently plied him with hot cocoa, which he preferred much, he said,
to coffee.
This may seem to some a rather incongruous way of presenting religious
and secular things. It may be so, but we are not careful to preserve
congruity, or to dilute our dish to please the palate of the fastidious.
This world is full of incongruities, and we are endeavouring to present
that portion of it now under consideration as it actually is at the
present time.
The heartiest, the most genial, and perhaps the noisiest fisherman there
that day was the man whom we have referred to more than once as Singing
Peter. It seemed as if he were intoxicated with joy, and could not
refrain from bursting into song in praise of Redeeming Love. But Peter
was by no means exclusive in his ideas. He could descend to the simple
matters of this life when needful. Like David Bright he was a temporary
visitor to the mission-ship, and waited for the afternoon meeting.
Peter possessed:
"A heart at leisure from itself,
To soothe and sympathise,"
and found time to have a private talk with David, whom he drew out so
tenderly, yet powerfully, that he wormed from him the whole story of his
spiritual as well as spirituous warfare. He even got him down into the
cabin alone, and, when there, proposed that they should pray together.
To this David at once agreed, and the good man prayed with such simple
fervour that David found himself ere long weeping like a child. That
the prayer of Singing Peter was in harmony with his spirit was evident
from the deep "Amen!" which he uttered at its conclusion.
"Many a time, Peter," he said, grasping his friend's hand, as they rose
from their knees, "many a time has my face bin washed wi' salt water
from the sea, but it's not often bin dabbled wi' salt water from my
eyes!"
In the afternoon the weather became unusually sultry, and as the calm
continued, many of the fishing-smacks closed by imperceptible degrees
around the mission-ship, whose flag flying at the mizzen told that the
worship of God was soon to begin. Several of the other smacks also flew
Bethel-flags. These belonged to the whole-hearted ones who had fairly
and boldly come out on the Lord's side. Others drew near, although they
did not fly the flag. Some of these belonged to the half-hearted, who
wanted medicines or books, and were rather indifferent about the
meeting, though willing enough, perhaps, to remain to it.
One way or another there was soon a long tail of boats floating astern
of the gospel-ship, and a goodly congregation on her deck. Her skipper
was very busy. Books were being actively exchanged. One or two men
wanted to sign the pledge. Salves, and plasters, and pills, were
slightly in demand, for even North Sea fishermen, tough though they be,
are subject to physical disturbance.
At last the hour arrived, and the heavy-booted, rough-jacketed,
sou'-westered, burly congregation adjourned to the hold, where,
appropriately seated on fish-trunks, they opened their hymn-books and
began to sing.
They had a harmonium--provided, of course, by the Mission--and it
chanced that the mission skipper had music enough in him to play a
simple accompaniment on it, but the strong-lunged congregation drowned
it out in the first five minutes.
Then the invalid clergyman stood up and prayed, and read a chapter of
God's Word, after which he preached--ay, preached in a way that drew
tears from some, and hearty exclamations of thankfulness from others.
It was not the power of rhetoric or of eloquence though he possessed
both, so much as that mighty power, which consists in being thoroughly
and intensely earnest in what one says, and in using a natural,
conversational tone.
There were more signings of the temperance pledge after the service, and
one or two whose minds had been wavering before, now came forward and
offered to purchase Bethel-flags. Others wanted to purchase Testaments,
prayer-books, and gospel compasses--the latter being the invention of an
ingenious Christian. It consisted of a mariner's compass drawn on
card-board, with appropriate texts of God's Word printed on the various
"points." The same ingenious gentleman has more recently constructed a
spiritual chart so to speak, on which are presented to the eye the
various shoals, and quicksands, and rocks of sin, and danger, and
temptation, that beset the Christian pilgrim, as well as the streams,
rivers, and channels, that conduct him from the regions of Darkness into
the realms of Light.
All this took up so much time that it was getting dark when our
fishermen began to go over the side, and proceed to their several
vessels.
Soon after that the aspect of nature entirely changed. The sultry calm
gave place to a fast increasing breeze, which raised white crests on the
darkening waves.
"A dirty night we're going to have of it," remarked David Bright to
Singing Peter, as he got into his tossing boat with some difficulty.
"It's all in the Master's hands," replied Peter, looking up with a glad
expression on his weatherworn face. With these words he left the
mission smack and returned to his own vessel.
The fishermen of the North Sea had cause to remember that night, for one
of the worst gales of the season burst upon them. Fishing was
impossible. It was all that they could do to weather the gale. Sails
were split and torn, rigging was damaged, and spars were sprung or
carried away. The wind howled as if millions of wicked spirits were
yelling in the blast. The sea rose in wild commotion, tossing the
little smacks as if they had been corks, and causing the straining
timbers to groan and creak. Many a deck was washed that night from stem
to stern, and when grey morning broke cold and dreary over the foaming
sea, not a few flags, half-mast high, told that some souls had gone to
their account. Disaster had also befallen many of the smacks. While
some were greatly damaged, a few were lost entirely with all their
crews.
Singing Peter's vessel was among the lost. The brightening day revealed
the fact that the well-known craft had disappeared. It had sunk with
all hands, and the genial fisherman's strong and tuneful voice had
ceased for ever to reverberate over the North Sea in order that it might
for ever raise a louder and still more tuneful strain of deep-toned
happiness among the harmonies of heaven.
CHAPTER NINETEEN.
RUTH FINDS THAT EVERYTHING SEEMS TO GO AGAINST HER.
Anxiously did Ruth Dotropy await the return of Captain Bream to
Yarmouth, and patiently did she refrain, in the meantime, from
questioning Mrs Bright as to her history before marriage, for that good
woman's objection to be so questioned was quite sufficient to check her
sensitive spirit. But poor Ruth's enthusiastic hopes were doomed to
disappointment at that time, for, only a few days after the captain's
departure, she received a letter from him, part of which ran as
follows:--
"DEAR MISS RUTH,--I am exceedingly sorry and almost ashamed, to be
obliged to say that I am unable to return to Yarmouth for some weeks at
least. The fact is that I have for a long time been engaged in a piece
of business--a sort of search--which has caused me much anxiety and
frequent disappointment. My lawyer, however, now thinks he has hit on
the right clue, so that I have good hope of being successful. In the
meantime will you do your best to comfort the Miss Seawards in my
absence, and explain to them that nothing but necessity could make me
leave them in the lurch in this fashion," etcetera.
"How _very_ provoking!" exclaimed Ruth, with a pretty little frown on
her innocent face after reading the letter to her stately mother.
"Why provoking, dear?" asked Mrs Dotropy. "Surely we can enjoy the
fine air of Yarmouth without Captain Bream, and although the dear Miss
Seawards are very fond of him, they will not pine or lose their health
because of his absence for a short time. Besides, have they not that
wonderful theological library to divert them?"
"Yes, mother--it's not that, but I was _so_ anxious to find out--"
She stopped short.
"Find out what, child?"
"Well now, mother, I can _not_ keep it from you any longer. I will tell
you my little secret if you promise not to reveal it to any living
soul."
"How absurd you are, Ruth! Do you suppose that I shall go about the
streets proclaiming your secret, whatever it is, to Tom, Dick, and
Harry, even if it were worth telling, much less when it is probably not
worth remembering? Of course I might let it slip, you know, by accident
and when a thing slips there is no possibility of recovery, as I said
once to your dear father that time when he slipped off the end of the
pier into the water and had to be fished up by the waist-band of his
trousers with grappling-irons, I think they called them--at all events
they were very dangerous-looking things, and I've often argued with
him--though I hate argument--that they might have gone into his body and
killed him, yet he would insist that, being blunt, the thing was out of
the question, though, as I carefully explained to him, the question had
nothing to do with it--but it is useless arguing with you, Ruth--I mean,
it was useless arguing with your father, dear man, for although he was
as good as gold, he had a very confused mind, you know. What was it we
were talking about?--oh yes!--your secret. Well, what is it?"
With a flushed face and eager look, Ruth said, "Mother, I _cannot_ help
being convinced that Mrs Bright the fisherman's wife, is no other than
Captain Bream's lost sister!"
"If you cannot help being convinced, child, it is of no use my
attempting to reason with you. But why think of such nonsense? If she
is what you suppose, she must have been a Miss Bream before marriage."
"So she was!" exclaimed Ruth, with a look of triumph. I have found that
out--only I fear that is not proof positive, because, you know, although
not a common name, Bream is by no means singular.
"Well, but she would have been a lady--or--or would have had different
manners if she had been Captain Bream's sister," objected Mrs Dotropy.
"That does not follow," said Ruth, quickly. "The captain may have risen
from the ranks; we cannot tell; besides, Mrs Bright _is_ very refined,
both in manner and speech, compared with those around her. I was on the
point one day of asking if she had a brother, when she seemed to draw up
and cut the matter short; so I have had to fall back on my original plan
of trying to bring the two face to face, which would at once settle the
question, for of course they'd know each other."
"Dear child, why make such a mystery about it?" said Mrs Dotropy; "why
not tell the captain of your suspicion, and ask him to go and see the
woman?"
"Because it would be so cruel to raise his expectations, mother, and
then perhaps find that I was wrong. It would disappoint him so
terribly. But this reference to a `search' in his letter makes me feel
almost sure he is searching for this lost sister."
"Foolish child! It is a wild fancy of your romantic brain. Who ever
heard," said the mother, "of a lawyer being employed to search for a
sister? Depend upon it, this captain is in search of some deed,--a lost
will, or a--an old parchment or a document of some sort, perhaps
referring to a mismanaged property, or estate, or fortune, for things of
that kind are often seen in the newspapers; though how the newspapers
come to find out about them all is more than I can understand. I've
often wondered at it. Ah! your dear father used to say in his facetious
way that he was "lost in the _Times_," when he wanted to be let alone.
I don't mean advertised for as lost, of course, though he might have
been, for I have seen him lose his head frequently; indeed I have been
almost forced to the conclusion more than once that the _Times_ had a
good deal to do with your father's mental confusion; it told such awful
lies sometimes, and then a month or two afterwards would flatly
contradict them all by telling the truth--at least it was probably the
truth since it was the opposite of the lies; but it's of no use talking,
I always find that. What were you saying, child?"
"Well, mother, I was going to say," answered Ruth, with a sigh, "that I
must just have patience and be content to wait."
"Now you talk like the dear, good, sensible little thing that you are,"
said Mrs Dotropy, rising; "run, put on your hat and I'll walk with you
by the sea, or go visit the fisher-folk if you like--or the Miss
Seawards."
In this amiable frame of mind the mother and daughter set off to the
shore.
Ruth's patience was indeed tried more severely than she had anticipated,
for, whatever the search was in which Captain Bream had engaged, it
compelled him to remain in town much longer than he had intended.
Meanwhile the _Evening Star_ returned to port, and David Bright, with
Billy, Joe, and the rest of the crew, went to enjoy themselves in their
various ways during their brief holiday.
Mrs Bright chanced to be spending the afternoon with Mrs Joe Davidson
and her wonderful "babby" when the skipper and mate walked in upon them.
There were two little shrieks of joy; then the two wives were enfolded,
and for a few seconds lost to view, in the stupendous embrace of the two
fishermen, while the babby was, for the moment, absolutely forgotten!
But she took care not to be forgotten long. On recovering from her
first surprise she gave utterance to a howl worthy of a seaman's
daughter. Joe immediately seized her in his arms, and half smothered
her in a fond embrace, to which, apparently, she did not object.
Meanwhile little Billy stood looking on approvingly, with his hands in
his pockets and his booted legs wide apart.
"I wonder when somebody's a-goin' to pay some sort of attention to
_me_," he said after a minute or two.
"Why, Billy, I didn't see ye," cried Mrs Joe, holding out her hand;
"how are ye, puss in boots?"
"If it was any other female but yourself, Maggie, as said that, I'd
scorn to notice you," returned Billy, half indignant.
"My darling boy!" cried Mrs Bright, turning to her son and enfolding
him in her arms.
"Ah! that's the way to do it," responded Billy, submitting to the
embrace. "You're the old ooman as knows how to give a feller a good
hearty squeeze. But don't come it too strong, mother, else you'll put
me all out o' shape. See, daddy's a-goin' to show his-self off."
This last remark had reference to a small bundle which David Bright was
hastily untying.
"See here, Nell," he said, with a strange mixture of eagerness and
modesty, "I've joined 'em at last old girl. Look at that."
He unrolled a M.D.S.F. flag, which he had purchased from the skipper of
the mission smack.
"An' I've signed the pledge too, lass."
"Oh! David," she exclaimed, grasping her husband's right hand in both
of hers. But her heart was too full for more.
"Yes, Nell, I've had grace given me to hoist the Lord's colours in the
Short Blue, an' it was your little book as done it. I'd ha' bin lost by
now, if it hadn't bin for the blessed Word of God."
Again Nell essayed to speak, but the words refused to come. She laid
her head on her husband's shoulder and wept for joy.
We have said that David Bright was not by nature given to the melting
mood, but his eyes grew dim and his voice faltered at this point and it
is not improbable that there would have been a regular break-down, if
Joe's blessed babby had not suddenly come to the rescue in the nick of
time with one of her unexpected howls. As temporary neglect was the
cause of her complaint it was of course easily cured. When quiet had
been restored Mrs Bright turned to her son--"Now, Billy, my boy, I must
send you off immediately."
"But what if I won't go off--like a bad sky-rocket?" said the boy with a
doubtful expression on his face.
"But you'll have to go--and you'll be willing enough, too, when I tell
you that it's to see Miss Ruth Dotropy you are going."
"What!--the angel?"
"Yes, she's here just now, and wants to see you very much, and made me
promise to send you to her the moment you came home. So, off you go!
She lives with her mother in the old place, you know."
"All right, _I_ know. Farewell, mother."
In a few minutes Billy was out of sight and hearing--which last implies
a considerable distance, for Billy's whistle was peculiarly loud and
shrill. He fortunately had not to undergo the operation of being
"cleaned" for this visit, having already subjected himself to that
process just before getting into port. The only portions of costume
which he might have changed with propriety on reaching shore were his
long boots, but he was so fond of these that he meant to stick to them,
he said, through thick and thin, and had cleaned them up for the
occasion.
At the moment he turned into the street where his friends and admirers
dwelt, Ruth chanced to be at the window, while the Miss Seawards, then
on a visit to her mother, were seated in the room.
"Oh! the _darling_!" exclaimed Ruth, with something almost like a little
shriek of delight.
"Which darling--you've got so many?" asked her mother.
"Oh! Billy Bright, the sweet innocent--look at him; quick!"
Thus adjured the sisters ran laughing to the window, but the stately
mother sat still.
"D'you mean the boy with the boots on?" asked Jessie, who was
short-sighted.
"Yes, yes, that's him!"
"If you had said the boots with the boy in them, Jessie," observed Kate,
"you would have been nearer the mark!"
In a few minutes, Billy, fully alive to his importance in the ladies'
eyes, sat gravely in the midst of them answering rapid questions.
"You've not had tea, Billy, I hope," said Ruth, rising and ringing the
bell.
"No, miss, I haven't, an' if I had, I'm always game for two teas."
Soon Billy was engaged with bread, butter, cakes, and jam, besides other
luxuries, some of which he had never even dreamed of before.
"What an excellent appetite you have!" said Jessie Seaward, scarcely
able to restrain her admiration.
"Yes, ma'am," said Billy, accepting another bun with much satisfaction,
"we usually does pretty well in the Short Blue in that way, though we
don't have sich grub as this to tickle our gums with. You see, we has a
lot o' fresh air out on the North Sea, an' it's pretty strong air too--
specially when it blows 'ard. W'y, I've seed it blow that 'ard that it
was fit to tear the masts out of us; an' once it throw'd us right over
on our beam-ends."
"On what ends, boy?" asked Mrs Dotropy, who was beginning to feel
interested in the self-sufficient little fisherman.
"Our beam-ends, ma'am. The beams as lie across under the deck, so that
w'en we gits upon _their_ ends, you know, we're pretty well flat on the
water."
"How dreadful!" exclaimed Jessie; "but when that happens how can you
walk the deck?"
"We can't walk the deck, ma'am. We has to scramble along the best way
we can, holdin' on by hands and teeth and eyelids. Thank 'ee, miss, but
I really do think I'd better not try to eat any more. I feels
chock-full already, an' it might be dangerous. There's severe laws now
against overloadin', you know."
"No such laws in this house, Billy," said Ruth, with a laugh. "But now,
if you have quite done, I should like to put a few questions to you."
"Fire away, then, Miss," said the boy, looking exceedingly grave and
wise.
"Well, Billy," began Ruth, with an eager look, "I want to know something
about your dear mother."
She hesitated at this point as if uncertain how to begin, and the boy
sought to encourage her with--"Wery good, Miss, I knows all about _her_.
What d'ee want to ax me?"
"I want to ask," said Ruth, slowly, "if you know what your mother's name
was before she was married?"
Ruth did not as the reader knows, require to ask this question, but she
put it as a sort of feeler to ascertain how far Billy might be inclined
to assist her.
"Well, now, that _is_ a stumper!" exclaimed the boy, smiting his little
thigh. "I didn't know as she had a name afore she was married.
Leastwise I never thought of it or heerd on it, not havin' bin
acquainted with her at that time."
With a short laugh Ruth said, "Well, never mind; but perhaps you can
tell me, Billy, if your mother ever had a brother connected with the
sea--a sailor, I mean."
"Stumped again!" exclaimed the boy; "who'd have thought I was so
ignorant about my own mother? If she ever had sich a brother, he must
have bin drownded, for I never heerd tell of 'im."
"Then you never heard either your father or mother mention any other
name than Bright--I mean in connection with yourselves?" said Ruth in a
disappointed tone.
"Never, Miss, as I can reck'lect on. I would willin'ly say yes, to
please you, but I'd raither not tell no lies."
"That's right my good boy," said Mrs Dotropy, with a stately but
approving nod, "for you know where all liars go to."
"Yes, ma'am, an' I knows where liars _don't_ go to," returned Billy,
looking up with pious resignation, whereat the Miss Seawards and Ruth
burst into a laugh.
It must not be supposed that Billy meant to be profane, but he had taken
a dislike to Mrs Dotropy, and did not choose to be patronised by her.
As poor Ruth found that it was useless to pursue her investigations in
this direction further, she changed the subject to the North Sea
fishery, with the details of which her little friend was of course quite
conversant. Then she proposed to accompany Billy home.
"I want to make the acquaintance of your father," she said.
"Ah! he's a true blue _now_, he is," said Billy.
"Was your father not always a true blue?" asked Ruth, as they went along
the street together.
"Well, it ain't right for me to say ought agin my father--but--he's true
blue _now_, anyhow."
And Ruth found that the reformed drunkard was indeed "true blue," and
very glad to see her; nevertheless she obtained no information from him
on the subject she was so anxious about--not because he was
uncommunicative, but because Ruth, being very timid, had not courage to
open her lips upon it.
The shades of evening were beginning to descend when she rose to leave.
Both father and son offered to escort her home, but she declined the
offer with many thanks, and went off alone.
CHAPTER TWENTY.
DETAILS TWO ROBBERIES AND AN AWFUL SITUATION.
The attainment of Felicity is said to be the aim of all mankind. In
order to this end, men in all ages have voluntarily submitted themselves
to prolonged infelicity. They have toiled in daily pain and sorrow
throughout a long life to attain at last, if possible, to the coveted
condition. Some have pursued it in eager intensity, dancing and singing
as they went. Others have rushed after it in mad determination, cursing
and grumbling as they ran. Many have sought it in rapt contemplation of
the Sublime and Beautiful. Thousands have grubbed and grovelled for it
in the gratification or the drowning of the senses, while not a few have
sought and found it in simple, loving submission to their Maker's will,
as made known by Conscience and Revelation.
Of all the varied methods, John Gunter, the fisherman, preferred the
grub-and-grovelling method, and the favourite scene of his grovelling
was a low grog-shop in one of the lower parts of Yarmouth.
It must be said, at this point, that Gunter was not considered by his
mates as a regular out-and-out fisherman. He had never served his
apprenticeship, but, being a powerful and sufficiently active seaman,
was tolerated among them.
It is said that adversity makes strange bed-fellows. It is not less
true that strong drink makes strange companions. Gunter's shipmates
having had more than enough of him on the sea were only too glad to get
clear of him when on land. He therefore found himself obliged to look
out for new companionships, for it is certain that man yearns after
sympathy of some sort, and is not, under ordinary circumstances, content
to be alone.
The new friends he sought were not difficult to find. In one of the
darkest corners of the public-house referred to he found them--an
accidental, group--consisting of an ex-clerk, an ex-parson, and a
burglar, not "ex" as yet! They had met for the first time, yet, though
widely separated as regards their training in life, they had found the
sympathetic level of drink in that dingy corner. Of course, it need
hardly be said that the first two had swung far out of their proper
orbits before coming into harmonious contact with the last. Of course,
also, no one of the three desired that his antecedents should be known.
There was not much chance, indeed, that the former occupations of the
clerk or the parson would be guessed at, for every scrap of
respectability had long ago been washed out of them by drink, and their
greasy coats, battered hats, dirty and ragged linen, were, if possible,
lower in the scale of disreputability than the rough garments of the
burglar.
The subject of their conversation was suitable to all ages and
countries, to all kinds and conditions of men, for it was politics! A
fine, healthy, flexible subject, so utterly incomprehensible to fuddled
brains that it could be distended, contracted, inflated, elongated, and
twisted to suit any circumstances or states of mind. And such grand
scope too, for difference, or agreement of opinion.
Oh! it was pitiful to see the idiotic expressions of these fallen men as
they sat bound together by a mutual thirst which each abhorred, yet
loved, and which none could shake off. And there was something
outrageously absurd too--yes, it is of no use attempting to shirk the
fact--something intolerably funny in some of the gestures and tones,
with which they discussed the affairs of the nation.
"Hail fellow well met," was the generous tendency of Gunter's soul when
ashore. Accosting the three in gruff off-hand tones with some such
sentiment, he sat down beside them.
"Same to you, pal," said the burglar, with a sinister glance at the
new-comer from under his heavy brows.
"How do? ol' salt!" exclaimed the clerk, who was by far the most tipsy
of the three. "Come 'ere. We'll make you r'free--umpire--to shettle
zish d'shpute. Queshn is, whether it's the dooty of the poor to help
the rish--no, zhat's not it. W-w'ether it's dooty of rish to help the
poor--what's it--by sharin' all they have with 'em or--"
"That's not the question at all," cried Gunter, gruffly--"the question
is, what'll you have to drink!"
"Bravo!" exclaimed the parson, "that _is_ the question!"
"You're a trump!" said the burglar.
"Well," exclaimed the clerk, with a tremendous assumption of
winking-dignity, "ishn't zhat zactly what I was goin' to shay, if you'd
on'y listen. `What'll you 'ave to drink!' jus' so. Now, if you want to
argue it out properly, you'll--"
He was checked and almost floored by a tremendous though facetious slap
on the back from Gunter, who said that they wouldn't argue it out; that
they would drink it out first and argue it out afterwards.
In pursuance of this plan he called the landlord, and, ordering spirits
and water, treated the assembled company all round--including a few
bloated and wretched women, some of whom carried children in their arms.
Whatever of the ludicrous might have struck an observer of the scene,
while listening to the above conversation, it would have been all put to
flight by the sight of these poor women, and perchance by the thought
that they had been brought up to that life; had never known better, and
would never have a chance of knowing better, unless some exceptional
rays of heavenly light, should penetrate the dark region in which they
lived. Praise be to God! such rays do visit such haunts at times, and
brands are often plucked from the fire, but with these we have nothing
to do at present. Our object just now is to trace the course of John
Gunter.
You may be sure that one who spent his money so freely, and at the same
time drank heavily, was not likely to escape the special attention of
his new friend, the burglar. That worthy, besides being an expert in
the heavier branches of his art, was not unacquainted with its lighter
work. He watched the fisherman narrowly, observed in which pocket he
kept his money, waited until he was sufficiently drunk for his purpose,
and then picked his pockets at an engrossing moment, when the clerk was
unfolding a perfect scheme of national reform to the parson, who, with
eyes shut, and supposed to be listening intently, was in reality fast
asleep.
His object accomplished, the burglar said he would go out, and have a
look at the weather, which he did, and having quietly hidden his spoils
he returned to report the weather "all right," and to make quite sure
that he had left nothing whatever in any of Gunter's pockets. Having
satisfied himself on this point he was about to retire to take a final
look at the weather when Gunter said--"Hold on, mate; 'ave another
glass."
He felt in his pocket for the wherewith to pay for the drink, and missed
his money. He was by no means as drunk as he appeared to be, and at
once suspected his comrade.
"You've stole my blunt!" he shouted, without a moment's hesitation.
"You're a liar," returned the burglar, promptly. Gunter was fierce by
nature. He made no rejoinder, but struck a blow at the other which
would have felled him had it taken effect. The burglar, however, was a
pugilist. He evaded the blow, and returned it with such force that the
fisherman staggered, but recovered himself, and grappled with his
adversary.
In a moment all was uproar and confusion; benches were upset, spittoons
kicked about, and pipes smashed, as the two powerful men swayed about,
and tried fiercely to strangle each other. The women rushed screaming
from the place; the landlord and his assistants interfered, but it was
not until the police were called in that the combatants were separated.
Then there occurred a violent scene of explanation, allegation,
recrimination, and retort, during which the guardians of the peace
attempted to throw oil on the troubled waters, for it is always their
aim, we believe, to quiet down drunken uproars when possible rather than
to take up the rioters.
As the burglar, with an injured, innocent look, denied the charge made
against him, and turned all his pockets inside out in proof of his
veracity, Gunter was fain to content himself with the supposition that
he had lost his money in some incomprehensible manner.
In a very sulky mood he flung out of the public-house and sauntered
away. He knew not where to go, for he had no friends in Yarmouth--at
least none who would have welcomed him--and he had not wherewith to pay
for a bed, even in the poorest lodging.
As he walked along, conscience began to smite him, but he was in no mood
to listen to conscience. He silenced it, and at the same time called
himself, with an oath, a big fool. There is no question that he was
right, yet he would have denied the fact and fought any one else who
should have ventured so to address him.
The evening was beginning to grow dark as he turned down one of the
narrow and lonely rows.
Now, it so happened that this was one of the rows through which Ruth
Dotropy had to pass on her way home.
Ruth was not naturally timid, but when she suddenly beheld a
half-drunken man coming towards her, and observed that no one else was
near, something like a flutter of anxiety agitated her breast. At the
same moment something like a sledge-hammer blow smote the concave side
of John Gunter's bosom.
"She's got more than she needs," he growled between his teeth, "an' I've
got nothin'!"
As his conscience had been silenced this was a sufficient argument for
John.
"I'll thank you for a shillin', Miss," he said, confronting the now
frightened girl after a hasty glance round.
"Oh! yes, yes--willingly," gasped poor Ruth, fumbling in her pocket for
her purse. The purse, however, chanced to have been left at home. "Oh,
_how_ provoking! I have not my purse with me, but if these few pence
will--"
"Never mind the pence, Miss," said Gunter,--accepting the pence;
however, as he spoke--"that nice little watch will do jist as well."
He snatched the watch which hung at Ruth's waist-belt, snapped the
slender guard that held it, and made off.
When sufficiently out of danger of pursuit, he paused under a lamp to
examine his prize. To his intense disgust he found that the little
watch, instead of being a gold one, as he had expected, was only a
silver one, of comparatively little value.
"Well, your first haul in this line ain't worth much," he grumbled.
"Hows'ever, I've got coppers enough for a night's lodgin' an' grub."
Saying which he pocketed the watch, and went on his way.
Meanwhile Ruth, having given vent to a sob of relief when the man left
her, ran towards home as fast as she could, never pausing till she
reached the Miss Seawards' door, which chanced to be a little nearer
than her own. Against this she plunged with wonderful violence for one
so gentle and tender, and then hammered it with her knuckles in a way
that would have done credit to a lightweight prize-fighter.
The door was opened hastily by Liffie Lee, who, being a much lighter
weight than her assailant, went down before her rush.
"Lawk! Miss Ruth," she exclaimed, on recovering her feet, "w'at's
a-'appened?"
But she asked the question of the empty air, for Ruth was already half
sobbing, half laughing on the sofa, with a highly agitated sister on
either side trying to calm her.
"Oh! what a little donkey I am," she exclaimed, flinging off her bonnet
and attempting to laugh.
"What _has_ happened?" gasped Jessie.
"_Do_ tell us, dear," cried Kate.
"I--I've been robbed, by a--dreadful man--so awfully gruff, a sailor I
think, and--oh!" Ruth became suddenly much calmer. "It did not occur
to me till this moment--it is _the_ watch--papa's little silver watch
that Captain Bream brought him as a sort of curiosity from abroad long
ago. Oh! I _am_ so sorry! It was such a favourite with dear papa, and
he told me to take such care of it when he gave it to me, for there was
a romantic little history connected with it."
"What was it, dear?" asked Jessie, glad to find that the sudden
diversion of her thoughts to the lost watch had done more to calm Ruth
than all their demonstrative comfort.
Ruth at once proceeded to relate the story of the watch, but we will not
inflict it on the reader, as it has no particular bearing on our tale.
It had something to do, however, with detaining Ruth far later than she
had intended to remain, so that she jumped up hastily at last, saying
she must really go home.
"Are you sure the robber was a sailor?" asked Kate; "sailors are such
dear nice men that I can hardly believe it."
"I'm almost quite sure," returned Ruth; "at all events he was dressed
like one--and, oh! he _was_ so gruff!"
From this point Ruth diverged into further and more minute details of
the robbery, over which the three gloated with a species of fascination
which is more frequently associated with ghost stories than true tales.
Indeed we may say that _four_ gloated over it, for Liffie Lee, unable to
restrain her curiosity, put her head in at the door--at first with the
more or less honest intention of asking if "hany think was wanted," and
afterwards let her head remain from sheer inability to withdraw it.
At one point in the thrilling narrative she became intensely excited,
and when Ruth tried in sepulchral tones to imitate John Gunter's gruff
voice, she exclaimed, "Oh! lawks!" in such a gasp that the three ladies
leaped up with three shrieks like three conscience-smitten kittens
caught in a guilty act! Liffie was rebuked, but from pity, or perhaps
sympathy, was allowed to remain to hear the end.
When that point was reached, it was found to be so late that the streets
were almost deserted, and the particular part in which their lodging
stood was dreadfully silent.
"How am I ever to get home?" asked Ruth.
"It is not more than twenty doors off," said Kate, "and Liffie will go
with you."
"Lawks, ma'am," said Liffie, "what could the likes o' me do if we was
attacked? An' then--I should 'ave to return _alone_!"
"That is true," said the tender-hearted Jessie; "what _is_ to be done?
Our landlady goes to bed early. It would never do to rouse her--and
then, she may perhaps be as great a coward as we are. Oh! if there was
only a _man_ in the house. Even a boy would do."
"Ah! I jist think 'e would," said Liffie. "If little Billy was 'ere, I
wouldn't ax for no man."
"I'll tell you what," said Kate with a bright look of decision, "we'll
all go together. Get on your bonnet, Jessie."
There was no resisting Kate when once she had made up her mind. She put
on her own bonnet, and her sister quickly returned ready, "with a
heart," as Byron says, "for any fate?"
"Now don't speak, any of you," whispered Kate. "If we are attacked, let
us give a united shriek. That will raise some one to our aid."
"I should think it would, ma'am. It would a'most raise the dead," said
Liffie, who also prepared herself for the ordeal.
Dark and deserted streets at late hours, with dangerous characters known
to be abroad, have terrors to some small extent, even for the averagely
brave; what must they have, then, for those tender ones of the weaker
sex whose spirits are gentle, perhaps timid, and whose nerves have been
highly strung by much converse on subjects relating to violence?
The first shock experienced by our quartette was caused by the door.
From some inscrutable impulse Liffie Lee had locked it after Ruth had
rushed in.
"Open it gently," whispered Jessie, for the party had now got to the
condition of feeling very much as if they were themselves burglars,
engaged in some unholy enterprise, and feared to arouse sleepers. But
they need not have feared, for their landlady was one of the "seven
sleepers" of Yarmouth.
Liffie exerted her little strength with caution, but the lock was stiff;
it would not move. She screwed up her mouth, and put-to more strength;
still it would not move. Screwing up her eyebrows as well as her mouth,
she tried again. It would not budge. She even screwed up her nose in a
stupendous effort, but all in vain. If there had been no need for
caution, the thing would have been easy, but Jessie kept whispering,
"Softly, Liffie, softly!" and Ruth echoed "Softly!" At last Liffie
screwed herself up entirely, body and soul, in one supreme effort; she
agonised with the key. It yielded, and the bolt flew back with a crack
like a pistol-shot.
"Oh!" burst in four different keys--not door-keys--from the party--under
their breath however.
"Open," whispered Jessie.
Liffie obeyed, and when the half-opened door revealed intense darkness
outside, a feeling of horror caused their very flesh to creep.
"How I _wish_ I hadn't stayed! I'll _never_ do it again!" whispered
poor Ruth in the tones of a child about to be punished.
"What's that!" exclaimed Jessie, with a start that caused Ruth almost to
shriek.
"Cats!" said Liffie Lee.
"Impossible!" said Kate.
But it was not impossible, for there, in a corner not far off, were
dimly seen two intensely black objects, with backs and tails arranged on
the moorish-arch principle, and a species of low thunder issuing from
them, suggestive of dynamite in the stomach.
Relieved to find it was nothing worse, the party emerged into the
street. The cats were too much enraged and engaged with each other to
observe them. They, like the ladies, were evidently cowards, for they
continued to threaten without attacking.
Liffie was left on guard with strict injunctions to stand inside, hold
tight to the door-handle, let in the returning sisters, and then slam
the door in the face of all the world beside.
A run was now made for the Dotropy residence. We could not call it a
rush, for the three ladies were too light and elegant in form to proceed
in such a manner. They tripped it--if we may say so--on light fantastic
toe, though with something of unseemly haste. Ruth being young and
active reached the door first, and, as before, went with a rebounding
bang against it. The anxious Mrs Dotropy had been for some time on the
watch. She opened the door.
"Ruth!"
"Mamma!"
"Your daughter!" exclaimed the Miss Seawards in needless explanation, as
they pushed her in, and then, turning round, fled homeward with so much
noise that the attention of a night watchman was naturally attracted.
The sisters heard his approaching foot-falls. They put on, in sporting
language, a spurt. Just as the door was reached the two cats, becoming
suddenly brave, filled the night-air with yells as of infants in agony.
An irrepressible shriek burst from the sisters as they tripped over each
other into the passage, and the faithful Liffie slammed the door in the
face of the discomfited policeman.
It was a crucial test of friendship, and the Miss Seawards came to the
conclusion that night, before retiring to rest, that nothing on earth
would ever induce them to do it again.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.
A HOPEFUL CLUB DISCOVERED.
When Captain Bream, as before mentioned, was obliged to hurry off to
London, and forsake the Miss Seawards, as well as his theological
studies, he hastened to that portion of the city where merchants and
brokers, and money-lenders, and men of the law do love to congregate.
Turning down Cheapside the captain sought for one of the many labyrinths
of narrow streets and lanes that blush unseen in that busy part of the
Great Hive.
"Only a penny, sir, _only_ a penny."
The speaker was an ill-conditioned man, and the object offered for sale
was a climbing monkey of easily deranged mechanism.
"Do you suppose," said the captain, who, being full of anxious thought
was for the moment irascible, "do you suppose that I am a baby?"
"Oh! dear no, sir. From appearances I should say you've bin weaned some
little time--only a penny, sir. A nice little gift for the missus, sir,
if you ain't got no child'n."
"Can you direct me," said the captain with a bland look--for his tempers
were short-lived--"to Brockley Court?"
"First to the left, sir, second to the right, straight on an' ask
again--only a penny, sir, climbs like all alive, sir."
Dropping a penny into the man's hand with a hope that it might help the
monkeys to climb, Captain Bream turned into the labyrinth, and soon
after found himself in a dark little room which was surrounded by piles
of japanned tin boxes, and littered with bundles of documents,
betokening the daily haunt of a man-of-law.
The lawyer himself--a bland man with a rugged head, a Roman nose and a
sharp eye--sat on a hard-bottomed chair in front of a square desk. Why
should business men, by the way, subject themselves to voluntary
martyrdom by using polished seats of hard-wood? Is it with a view to
doing penance, for the sins of the class to which they belong?
"Have you found her, Mr Saker?" asked Captain Bream, eagerly, on
entering.
"No, not got quite so far as that yet--pray sit down; but we have reason
to believe that we have got a clue--a slight one, indeed, but then, the
information we have to go upon in our profession is frequently very
slight--very slight indeed."
"True, too true," assented the captain. "I sometimes wonder how, with
so little to work on at times, you ever begin to go about an
investigation."
The lawyer smiled modestly in acknowledgment of the implied compliment.
"We do, indeed, proceed on our investigations occasionally with
exceeding little information to go upon, but then, my dear sir,
investigation may be said to be a branch of our profession, for which we
are in a manner specially trained. Let me see, now."
He took up a paper, and, opening it, began to read with a running
commentary:--
"Fair hair, slightly grey; delicate features, complexion rather pale,
brown eyes, gentle manners."
"That's her--that's her!" from the captain.
"Age apparently a little over thirty. You said, I think, that your
sister was--"
"Yes, yes," interrupted the captain in some excitement, "she was
considerably younger than me, poor girl!"
"Let me, however, caution you, my dear sir, not to be too sanguine,"
said the man-of-law, looking over his spectacles at his client; "you
have no idea how deceptive descriptions are. People are so prone to
receive them according to their desires rather than according to fact."
"Well, but," returned the captain, with some asperity, "you tell me that
this woman has fair hair slightly grey, delicate features, pale
complexion, brown eyes, and gentle manners, all of which are _facts_!"
"True, my dear sir, but they are facts applicable to many women,"
replied the solicitor. "Still, I confess I have some hope that we have
hit upon the right scent at last. If you could only have given us the
name of her husband, our difficulty would have been comparatively
slight. I suppose you have no means of hunting that up now. No distant
relative or--"
"No, none whatever. All my relations are dead. She lived with an old
aunt at the time, who died soon after the poor girl's foolish elopement,
leaving no reference to the matter behind her. It is now fifteen years
since then. I was away on a long voyage at the time. On my return, the
old lady, as I have said, was dead, and her neighbours knew nothing
except that my sister was reported to have run away with a seafaring
man. Some who had seen him about the place said he seemed to be beneath
her in station but none knew his name."
"Is it not strange," asked the solicitor, "that she has never in all
these years made inquiries about you at the mercantile house which
employed you?"
"Well, not so strange as it would seem, for my sister's memory for names
was a bad one. She used constantly to forget the name of the ship I
commanded, and, as far as I can remember, did not trouble herself about
the owners. I have no doubt she must have made many efforts to discover
me--unless she was ashamed of having made a low match. At all events,"
added the captain, with a weary sigh, "I have never ceased to make
inquiries about her, although I have not until now made the attempt
through a lawyer. But where is this person you have heard of to be
found?"
"On board of an emigrant ship," said the solicitor.
"Where bound for?" demanded the captain in peat surprise.
"For Australia, and she sails the day after to-morrow, I am told."
"Her name!" cried the captain, starting up.
"Calm yourself, my dear sir. I have made all needful arrangements for
your going off to-morrow. It is too late to-day. Sit down and let me
explain; and, above all, bear in mind that this may turn out to be a
wrong scent after all. Of course you may surmise that we lawyers obtain
our information from many and various sources. The source whence the
information concerning your matter has come is peculiar, namely, a
lay-missionary who is going to visit the ship to-morrow--having some
friends on board. Happening to meet the man the other day, I mentioned
your matter to him. He is a very sharp-witted man, and one whose
accuracy of observation I should trust implicitly, even if his own
interests were involved. Well, he said that on board of the steam-ship
_Talisman_, now lying off Gravesend, he saw that very day a woman among
the steerage emigrants who answered to my description exactly, and added
that he had heard her spoken of as the wife of a somewhat dissipated
man, who had all the appearance of a seafaring person, named Richards.
Of course I attach no importance to the name, as you say you never knew
it, but his being a sailor-like man, and the fact that he was probably
beneath his wife in station, coupled with the correct description of the
wife, while it does not justify our being too sanguine, raises our
hopes, you see--"
"I see, I see--yes. I beg that you will give me the agent's name and
address," cried the captain, whose hopes, despite the guarded and
cautious statements of the solicitor, had been raised to the highest
point.
"Here is his name, with the part of the river where you are to meet
him," said the calm man of law, handing his client a slip of paper; "but
let me, my dear sir, impress on you the advisability of not allowing
yourself to become too sanguine. Disappointments are invariably more
severe in cases where expectations have been too high; and I fear that
you may be already building too trustfully upon the very slender
foundation supplied by this information."
Admitting the force of this truism, and putting the slip of paper in his
purse, Captain Bream bade his solicitor good-bye, with many
protestations of undying gratitude, and left the room with the highest
possible hopes of success.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.
IN THE MISSION BOAT ON THE THAMES--THE DAMPING OF THE BODY CANNOT DAMP
THE ARDENT SPIRIT.
Next morning Captain Bream accompanied the lay-missionary to Gravesend,
where they took a boat and put off to the emigrant ship.
Great was the captain's satisfaction to find that his companion had been
a sailor, and could talk to him--in nautical language too--about
seafaring matters and distant climes.
"It is a good work in which you are engaged," he said; "are you going to
preach to 'em?"
"No, only to distribute Testaments, tracts, and good books--though I may
preach if I get the chance. My work lies chiefly among emigrants and
boat and barge men, but I also do a good deal among regular sailors."
"Ah! That's the work that _I'm_ fond of," said the captain, with
enthusiasm. "Of course I don't mean to say that the soul of a sailor is
of more value than that of any other man, but I lean to sailors
naturally, havin' been among 'em the greater part of my life. I've done
a little myself in the way of preachin' to 'em."
"Have you?" exclaimed the missionary, with a pleased look.
And from this point the two men went off into a confidential and
animated talk about their varied experiences on the sea of spiritual
work, on which they had both been launched, while the boatman--an old
and evidently sympathetic man--pulled them to the vessel which lay at
some distance from the place of embarkation.
While the two friends--for such they had become by that time--were
chatting thus with each other, a little accident was in store for
Captain Bream, which not only disarranged his plans, but afterwards
considerably affected his career.
Having reached the age of sixty years, our captain was not quite as
active in body as he had once been. He was, however, quite as active in
heart and mind, besides having much of the fire of youth still burning
in him. Hence he was apt at times to forget his body in the impulsive
buoyancy of his spirit. An instance of this forgetfulness occurred that
day. The missionary paid a passing visit to a vessel on their way to
the emigrant ship. Having run alongside, Captain Bream put his foot on
the first step of the ladder, with intent to mount the vessel's side.
"Have a care, sir," said the old boatman, who was assisting him with
some anxiety.
It may be that the captain's too youthful spirit spurned assistance, or
that he had miscalculated the powers of his too ancient body, for at the
moment his foot slipped while as yet his hold of the man-ropes was not
secure, and he fell with a lion-like roar that might have shamed the
stoutest king of the African forests.
It was not a cry of fear, still less was it a shout for help. It seemed
rather like an effervescing roar of indignant surprise.
The boatman held up his arms to catch the unfortunate man, but his
strength availed nothing against such a weight. He was hurled into the
bottom of the boat for his pains, and the captain went into the water
feet first as deep as the waist. Here, however, the disaster was
checked, for his strong arms caught the boat and held on.
The missionary, meanwhile, sprang forward and laid hold of him, while
his man rose with wonderful agility and lent his aid.
"Heave--ahoy!" cried the missionary, grasping a waist-band.
"Yo, heave, ho!" shouted the boatman, seizing a leg. Another moment and
the captain was safe in the bottom of the boat, which by that time was
floating quietly down the Thames!
Great was the regret expressed by the missionary at this unfortunate
event, and loud was the laughter with which it was treated by the
captain himself, on being re-seated in the stern sheets.
"We must go ashore and get a change of dry clothes for you, sir."
"Not a bit of it," cried the captain. "Row back to the ship; I'll mount
that ladder yet. If I didn't I'd keep dreaming of my discomfiture for a
twelve-month to come." They ran alongside the vessel a second time, and
went up the side in safety.
But, arrived on deck, the skipper, who happened to be a hospitable man
and friendly to the missionary, insisted on having Captain Bream down
into his cabin.
"Now you'll put on a suit of my clothes," he said, "till your own are
dry."
The captain would not hear of it.
"Just let me wring my own out," he said, "and I'll be all right."
"Have a glass of wine then, or brandy?"
"Impossible; thank'ee, I'm an abstainer."
"But you need it to prevent catching cold, you know. Take it as
physic."
"Physic!" exclaimed the captain. "I never took physic in my life, and I
won't begin wi' the nasty stuff now. Thank'ee all the same."
"Some coffee, then? I've got it all ready."
"Ay--that's better--if you're sure you've got it handy."
While the captain and the skipper were discussing the coffee, the wet
garments were sent to the galley and partially dried. Meanwhile the
missionary made the most of his opportunity among the men. By the time
he had finished his visit, the captain's nether garments were partially
dried, so they continued their voyage to the emigrant ship. When they
reached her the poor captain's interest in other people's affairs had
begun to fail, for his anxiety about his long-lost sister increased, as
the probability of finding her at last became greater.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.
HOW CAPTAIN BREAM FARED IN HIS SEARCH, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.
The finding of an individual in a large emigrant ship may not inaptly be
compared to the finding of a needle in a haystack. Foreseeing the
difficulty, the missionary asked Captain Bream how he proposed to set
about it.
"You say that you do not know the married name of your sister?" he said,
as they drew near to the towering sides of the great vessel.
"No; I do not."
"And you have not seen her for many years?"
"Not for many years."
"Nevertheless, you are quite sure that you will recognise her when you
do see her?"
"Ay, as sure as I am that I'd know my own face in a lookin'-glass, for
she had points about her that I'm quite sure time could never alter."
"You are involved in a great difficulty, I fear," continued his friend,
"for, in the first place, the time at your disposal is not long; you
cannot ask for the number of her berth, not having her name, and there
is little probability of your being able to see every individual in a
vessel like this while they keep moving about on deck and below."
The captain admitted that the difficulties were great and his
countenance grew longer, for, being as we have said a remarkably
sympathetic man, the emotions of his heart were quickly telegraphed to
his features.
"It strikes me," continued the missionary, in a comforting tone, "that
your best chance of success will be to enter my service for the
occasion, and go about with me distributing New Testaments and tracts.
You will thus, as it were, have a reason for going actively about
looking into people's faces, and even into their berths. Excuse me for
asking--what do you think of doing if you find your sister, for the
vessel starts in a few hours?"
"Oh, I'll get her--and--and her husband to give up the voyage and return
ashore with me. I'm well enough off to make it worth their while."
The missionary did not appear to think the plan very hopeful, but as
they ran alongside at the moment them was no time for reply.
It was indeed a bewildering scene to which they were introduced on
reaching the deck. The confusion of parting friends; of pushing porters
with trunks and boxes; perplexed individuals searching for lost luggage;
distracted creatures looking for lost relatives; calm yet energetic
officers in merchant-service uniform moving about giving directions;
active seamen pushing through the crowds in obedience to orders;
children of all sizes playing and getting in people's way; infants of
many kinds yelling hideously or uttering squalls of final despair.
There was pathos and comicality too, intermingled. Behold, on one side,
an urchin sitting astonished--up to his armpits in a bandbox through
which he has just crashed--and an irate parent trying to drag him out;
while, on your other side, stands a grief-stricken mother trying to say
farewell to a son whose hollow cheeks, glittering eyes, and short cough
give little hope of a meeting again on this side the grave. Above all
the din, as if to render things more maddening, the tug alongside keeps
up intermittent shrieks of its steam-whistle, for the first bell has
rung to warn those who are not passengers to prepare for quitting the
steamer. Soon the second bell rings, and the bustle increases while in
the excitement of partings the last farewells culminate.
"We don't need to mind that bell, having our boat alongside," said the
missionary to Captain Bream, as they stood a little to one side silently
contemplating the scene. "You see that smart young officer in uniform,
close to the cabin skylight?"
"Yes."
"That's the captain."
"Indeed. He seems to me very young to have charge of such a vessel."
"Not so young as he looks," returned the other. "I shall have to get
his permission before attempting anything on board, so we must wait here
for a few minutes. You see, he has gone into his cabin with the owners
to have a few parting words. While we are standing you'll have one of
the best opportunities of seeing the passengers, for most of them will
come on deck to bid relatives and friends farewell, and wave
handkerchiefs as the tug steams away, so keep your eyes open.
Meanwhile, I will amuse you with a little chit-chat about emigrants.
This vessel is one of the largest that runs to Australia."
"Indeed," responded the captain, with an absent look and tone that would
probably have been the same if his friend had said that it ran to the
moon. The missionary did not observe that his companion was hopelessly
sunk in the sea of abstraction.
"Yes," he continued, "and, do you know, it is absolutely amazing what an
amount of emigration goes on from this port continually, now-a-days.
You would scarcely believe it unless brought as I am into close contact
with it almost daily. Why, there were no fewer than 26,000 emigrants
who sailed from the Thames in the course of last year."
"How many hogsheads, did you say?" asked the captain, still deeply sunk
in abstraction.
A laugh from his friend brought him to the surface, however, in some
confusion.
"Excuse me," he said, with a deprecatory look; "the truth is, my mind is
apt to wander a bit in such a scene, and my eyes chanced to light at the
moment you spoke on that hogshead over there. How many emigrants, did
you say?"
"No fewer than 26,000," repeated the missionary good-naturedly, and went
on to relate some interesting incidents, but the captain was soon again
lost in the contemplation of a poor young girl who had wept to such an
extent at parting from a female friend, then in the tug, that her
attempts to smile through the weeping had descended from the sublime to
the ridiculous. She and her friend continued to wave their kerchiefs
and smile and cry at each other notwithstanding, quite regardless of
public opinion, until the tug left. Then the poor young thing hid her
sodden face in her moist handkerchief and descended with a moan of woe
to her berth. Despite the comical element in this incident, a tear was
forced out of Captain Bream's eye, and we rather think that the
missionary was similarly affected. But, to say truth, the public at
large cared little for such matters. Each was too much taken up with
the pressing urgency of his or her own sorrows to give much heed to the
woes of strangers.
"People in such frames of mind are easily touched by kind words and
influences," said the missionary in a low voice.
"True, the ground is well prepared for you," returned the captain
softly, for another group had absorbed his attention.
"And I distribute among them Testaments, gospels, and tracts, besides
bags filled with books and magazines."
"Was there much powder in 'em?" asked the captain, struggling to the
surface at the last word.
"I don't know about that," replied his friend with a laugh, "but I may
venture to say that there was a good deal of fire in some of them."
"Fire!" exclaimed the captain in surprise. Explanation was prevented by
the commander of the vessel issuing at that moment from the cabin with
the owners. Hearty shakings of hands and wishes for a good voyage
followed. The officers stood at the gangway; the last of the weeping
laggards was kindly but firmly led away; the tug steamed off, and the
emigrant vessel was left to make her final preparations for an immediate
start on her long voyage to the antipodes, with none but her own
inhabitants on board, save a few who had private means of quitting.
"Now is our time," said the missionary, hastening towards the captain of
the vessel.
For one moment the latter gave him a stern look, as if he suspected him
of being a man forgotten by the tug, but a bland smile of good-will
overspread his features when the former explained his wishes.
"Certainly, my good sir, go where you like, and do what you please."
Armed with this permission, he and Captain Bream went to work to
distribute their gifts.
Most of the people received these gladly, some politely, a few with
suspicion, as if they feared that payment was expected, and one or two
refused them flatly. The distributers, meanwhile, had many an
opportunity afforded, when asked questions, of dropping here and there
"a word in season."
As this was the first time Captain Bream had ever been asked to act as
an amateur distributer of Testaments and tracts, he waited a few
minutes, with one of his arms well-filled, to observe how his companion
proceeded, and then himself went to work.
Of course, during all this time, he had not for an instant forgotten the
main object of his journey. On the contrary, much of the absence of
mind to which we have referred was caused by the intense manner, in
which he scanned the innumerable faces that passed to and fro before
him. He now went round eagerly distributing his gifts, though not so
much impressed with the importance of the work as he would certainly
have been had his mind been less pre-occupied. It was observed,
however, that the captain offered his parcels and Testaments only to
women, a circumstance which caused a wag from Erin to exclaim--
"Hallo! old gentleman, don't ye think the boys has got sowls as well as
the faimales?"
This was of course taken in good part by the captain, who at once
corrected the mistake. But after going twice round the deck, and
drawing forth many humorous as well as caustic remarks as to his size
and general appearance, he was forced to the conclusion that his sister
was not there. The lower regions still remained, however.
Descending to these with some hope and a dozen Testaments, he found that
the place was so littered with luggage, passengers, and children, that
it was extremely difficult to move. To make the confusion worse, nearly
the whole space between decks had been fitted up with extra berths--here
for the married, there for the unmarried--so that very little room
indeed was left for passage, and exceedingly little light entered.
But Captain Bream was not affected by such matters. He was accustomed
to them, and his eyesight was good. He was bent on one object, which he
pursued with quiet, unflagging perseverance--namely, that of gazing
earnestly into the face of every woman in the ship.
So eager was the poor man about it that he forgot to offer the last
armful of Testaments which he had undertaken to distribute, and simply
went from berth to berth staring at the females. He would undoubtedly
have been considered mad if it had not been that the women were too much
taken up with their own affairs, to think much about any one with whom
they had nothing to do.
One distracting, and also disheartening, part of the process was, that,
owing to the general activity on board, he came again and again to the
same faces in different parts of the vessel, but he so frequently missed
seeing others that hope was kept alive by the constant turning up of new
faces. Alas! none of them bore any resemblance to that for which he
sought so earnestly!
At last he returned to the place where his friend was preaching. By
that time, however, the crowd was so great that he could not enter.
Turning aside, therefore, into an open berth, with a feeling of
weariness and depression creeping over his mind and body, he was about
to sit down on a box, when a female voice at the other end of the berth
demanded to know what he wanted.
Hope was a powerful element in Captain Bream's nature. He rose quickly
and stopped to gaze attentively into a female face, but it was so dark
where she sat on a low box that he could hardly see her, and took a step
forward.
"Well, Mr Imprence, I hope as you'll know me again," said the woman,
whose face was fiery red, and whose nature was furious. "What _do_ you
want here?"
The captain sighed profoundly. _That_ was obviously not his sister!
Then a confused feeling of incapacity to give a good reason for being
there came over him. Suddenly he recollected the Testaments.
"Have one?" he said eagerly, as he offered one of the little black
books.
"Have what?"
"A Testament."
"No, I won't have a Testament, I'm a Catholic," said the woman as she
looked sternly up.
Captain Bream was considering how he might best suggest that the Word of
God was addressed to all mankind, when a thought seemed to strike the
woman.
"Are you the cap'n?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied absently, and with some degree of truth.
"Then it's my opinion, cap'n, an' I tell it you to your face, that you
ought to be ashamed of yourself to put honest men an' wimen in places
like this--neither light, nor hair, nor nothink in the way of hornament
to--"
"Captain Bream! are you there, sir?" cried the voice of his friend the
missionary at that moment down the companion-hatch.
"Ay, ay, I'm here."
"I've found her at last, sir."
The captain incontinently dropped the dozen Testaments into the woman's
lap and went up the companion-ladder like a tree-squirrel.
"This way, sir. She's sittin' abaft the funnel."
In a few seconds Captain Bream and his companion stood before a
pretty-faced, fair-haired woman with soft gentle eyes, which suddenly
opened with surprise as the two men hurried forward and came to a halt
in front of her. The captain looked anxiously at his friend.
"Is this the--" he stopped.
"Yes, that's her," said the missionary with a nod. The captain turned
slowly on his heel, and an irrepressible groan burst from him as he
walked away.
There was no need for the disappointed missionary to ask if he had been
mistaken. One look had sufficed for the captain.
Sadly they returned to the shore, and there the missionary, being near
his house, invited Captain Bream to go home with him and have a cup of
tea.
"It will revive you, my dear sir," he said, as the captain stood in
silence at his side with his head bowed down. "The disappointment must
indeed be great. Don't give up hope, however. But your clothes are wet
still. No wonder you shiver, having gone about so long in damp
garments. Come away."
Captain Bream yielded in silence. He not only went and had a cup of his
hospitable friends's tea, but he afterwards accepted the offer of one of
his beds, where he went into a high fever, from which he did not recover
for many weary weeks.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.
THE WRECK OF THE EVENING STAR.
About the time that Captain Bream was slowly recovering from the fever
by which he had been stricken down, a disaster occurred out on the North
Sea, in connection with the Short Blue, which told powerfully on some of
the men of that fleet. This was nothing less than the wreck of the
_Evening Star_.
The weather looked very unsettled the morning on which David Bright's
turn came about to quit the fleet and sail for port. He had flown the
usual flag to intimate his readiness to convey letters, etcetera, on
shore, and had also, with a new feeling of pride, run up his Bethel-Flag
to show his true colours, as he said, and to intimate his willingness to
join with Christian friends in a parting hymn and prayer.
Some had availed themselves of the opportunity, and, just before
starting, the _Evening Star_ ran close to the mission smack.
"Lower the boat, Billy," said the skipper to his son as they sat in the
cabin.
"Ay, ay, daddy."
There was a kindliness now in the tone of David Bright's voice when he
spoke to Billy that drew out the heart of that urchin as it had never
been drawn out before, save by his mother's soft voice, and which
produced a corresponding sweetness in the tones of the boy--for "love
begets love."
The mission skipper received his visitor with unwonted heartiness.
"I pray the Lord to give you a good time on shore, David," he said, as
they went down to the cabin, where some of the other skippers were
having a chat and a cup of coffee.
"He'll do that," said David. "He did it last time. My dear missis
could scarce believe her ears when I told her I was converted, or her
eyes when she saw the Bethel-flag and the temperance pledge."
"Praise the Lord!" exclaimed two or three of those present, with deep
sincerity, as David thus referred to his changed condition.
"I can't bide with 'ee, lads," said David, "for time's up, but before
startin' I _would_ like to have a little prayer with 'ee, an' a hymn to
the Master's praise."
We need not say that they were all ready to comply. After concluding,
they saw him into his boat, and bade him God-speed in many a homely but
hearty phrase.
"Good-bye, skipper; fare ye well, Billy; the Lord be with 'ee, Joe."
John Gunter was not omitted in the salutations, and his surly spirit was
a little, though not much, softened as he replied.
"Fare ye well, mates," shouted David, as he once more stood on his own
deck, and let his vessel fall away. A toss of the hand followed the
salutation. Little Billy echoed the sentiment and the toss, and in a
few minutes the _Evening Star_ was making her way out of the fleet and
heading westward.
The night which followed was wild, and the wind variable. Next day the
sun did not show itself at all till evening, and the wind blew dead
against them. At sunset, red and lurid gleams in the west, and leaden
darkness in the east, betokened at the best unsteady weather.
Little did these bold mariners, however, regard such signs--not that
they were reckless, but years of experience had accustomed them to think
lightly of danger--to face and overcome it with equanimity. In addition
to his native coolness, David Bright had now the mighty _power_ of
humble trust in God to sustain him.
It still blew hard when they drew near to land, but the wind had changed
its direction, blowing more on the shore, and increasing at last to a
gale which lined the whole coast with breakers. Before the _Evening
Star_ could find refuge in port, night had again descended.
Unfortunately it was one of the darkest nights of the season,
accompanied with such blinding sleet that it became a difficult matter
to distinguish the guiding lights.
"A dirty night, Billy," said David Bright, who himself held the tiller.
"Ay, father, it'll be all the pleasanter when we get home."
"True, lad; the same may be said of the heavenly home when the gales of
life are over. D'ee see the light, boy?"
"No, father, not quite sure. Either it's not very clear, or the sleet
an' spray blinds me."
"`Let the lower lights be burning,'" murmured the skipper, as a
tremendous wave, which seemed about to burst over them, rushed beneath
the stern, raising it high in the air. "You see the meanin' o' that
line o' the hymn now, Billy, though you didn't when your dear mother
taught it you. Bless her heart, her patience and prayers ha' done it
all."
For some minutes after this there was silence. The men of the _Evening
Star_ were holding on to shroud or belaying-pin, finding shelter as best
they could, and looking out anxiously for the "lower lights."
"There'll be some hands missin', I doubt, in the Short Blue fleet
to-morrow, father," remarked Billy, with a solemn look.
"Likely enough; God have mercy on 'em," returned Bright. "It wasn't a
much stiffer gale than this, not many years gone by, when twenty-seven
smacks foundered, and a hundred and eighty souls were called to stand
before their Maker."
As David spoke a sullen roar of breaking water was heard on the port
bow. They had been slightly misled, either by their uncertainty as to
the position of the true lights, or by some false lights on shore. At
all events, whatever the cause, they were at that moment driving towards
one of the dangerous sand-banks in the neighbourhood of Yarmouth. The
course of the smack was instantly changed, but it was too late. Almost
before an order could be given she struck heavily, her main-mast went
over the side, carrying part of the mizzen along with it. At the same
time a wave broke just astern, and rushed over the deck, though happily
not with its full force.
Even in that moment of disaster the bold fishermen did not quail. With
their utmost energy indeed, but without confusion, they sprang to the
boat which, although lifted, had not been washed away. Accustomed to
launch it in all weathers, they got it into the water, and, almost
mechanically, Ned Spivin and Gunter tumbled into it, while Joe Davidson
held on to the painter. Billy Bright was about to follow, but looking
back shouted, "Come along, father!" David, however, paid no attention
to him. He still stood firmly at the tiller guiding the wreck, which
having been lifted off, or over the part of the sand on which she had
struck, was again plunging madly onward.
A few moments and one of those overwhelming seas which even the
inexperienced perceive to be irresistible, roared after the disabled
vessel. As it reached her she struck again. The billow made a clean
sweep over her. Everything was carried away. The boat was overturned,
the stout painter snapped, and the crew left struggling in the water.
But what of the people on shore when this terrible scene was being
enacted? They were not entirely ignorant of it. Through driving sleet
and spray they had seen in the thick darkness something that looked like
a vessel in distress. Soon the spectral object was seen to advance more
distinctly out of the gloom. Well did the fishermen know what that
meant, and, procuring ropes, they hastened to the rescue, while spray,
foam, sand, and even small pebbles, were swept up by the wild hurricane
and dashed in their faces.
Among the fishermen was a young man whose long ulster and cap told that
he was a landsman, yet his strength, and his energy, were apparently
equal to that of the men with whom he ran. He carried a coil of thin
rope in his left hand. With the right he partly shielded his eyes.
"They'll be certain to strike here," cried one of the fishermen, whose
voice was drowned in the gale, but whose action caused the others to
halt.
He was right. The vessel was seen to strike quite close, for the water
was comparatively deep.
"She's gone," exclaimed the young man already referred to, as the vessel
was seen to be overwhelmed.
He flung off his top-coat as he spoke, and, making one end of the small
line fast round his waist, ran knee-deep into the water. Some of the
fishermen acted in a somewhat similar fashion, for they knew well that
struggling men would soon be on the shore.
They had not to wait long, for the crew of the _Evening Star_ were young
and strong, and struggled powerfully for their lives. In a few minutes
the glaring eyes of Zulu appeared, and the young man of the ulster made
a dash, caught him by the hair, and held on. It seemed as if the angry
sea would drag both men back into its maw, but the men on the beach held
on to the rope, and they were dragged safely to land.
A cheer on right and left told that others were being rescued. Then it
became known who the wrecked ones were.
"It's the _Evening Star_!" exclaimed one.
"Poor David!" said another.
Then the cry was raised, "Have 'ee got little Billy?"
"Ay, here he comes!" shouted a strange voice.
It was that of the youth of the ulster, who now stood waist-deep eagerly
stretching out his hands, towards an object with which the wild waves
seemed to sport lovingly. It was indeed little Billy, his eyes closed,
his face white, and his curly yellow hair tossing in the foam, but he
made no effort to save himself; evidently the force of the sea and
perhaps the cold had been too much for his slight frame to bear.
Twice did the young man make a grasp and miss him. To go deeper in
would have perhaps insured his own destruction. The third time he
succeeded in catching the boy's hair; the men on shore hauled them in,
and soon little Billy lay on the beach surrounded by anxious fishermen.
"Come, mates," said one, in a deep voice, "let's carry him to his
mother."
"Not so," said the young man who had rescued Billy, and who had only
lain still for a moment where he had fallen to recover breath. "Let him
lie. Undo his necktie, one of you."
While he spoke he was busy making a tight roll of his own coat which he
immediately placed under the shoulders of Billy, and proceeded at once
to attempt to restore breathing by one of the methods of resuscitating
the drowned.
The fishermen assisted him, some hopefully, some doubtfully, a few with
looks of disbelief in the process. The youth persevered, however, with
unflagging patience, well knowing that half-drowned people have been
restored after nearly an hour of labour.
"Who is he?" inquired one fisherman of another, referring to the
stranger.
"Don't you know him, mate?" asked the other in surprise.
"No, I've just come ashore, you know."
"That's Mr Dalton, the young banker, as takes such a lift o' the
temp'rance coffee-taverns an' Blue-Ribbon movement."
"He's comin'-to, sir!" exclaimed a voice eagerly.
This had reference to little Billy, whose eyelids had been seen to
quiver, and who presently heaved a sigh.
"Fetch my coat," said Dalton. "He will indeed be restored, thank God."
The big ulster was brought. Billy was carefully wrapped up in it, and
one of the stoutest among his fisher friends lifted him in his arms and
bore him off to his mother.
"Have all the others been rescued?" inquired Dalton, eagerly, when Billy
had been carried away.
No one could answer the question. All knew that some of the _Evening
Star's_ crew had been saved, but they could not say how many.
"They've bin taken to the Sailor's Home, sir," said one man.
"Then run up like a good fellow and ask if _all_ are safe," said Dalton.
"Meanwhile I will remain here and search the beach lest there should be
more to rescue."
Turning again to the foaming sea the young banker proceeded slowly along
the shore some distance, when he observed the body of a man being rolled
up on the sand and dragged back by each returning wave. Rushing forward
he caught it, and, with the aid of the fishermen, carried it beyond the
reach of the hungry waves. But these waves had already done their
worst. Dalton applied the proper means for restoration, but without
success, and again the fishermen began to look gravely at each other and
shake their heads.
"Poor woman!" they murmured, but said no more. Their feelings were too
deep for speech as they mourned for one who was by that time a widow,
though she knew it not.
At that moment some of the men came running down from the town--one, a
tall, strong figure, ahead of them. It was Joe Davidson. He had been
more exhausted than some of the others on being rescued, and had been
led to the Sailor's Home in a scarcely conscious condition. When they
began to reckon up the saved, and found that only one was missing, Joe's
life seemed to return with a bound. Breaking from those who sought to
restrain him he ran down to the beach.
He knelt beside the drowned fisherman with a wild expression in his eyes
as he laid hold of something that partly covered the drowned man. It
was his own Bethel-flag which David Bright had twisted round his body!
Joe sprang up and clasped his hands as if to restrain them from violent
action.
"Oh, David!" he said, and stopped suddenly, while the wild look left his
eyes and something like a smile crossed his features. "Can it be true
that ye've gone so soon to the Better Land?"
The words gathered in force as they were uttered, and it was with a
great cry of grief that he shouted, "Oh, David, David! my brother!" and
fell back heavily on the sand.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.
BILLY AND HIS FATHER RETURN HOME.
Who can describe the strange mingling of grateful joy with bitter
anguish that almost burst the heart of David Bright's widow on that
terrible night!
She was singing one of the "Songs of Zion," and busy with household
cares, preparing for the expected return of her husband and her son,
when they carried Billy in.
It might be supposed that she would be anxious on such a stormy night
but if the wives of North Sea fishermen were to give way to fears with
every gale that blew, they would be filled with overwhelming anxiety
nearly all the year round.
When the knock at the door came at last the song ceased, and when the
stout fisherman entered with his burden, and a fair curl, escaping from
the folds of the ulster, told what that burden was, the colour fled from
the poor woman's cheeks, and a sinking of the heart under a great dread
almost overcame her.
"He's all right, missus," said the man, quickly.
"Thank God?" gasped Mrs Bright. "Are--are the rest safe?"
"I b'lieve they are. Some of 'em are, I know."
Obliged to be content, for the moment, with the amount of relief
conveyed by these words, she had Billy laid on a bed, and bustled about
actively rubbing him dry, wrapping him in blankets, applying hot bottles
and otherwise restoring him; for as yet the poor boy showed only slight
symptoms of returning vitality.
While thus engaged the door burst open, and Maggie Davidson rushed in.
"Oh, Nell!" she exclaimed, "what has happened--is it true--Billy!--dead?
No; thank God for that, but--but--the _Evening Star_ must be wrecked!
Are the rest safe? Is Joe--"
The excited young wife stopped and gasped with anxiety.
"The Lord has been merciful in sending me my Billy," returned Mrs
Bright, with forced calmness, "but I know nothing more."
Turning at once, Maggie rushed wildly from the house intending to make
straight for the shore. But she had not gone far when a crowd of men
appeared coming towards her. Foremost among these was her own husband!
With a sharp cry of joy she rushed forward and threw herself into his
ready arms.
"Oh! praise the Lord," she said; but as she spoke the appearance of her
husband's face alarmed her. Glancing hastily at the crowd behind, she
cast a frightened look up at Joe's face.
"Who is it?" she asked in a whisper, as four men advanced with slow
measured tread bearing between them the form of a man.
"David," he said, while an irrepressible sob convulsed him.
For one moment the comely face of Maggie wore an expression of horror;
then she broke from Joe, ran quickly back, and, seizing Mrs Bright in
her arms, attempted in vain to speak.
"What--what's wrong, Maggie?"
The poor sympathetic young wife could not utter a word. She could only
throw her arms round her friend's neck, and burst into a passion of
tears.
But there was no need for words. Mrs Bright knew full well what the
tears meant, and her heart stood still while a horror of darkness seemed
to sink down upon her. At that moment she heard the tread of those who
approached.
Another minute, and all that remained of David Bright was laid on his
bed, and his poor wife fell with a low wail upon his inanimate form,
while Billy sat up on his couch and gazed in speechless despair.
In that moment of terrible agony God did not leave the widow utterly
comfortless, for even in the first keen glance at her dead husband she
had noted the Bethel-Flag, which he had shown to her with such pride on
his last holiday. Afterwards she found in his pocket the Testament
which she had given to him that year, and thus was reminded that the
parting was not to be--for ever!
We will not dwell on the painful scene. In the midst of it, Ruth
Dotropy glided in like an angel of light, and, kneeling quietly by the
widow's side, sobbed as if the loss had been her own. Poor Ruth! She
did not know how to set about comforting one in such overwhelming grief.
Perhaps it was as well that she did not "try," for certainly, in time,
she succeeded.
How Ruth came to hear of the wreck and its consequences was not very
apparent, but she had a peculiar faculty for discovering the locality of
human grief, a sort of instinctive tendency to gravitate towards it,
and, like her namesake of old, to cling to the sufferer.
Returning to her own lodging, she found her mother, and told her all
that had happened.
"And now, mother," she said, "I must go at once to London, and tell
Captain Bream of my suspicions about Mrs Bright, and get him to come
down here, so as to bring them face to face without further delay."
"My dear child, you will do nothing of the sort," said Mrs Dotropy,
with unwonted decision. "You know well enough that Captain Bream has
had a long and severe illness, and could not stand anything in the
nature of a shock in his present state."
"Yes, mother, but they say that joy never kills, and if--"
"Who says?" interrupted Mrs Dotropy; "who are `they' who say so many
stupid things that every one seems bound to believe? Joy _does_ kill,
sometimes. Besides, what if you turned out to be wrong, and raised
hopes that were only destined to be crushed? Don't you think that the
joy of anticipation might--might be neutralised by the expectation,--I
mean the sorrow of--of--but it's of no use arguing. I set my face
firmly against anything of the sort."
"Well, perhaps you are right, mother," said Ruth, with a little sigh;
"indeed, now I think of it I feel sure you are; for it might turn out to
be a mistake, as you say, which would be an awful blow to poor Captain
Bream in his present weak state. So I must just wait patiently till he
is better."
"Which he will very soon be, my love," said Mrs Dotropy, "for he is
sure to be splendidly nursed, now he has got back to his old quarters
with these admirable Miss Seawards. But tell me more about this sad
wreck. You say that the fisherman named Joe Davidson is safe?"
"Yes, I know he is, for I have just seen him."
"I'm glad of that, for I have a great regard for him, and am quite taken
with his good little wife. Indeed I feel almost envious of them, they
do harmonise and agree so well together--not of course, that your
excellent father and I did not agree--far from it. I don't think that
in all the course of our happy wedded life he ever once contradicted me;
but somehow, he didn't seem quite to understand things--even when things
were so plain that they might have been seen with a magnifying-glass--I
mean a micro--that is--no matter. I fear you would not understand much
better, Ruth, darling, for you are not unlike your poor father. But who
told you about the wreck?"
"A policeman, mother. He said it was the _Evening Star_, and the moment
I heard that I hurried straight to Mrs Bright, getting the policeman to
escort me there and back. He has quite as great an admiration of Joe as
you have, mother, and gave me such an interesting account of the change
for the better that has come over the fishermen generally since the
Mission vessels carried the gospel among them. He said he could hardly
believe his eyes when he saw some men whom he had known to be dreadful
characters changed into absolute lambs. And you know, mother, that the
opinion of policemen is of much weight, for they are by no means a soft
or sentimental race of men."
"True, Ruth," returned her mother with a laugh. "After the scene
enacted in front of our windows the other day, when one of them had so
much trouble, and suffered such awful pommelling from the drunken
ruffian he took up, I am quite prepared to admit that policemen are
neither soft nor sentimental."
"Now, mother, I cannot rest," said Ruth, rising, "I will go and try to
quiet my feelings by writing an account of the whole affair to the Miss
Seawards."
"But you have not told me, child, who is the young man who behaved so
gallantly in rescuing little Billy and others?"
A deep blush overspread the girl's face as she looked down, and in a low
voice said, "It was our old friend Mr Dalton."
"Ruth!" exclaimed Mrs Dotropy, sharply, with a keen gaze into her
daughter's countenance, "you are in love with Mr Dalton!"
"No, mother, I am not," replied Ruth, with a decision of tone, and a
sudden flash of the mild sweet eyes, that revealed a little of the old
spirit of the De Tropys. "Surely I may be permitted to admire a brave
man without the charge of being in love with him!"
"Quite true, quite true, my love," replied the mother, sinking back into
her easy-chair. "You had better go now, as you suggest, and calm
yourself by writing to your friends."
Ruth hurried from the room; sought the seclusion of her own chamber;
flung herself into a chair, and put the question to herself, "_Am_ I in
love with Mr Dalton?"
It was a puzzling question; one that has been put full many a time in
this world's history without receiving a very definite or satisfactory
answer. In this particular case it seemed to be not less puzzling than
usual, for Ruth repeated it aloud more than once, "_Am_ I in love with
Mr Dalton?" without drawing from herself an audible reply.
She remained in the same attitude for a considerable time, with her
sweet little head on one side, and her tiny hands clasped loosely on her
lap--absorbed in meditation.
From this condition she at last roused herself to sit down before a
table with pen, ink, and paper. Then she went to work on a graphic
description of the wreck of the _Evening Star_,--in which, of course,
Mr Dalton unavoidably played a very prominent part.
Human nature is strangely and swiftly adaptable. Ruth's heart fluttered
with pleasure as she described the heroism of the young man, and next
moment it throbbed with deepest sadness as she told of Mrs Bright's
woe, and the paper on which she wrote became blotted with her tears.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.
THE HOUSE OF MOURNING.
We have it on the highest authority that it is better to go to the house
of mourning than to the house of feasting. This fallen world does not
readily believe that, but then the world is notoriously slow to believe
the truth, and also rather apt to believe what is false. It was long
before even the learned world could be got to believe that the world
itself moves round the sun. Indeed it is more than probable that more
than half the world does not believe that yet. On the other hand, much
of it very likely believes still that the world is flat. A savage of
the prairie would almost certainly entertain that fallacy, while a
savage of the mountains would perhaps laugh him to scorn, yet neither
would admit that it was a globe.
So, mankind is very unwilling to accept the truth that it is better to
give than to receive, though such is certainly the case if there be
truth in holy writ.
John Gunter had been much impressed, and not a little softened, by the
recent catastrophe of the shipwreck and of his skipper's death, but he
had not yet been subdued to the point of believing that it would be
better to spend an hour with widow Bright than to spend it in the
public-house, even though his shipmate Joe Davidson did his best to
persuade him of that truth.
"Come," said Joe, as a last appeal, "come, John, what'll our shipmates
think of 'ee if you never go near the poor thing to offer her a word o'
comfort?"
"_I_ can't comfort nobody," replied Gunter with a surly heave of his
shoulder.
"Yes, you can," said Joe, earnestly; "why, the very sight o' you bein'
there, out o' respect to David, would do her poor heart good."
The idea of anybody deriving comfort from a sight of _him_ so tickled
Gunter that he only replied with a sarcastic laugh, nevertheless he
followed his mate sulkily and, as it were, under protest.
On entering the humble dwelling they found Spivin, Trevor, and Zulu
already there. Mrs Bright arose with tearful eyes to welcome the new
guests. Billy rose with her. He had scarcely left his mother's side
for more than a few minutes since the dark night of the wreck, though
several days had elapsed.
It was a great era in the life of the fisher-boy--a new departure. It
had brought him for the first time in his young life into personal
contact as it were, with the dark side of life, and had made an
indelible impression on his soul. It did not indeed abate the sprightly
activity of his mind or body, but it sobered his spirit and, in one day,
made him more of a man than several years of ordinary life could have
accomplished. The most visible result was a manly consideration of, and
a womanly tenderness towards, his mother, which went a long way to calm
Mrs Bright's first outbreak of sorrow.
These rough fishermen--rough only in outward appearance--had their own
method of comforting the widow. They did not attempt anything like
direct consolation, however, but they sat beside her and chatted in
quiet undertones--through which there ran an unmistakable sound of
sympathy. Their talk was about incidents and events of a pleasant or
cheering kind in their several experiences. And occasionally, though
not often, they referred to the absent David when anything particularly
favourable to him could be said.
"We've got good news, Joe," said Billy, when the former was seated.
"Ay, Billy, I'm glad o' that. What may the good news be?"
"Another `_Evening Star_' has been raised up to us by the Lord," said
Mrs Bright, "but oh! it will never shine like the first one to _me_!"
The poor woman could go no further, so Billy again took up the story.
"You know," he said, "that our kind friend Miss Ruth Dotropy has been
greatly taken up about us since father went--went home, and it seems
that she's bin writin' to Lun'on about us, tellin' all about the wreck,
an' about our mistake in goin' to sea, last trip, without bein'
inspected, which lost us the insurance-money. An' there's a rich friend
o' hers as has sent her a thousand pound to buy mother another smack!"
"You _don't_ say that's true, Billy!" exclaimed Joe, with a look of
surprise.
"That's just what I do say, Joe. The smack is already bought, and is to
be fitted out at once, an' mother has made _you_ her skipper, Joe, an'
the rest have all agreed to go--Zulu as cook--and Gunter too. Won't
you, John?"
The boy, who was somewhat excited by the news he had to tell, frankly
held out his hand to Gunter, and that worthy, grasping it with an
unwonted display of frankness on his part growled--"I'm with 'ee, lad."
"Yes, it's all arranged," resumed Billy, "and we'll not be long o' being
ready for sea, so you won't be left to starve, mother--"
Up to this point the poor boy had held on with his wonted vivacity, but
he stopped suddenly. The corners of his mouth began to twitch, and,
laying his head on his mother's bosom, he sobbed aloud.
It did the widow good to comfort him. The fishermen had an instinctive
perception that their wisest course lay in taking no notice, and
continuing their low-voiced intercourse.
"Well, now," said Joe, "I have read in story-books of folk bein' as
lib'ral sometimes as to give a thousand pounds, but I never thought I'd
live to see 'em do it."
"Why, Joe, where have your eyes and ears bin?" said Luke Trevor. "Don't
you know it was a lib'ral gentleman, if not two, or p'raps three, as
lent the _Ensign_, our first gospel-ship, to the Mission?"
"That's true, Luke; I forgot that when I spoke, an' there's more
gospel-smacks comin', I'm told, presented in the same way by lib'ral
folk."
"It's my belief," said Luke, with emphasis, at the same time striking
his right knee with his hand, "it's my belief that afore long we'll have
a gospel-ship for every fleet on the North Sea."
"Right you are, boy," said Joe, "an' the sooner the better. Moreover,
I've heard say that there's a talk about sellin' baccy on board of the
mission-ships _cheaper_ than what they do aboard o' the copers. Did any
of 'ee hear o' that?"
"I heard somethin' about it," answered Luke, "but it's too good news to
be true. If they do, it'll drive the copers off the sea."
"Of course it will. That's just what they're a-goin' to do it for, I
suppose."
Reader, the mode of dealing with the abominable "coper" traffic referred
to by these men has at last happily been adopted, and the final blow has
been dealt by the simple expedient of underselling the floating
grog-shops in the article of tobacco. Very considerable trouble and
expense have to be incurred by the mission, however, for the tobacco has
to be fetched from a foreign port; but the result amply repays the cost
for the men naturally prefer paying only 1 shilling per pound on board
the mission-ship, to paying 1 shilling 6 pence on board the "coper."
The smacksman's advantages in this respect may be better understood when
we say that on shore he has to pay 4 shillings per pound for tobacco.
But his greatest advantage of all--that for which the plan has been
adopted--is his being kept away from the vessel where, while purchasing
tobacco, he is tempted to buy poisonous spirits. Of course the
anti-smoker is entitled to say "it were better that the smacksman should
be saved from tobacco as well as drink!" But of two evils it is wise to
choose the less. Tobacco at 1 shilling 6 pence procured in the "coper,"
with, to some, its irresistible temptation to get drunk on vile spirits,
is a greater evil than the procuring of the same weed at 1 shilling in a
vessel all whose surroundings and internal arrangements are conducive to
the benefit of soul and body.
"D'ye mind the old _Swan_, boys?" asked an elderly man--a former friend
of David Bright who had dropped in with his mite of genuine sympathy.
"What, the first gospel-ship as was sent afloat some thirty years ago?
It would be hard to remember what existed before I was born!"
"Well, you've heard of her, anyhow. She was lent by the Admiralty for
the work in the year eighteen hundred and something, not to go out like
the _Ensign_ to the North Sea fleets, but to cruise about an' visit in
the Thames. I was in the _Swan_ myself for a few months when I was a
young fellow, and we had grand times aboard of that wessel. It seemed
to me like a sort o' home to the sailors that they'd make for arter
their woyages was over. Once, I reklect, we had a evenin' service, an'
as several ships had come in from furrin parts that mornin' we had the
_Swan_ chock-full o' noo hands; but bless you, though they was noo to us
they warn't noo to each other. They had many of 'em met aboard the
_Swan_ years before. Some of 'em hadn't met for seven and ten year, and
sich a shakin' o' hands there was, an' recognisin' of each other!--I
thought we'd never get the service begun. Many of 'em was Christian
men, and felt like brothers, you see."
"Did many of the masters an' mates come to the services in those days?"
asked Joe Davidson.
"Ay, a-many of 'em. W'y, I've seed lots o' both masters an' mates
wolunteerin' to indoose their men to come w'en some of 'em warn't
willin'--takin' their own boats, too, to the neighbourin' ships an'
bringin' off the men as wanted to, w'en the _Swan's_ bell was a-ringin'
for service. I heard one man say he hadn't bin to a place o' worship
for ten year, an' if he'd know'd what the _Swan_ was like he'd ha' bin
to her sooner.
"I mind meetin' wery unexpected with a friend at that time," continued
the old fisherman, who saw that his audience was interested in his talk,
and that the mind of poor Mrs Bright was being drawn from her great
sorrow for a little. "I hadn't met 'im for eight or ten years.
"`Hallo! Abel,' says I, `is that you?'
"`That's me,' says he, ketchin' hold o' my grapnel, an' givin' it a
shake that a'most unshipped the shoulder. `Leastwise it's all that's
left o' me.'
"`What d'ee mean?' says I.
"`I mean,' says he, `that I've just lost my wessel on the Gunfleet
sands, but, thank God, I haven't lost my life, nor none o' my men,
though it was a close shave.'
"`How did it happen, Abel?' says I.
"Says he, `It happened pretty much in the usual way. A gale, wi' sleet
that thick we could hardly see the end o' the jib-boom. The moment we
struck I know'd it was all over wi' the old wessel, but I didn't see my
way to go under without a struggle, so we made a desp'rit attemp' to git
out the boats, but a sea saved us the trouble, for it swept 'em all away
before we got at 'em, as if they'd bin on'y chips o' wood. Then, as if
to mock us, another sea pitched us higher on the sands, so as the decks
wasn't washed by every wave quite so bad, but we knew that wouldn't last
for the tide was makin' fast, so I calls the crew together, an' says I,
"Now, lads, I've often prayed with you an' for you. In a few minutes
we'll have to take to the riggin', an' you know what the end o' that's
likely to be. Before doin' so, I'll pray again, for nothin' is
impossible to the Lord, an' it may be His will to spare us yet a while."
Well, I prayed. Then we took to the riggin' to wait for death--or
rescue. An' sure enough, after we had bin six hours there, an' was all
but frozen, a fishin'-smack came past and took us off.'"
"Now, mates," said Joe Davidson, after they had chatted thus in subdued
tones for some time, "it do seem to me that as most of us are of one
mind here, and we are, so to speak, of one fisher-family, it might do
Mrs Bright good if we was to have a bit of the Word together, and a
prayer or two."
As every one agreed to this either heartily or by silence, a Bible was
produced, and Joe,--being mate of the late _Evening Star_, and therefore
a sort of natural head of the family--read the portion where God
promises to be a Husband to the widow, and a Father to the fatherless.
Then they all knelt while he prayed in simple language for comfort and a
blessing to the mourning household. He was followed with a very few but
intensely earnest words by Luke. Even John Gunter put up an
unpremeditated prayer in the words, "God help us!" uttered in a choking
voice, and the old fisherman followed them all with a deep "Amen."
After that they shook hands tenderly with the widow and Billy, and went
out silently from the house of mourning.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.
THE CAPTAIN'S APPETITE RESTORED, AND RUTH IN A NEW LIGHT.
Captain Bream reclined one day on a sofa in the sitting-room of the
house where he had first made the acquaintance of the Miss Seawards.
Both ladies were seated by his side, the one working worsted cuffs and
the other comforters, and both found the utmost difficulty in repressing
tears when they looked at their kind nautical friend, for a great change
had come over him since we last saw him.
We will not venture to state what was the illness that had laid the
captain, as he himself expressed it on his beam-ends, but whatever it
might have been, it had reduced him to a mere shadow. His once round
cheeks were hollow; his eyes were so sunken that they appeared to have
retired into the interior of his head, out of which, as out of two deep
caverns, they gleamed solemnly. His voice, having been originally
pitched so low that it could not well get lower, had become reduced to
the sound of a big drum muffled; it had also a faint resemblance to a
bassoon with a bad cold. His beard and moustache, having been allowed
to grow, bore a striking likeness to a worn-out clothes-brush, and his
garments appeared to hang upon a living skeleton of large proportions.
It is right however, to add that this was the worst that could be said
of him. The spirit within was as cheery and loving and tender as ever
it had been--indeed more so--and the only wonder was that it did not
break a hole in the once tough but now thin shell of its prison-house,
and soar upwards to its native regions in the sky!
"You must _not_ work so hard at these cuffs, Miss Jessie," he said, with
a pleasant though languid smile. "If you do I'll reduce my board."
"But that would only render it necessary that I should work harder,"
returned Jessie, without checking the pace of the needles.
"It is hard," resumed the captain, "that I should be disobeyed at every
turn now that I'm on my beam-ends, with little more strength in me than
a new-born kitten. But never mind, I'm beginnin' to feel stronger, and
I'll pay you off, my dear, when I'm able to move about."
"Do you really feel a little stronger?" asked Kate, who, although more
lively--even mischievous in a small way--than her sister, had been more
deeply affected by the captain's long illness, and could not shake off
the impression that he was going to die.
"Feel stronger!" exclaimed the wrecked giant. "Give me your hand. D'ee
feel _that_?"
"That" which Kate was to feel was a squeeze as a test of strength.
"There. Doesn't it hurt you? I believe I could make you cry if I was
to try."
And the captain did make her cry even without trying, for Kate was so
deeply touched with the weakness of the trembling squeeze, coupled with
the hearty kindness and little touches of fun in the prostrate man, that
she could not keep it down. Rising hurriedly, therefore, she flung her
unfinished comforter into Jessie's lap, left the room, and, retiring to
her chamber, wept quietly there. Those tears were not now, however, as
they had often been, tears of anxious sorrow, but of thankful joy.
Having accomplished this little matter, and relieved her feelings, she
returned to the parlour.
"I've been just trying to persuade him, Kate," said Jessie, as the
former entered, "that in a week or two a trip to Yarmouth will do him
_so_ much good, but he does not seem to think he will be equal to it."
"Come, now, Miss Jessie, that's not a fair way to put it. I have no
doubt that I shall be able enough--thanks to the good Lord who has
spared me--but what I think is that Yarmouth, pleasant though it be, is
not exactly what I want just now."
"What then, do you think would be better for you?" asked Kate.
"`The sea! The sea! The open sea! The blue, the fresh, the ever
free!'" answered the captain, with a gleam in the sunken eyes such as
had not been seen there for many days.
"Horrible thought!" said Jessie, with a pretended shudder.
"You know the proverb, `What's one man's meat is another man's poison,'"
returned the captain. "Ah! ladies, only those who have been cradled on
the deep for three quarters of a lifetime, and who love the whistling
winds, and the surging waves, and the bounding bark, know what it is to
long, as I do, for another rest upon my mother's breast:--
"`And a mother she was and is to me,
For I was born--was born on the open sea.'"
"I had no idea you were so poetical," said Jessie, much surprised at the
invalid's enthusiasm.
"Sickness has a tendency to make people poetical. I suppose," returned
the captain.
"But how are you to manage it? You can scarcely walk yet. Then excuse
me, you haven't got a ship, and I fear that not many owners would
intrust one to you till you are stronger. So, what will you do?"
"Go as a passenger, my dear. See here; it's all arranged," said the
captain, holding up a letter.
"I got this by the post this morning, and want to consult with you about
it. Knowing my condition and desires, that excellent man the chaplain,
who took me out in his steam-launch the day I got the first shot of this
illness, had made known my case to the Director of the Mission to
Deep-Sea Fishermen, and he has kindly agreed to let me go a trip to the
North Sea in one of the mission-ships, on the understanding that I shall
do as much of a missionary's work as I am fit for when there."
"But you're not fit for work of any kind!" exclaimed Kate with a flush
of indignation which was partly roused by the idea of her friend being
taken away from her at a time when he required so much nursing, and
partly by the impropriety of so sick a man being expected to work at
all.
"True, my dear, but I shall be fit enough in a week or two. Why, I feel
strength coming back like a torrent. Even now I'm so hungry that I
could devour my--my--"
"Your dinner!" cried Kate, as, at that opportune moment the door opened
and Liffie Lee appeared with a tray in her hand.
There could be no doubt as to the captain's appetite. Not only did his
eyes glare, in quite a wolfish manner, at the food while it was being
set before him, but the enormous quantity he took of that food became
quite a source of alarm to the sisters, who watched and helped him.
"Now, captain," said Jessie, laying her hand at last on his thin arm, as
it was stretched out to help himself to more, "you really must not. You
know the doctor said that it would never do, at first, to--"
"My dear," interrupted the invalid, "hang the doctor!"
"Well, I have no objection to his being hanged, if you don't ask me to
do it," returned Jessie, "but really--"
"Oh! let him alone," said Kate, who, being very healthy, shared the
captain's unreasonable contempt for medical men, and was more than
pleased at the ravenous tendencies of her old friend.
"Now for the sponge-cakes," said the captain, wiping his mouth and
rubbing his hands on finishing the first course.
"You are to have none," said Kate, firmly. The captain's face elongated
into a look of woe.
"Because you are to have rice-pudding and thick cream instead!"
continued Kate.
The captain's face shortened again into a beaming smile.
Liffie Lee appeared at the moment with the viands named.
"I never saw anything like it!" exclaimed Jessie with a short laugh, and
a look of resignation.
"I enjoy it _so_ much!" said Kate, pouring out the cream with liberal
hand.
Liffie said nothing, but if the widest extension of her lips, and the
exposing of her bright little teeth from ear to ear, meant anything, it
meant that her sympathies were entirely with Kate.
The captain was helped to pudding in a soup plate, that being relatively
a rather small dessert plate for him. He was about to plunge the
dessert spoon into it, but stopped suddenly and gazed at it. Then he
turned his awful gaze on the small servant who almost shrank before it.
"Liffie, my dear."
"Y-yes, sir."
"Bring me a _table-spoon_, the biggest one you have."
"Yes, sir," she said,--and vanished. Presently she returned with an
enormous gravy spoon.
"Ha! ha!" shouted the captain, with much of his old fire; "that's better
than I had hoped for! Hand it here, Liffie; it'll do."
He seized the weapon, and Liffie uttered an involuntary squeal of
delight as she saw him sweep up nearly the whole of his first helping,
and make one bite of it! He then attempted to smile at Liffie's
expression of joy, but did it awkwardly in the circumstances.
Just as he had finished his little repast, and was tranquilly stirring a
breakfast cup of coffee, the door bell rang.
A minute later Liffie appeared with her mouth and eyes like three round
O's.
"If you please, ma'am, here's Mister and Missis Dalton, as wants to know
if they may come in."
"Mr and Mrs who?" exclaimed both sisters.
"Mister an' Missis Dalton," repeated Liffie.
"Show them in--at once, child. Some ridiculous mistake," said Jessie,
glancing at Kate. "But, stay, Liffie;--you have no objection, captain?"
"None in the least."
Another moment and Ruth appeared blushing in the door-way, with a
handsome young man looming in the background.
"Mr and Mrs Dalton!" said the two sisters with a dazed look as they
sank into two chairs.
"Oh _no_! darling Jessie," cried Ruth, rushing forward and throwing her
arms round her friend; "not--not quite that yet, but--but--engaged. And
we determined that the _very first_ call we made should be to you,
darling."
"Well, now, this _is_ capital! Quite a picture," growled the captain;
"does more good to my digestion than--"
"Come," interrupted Jessie, taking Ruth by the hand. "Come to our
room!"
Regardless of all propriety, the sisters hurried Ruth off to their
bedroom to have it out with her there, leaving young Dalton to face the
captain.
"I congratulate you, my lad," said the captain, frankly extending his
hand. "Sit down."
Dalton as frankly shook the hand and thanked the captain, as he took a
seat beside him.
"I'm deeply grieved, Captain Bream, to see you so much reduced, yet
rejoiced to find that you are fairly convalescent."
"Humph! I wouldn't give much for the depth of either your grief or joy
on my account seein' that you've managed to get hooked on to an angel."
"Well, I confess," said the youth, with a laugh, "that the joy connected
with that fact pretty much overwhelms all other feelings at present."
"The admission does you credit boy, for she is an angel. I'm not usin'
figures o' speech. She's a real darlin', A1 at Lloyd's. True blue
through and through. And let me tell you, young fellow, that I know her
better than you do, for I saw her before you were bor--, no, that
couldn't well be, but I knew her father before you were born, and
herself ever since she saw the light."
"I'm delighted to have your good opinion of her, though, of course, it
cannot increase my estimation of her character. Nothing can do that!"
"Which means that _my_ opinion goes for nothing. Well, the conceit of
the rising generation is only equalled by--by that o' the one that went
before it. But, now, isn't it strange that you are the very man I want
to see?"
"It is indeed," replied Dalton with a slightly incredulous look.
"Yes, the very man. Look ye here. Have you got a note-book?"
"I have."
"Pull it out, then. I want you to draw out my will."
"Your will, Captain Bream!"
"My will," repeated the captain. "Last will an' testament."
"But I'm not lawyer enough to--"
"I know that, man! I only want you to sketch it out. Listen. I'm
going in a week or two to the North Sea in a fishing-smack. Well,
there's no sayin' what may happen there. I'm not infallible--or
invulnerable--or waterproof, though I _am_ an old salt. Now, you are
acquainted with all my money matters, so I want you to jot down who the
cash is to be divided among if I should go to the bottom; then, take the
sketch to my lawyer--you know where he lives--and tell him to draw it
out all ship-shape, an' bring it to me to sign. Now, are you ready?"
"But, my dear sir, this may take a long time, and the ladies will
probably return before we--"
"_You_ don't bother your head about the ladies, my lad, but do as I tell
'ee. Miss Ruth has got hold of two pair of ears and two hearts that
won't be satisfied in five minutes. Besides, my will won't be a long
one. Are you ready?"
"Yes," said Dalton, spreading his note-book on his knee.
"Well," resumed the captain, "after makin' all the usual arrangements
for all expenses--funeral, etcetera, (of which there'll be none if I go
to the bottom), an' some legacies of which I'll tell the lawyer when I
see him, I leave all that remains to Miss Jessie and Miss Kate Seaward,
share an' share alike, to do with it as they please, an' to leave it
after them to whomsoever they like. There!"
"Is that all?"
"Yes, that's all," returned the captain, sadly. "I once had a dear
sister, but every effort I have made to find her out has failed. Of
course if I do come across her before it pleases the Lord to take me
home, I'll alter the will. In the meantime let it be drawn out so."
Soon after this important transaction was finished the ladies returned,
much flushed and excited, and full of apologies for their rude behaviour
to their male friends.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.
OUT WITH THE SHORT BLUE AGAIN.
Pleasant and heart-stirring is the sensation of returning health to one
who has sailed for many weeks in the "Doldrums" of Disease, weathered
Point Danger, crossed the Line of Weakness, and begun to steer with
favouring gales over the smooth sea of Convalescence.
So thought Captain Bream one lovely summer day, some time after the
events just narrated, as he sat on the bridge of a swift steamer which
cut like a fish through the glassy waves of the North Sea.
It was one of Hewett and Company's carriers, bound for the Short Blue
fleet. Over three hundred miles was the total run; she had already made
the greater part of it. The exact position of the ever-moving fleet was
uncertain. Nevertheless, her experienced captain was almost certain--as
if by a sort of instinct--to hit the spot where the smacks lay ready
with their trunks of fish to feed the insatiable maw of Billingsgate.
Captain Bream's cheeks were not so hollow as they had been when we last
saw him. Neither were they so pale. His eyes, too, had come a
considerable way out of the caves into which they had retreated, and the
wolfish glare in the presence of food was exchanged for a look of calm
serenity. His coat, instead of hanging on him like a shirt on a
handspike, had begun to show indications of muscle covering the bones,
and his vest no longer flapped against him like the topsail of a
Dutchman in a dead calm. Altogether, there was a healthy look about the
old man which gave the impression that he had been into dock, and had a
thorough overhaul.
Enough of weakness remained, however, to induce a feeling of blessed
restfulness in his entire being. The once strong and energetic man had
been brought to the novel condition of being quite willing to leave the
responsibility of the world on other shoulders, and to enjoy the
hitherto unknown luxury of doing nothing at all. So thoroughly had he
abandoned himself in this respect, that he did not even care to speak,
but was satisfied to listen to others, or to gaze at the horizon in
happy contemplation, or to pour on all around looks of calm benignity.
"How do you feel to-day, sir?" asked the mate of the steamer, as he came
on the bridge.
"My strongest feeling," said Captain Bream, "is one of thankfulness to
God that I am so well."
"A good feelin' that doesn't always come as strong as it ought to, or as
one would wish; does it, sir?" said the mate.
"That's true," answered the captain, "but when a man, after bein' so low
that he seems to be bound for the next world, finds the tide risin'
again, the feelin' is apt to come stronger, d'ee see? D'you expect to
make the fleet to-day?"
"Yes, sir, we should make it in the evenin' if the admiral has stuck to
his plans."
The captain became silent again, but after a few minutes, fearing that
the mate might think him unsociable, he said--
"I suppose the admiral is always chosen as being one of the best men of
the fleet?"
"That's the idea, sir, and the one chosen usually _is_ one of the best,
though of course mistakes are sometimes made. The present admiral is a
first-rate man--a thorough-going fisherman, well acquainted with all the
shoals, and a Christian into the bargain."
"Ah, I suppose that is an advantage to the fleet in many respects," said
the captain, brightening up, on finding the mate sympathetic on that
point.
"It is for the advantage of the fleet in _all_ respects, sir. I have
known an ungodly admiral, on a Sunday, when they couldn't fish, an' the
weather was just right for heavin'-to an' going aboard the mission smack
for service--I've known him keep the fleet movin' the whole day, for
nothin' at all but spite. Of course that didn't put any one in a good
humour, an' you know, sir, men always work better when they're in good
spirits."
"Ay, well do I know that," said the captain, "for I've had a good deal
to do wi' men in my time, and I have always found that Christian sailors
as a rule are worth more than unbelievers, just because they work with a
will--as the Bible puts it, `unto the Lord and not unto men.' You've
heard of General Havelock, no doubt?"
"Oh yes, sir, you mean the Indian general who used to look after the
souls of his men?"
"That's the man," returned the captain. "Well, I've been told that on
one occasion when the commander-in-chief sent for some soldiers for
special duty, and found that most of 'em were drunk, he turned an' said,
`Send me some of Havelock's saints: they can be depended on!' I'm not
sure if I've got the story rightly, but, anyhow, that's what he said."
"Ay, sir, I sometimes think it wonderful," said the mate, "that
unbelievers don't themselves see that the love of God in a man's heart
makes him a better and safer servant in all respects--according to the
Word, `Godliness is profitable to the life that now is, as well as that
which is to come.' There's the fleet at last, sir!"
While speaking, the mate had been scanning the horizon with his glass,
which he immediately handed to the captain, who rose at once and saw the
line of the Short Blue like little dots on the horizon. The dots soon
grew larger; then they assumed the form of vessels, and in a short time
the carrying-steamer was amongst them, making straight for the admiral,
whose smack was distinguishable by his flag.
"What is the admiral's name?" asked the captain as they advanced.
"Davidson--Joe Davidson; one of the brightest young fellows I ever
knew," answered the captain of the steamer, who came on the bridge at
that moment, "and a true Christian. He is master of the _Evening
Star_."
"Why, I thought that was the name of a smack that was wrecked some time
ago near Yarmouth--at least so my friends there wrote me," said Captain
Bream with sudden interest; and well might he feel interest in the new
_Evening Star_, for it was himself who had given the thousand pounds to
purchase her, at Ruth Dotropy's request, but he had not been told that
her skipper, Joe Davidson, had been made admiral of the fleet.
"So it _was_ the _Evening Star_, sir, that was wrecked, but some
open-handed gentleman in London bought a new smack for widow Bright and
she called it by the same name, an' the young man, who had been mate
with her husband, she has made skipper till her son Billy is old enough
to take charge of her. The strangest thing is, that all the old crew
have stuck together, and the smack is now one of the best managed in the
fleet. Joe wouldn't have been made admiral if that wasn't so."
To this, and a great deal more, the captain listened with great joy and
thankfulness, without, however, giving a hint as to his own part in the
matter. Originally he had given the thousand pounds to please Ruth, and
he had been at that time glad to think that the gift was to benefit a
deserving and unfortunate widow. It was not a little satisfactory,
therefore, to hear that his gift had been so well bestowed; that it had
even become the admiral's vessel, and that he was about to have the
opportunity of boarding the new _Evening Star_ and himself inspecting
its crew.
"Tell me a little more about this _Evening Star_," he said to the
captain of the steamer. "I have sometimes heard of her from a lady
friend of mine, who takes a great interest in her owner, but I was so
ill at the time she wrote that I couldn't pay much attention to
anything."
Thus invited the captain proceeded to tell all he knew about David
Bright and his wife, and Billy, and Luke Trevor, Spivin, Gunter, Zulu,
the wreck, the launch of the new smack, etcetera,--much of which was
quite new to Captain Bream, and all of which was of course deeply
interesting to him.
While these two were conversing the fleet gradually thickened around
them, for a light breeze, which seemed to have sprung up for the very
purpose, enabled them to close in. Some of the smacks were close at
hand; others more distant. To those within hail, the captain and mate
of the steamer gave the customary salute and toss of the fist in the air
as they passed.
"There's the admiral," said the captain, "two points off the port bow."
"An' the gospel-ship close alongside," said the mate. "Don't you see
the M.D.S.F. flag? Trust Joe for bein' near to her when he can manage
it. Here they come, fast an' thick. There's the _Fern_, I'd know her a
mile off, an' the _Martin_, an' _Rover_, _Coquette_, _Truant_! What
cheer, boys!"
"Is that the _Cherub_ or the _Andax_ abeam of us?" asked the captain.
"It's neither. It's the _Guide_, or the _Boy Jim_, or the _Retriever_--
not quite sure which."
"Now, Captain Bream, shall we put you on board the mission-ship at once,
or will you wait to see us boarded for empty trunks?"
"I'll wait," returned Captain Bream.
Soon the steamer hove-to, not far from the admiral's vessel. The smacks
came crowding round like bees round a hive, each one lowering a boat
when near enough.
And once again was enacted a scene similar in many respects to that
which we have described in a previous chapter, with this difference,
that the scramble now was partly for the purpose of obtaining empty
boxes. Another steamer had taken off most of their fish early that day,
and the one just arrived meant to wait for the fish of the next morning.
It chanced that a good many of the rougher men of the fleet came on
board that evening, so that Captain Bream, whose recent experiences had
led him half to expect that all the North Sea fishermen were amiable
lions, had his mind sadly but effectively disabused of that false idea.
The steamer's deck soon swarmed with some four hundred of the roughest
and most boisterous men he had ever seen, and the air was filled with
coarse and profane language, while a tendency to fight was exhibited by
several of them.
"They're a rough lot, sir," said the mate as he leant on the rail of the
bridge, gazing down on the animated scene, "but they were a rougher lot
before the gospel-ship came out to stay among them, and some of the
brightest Christians now in the fleet were as bad as the worst you see
down there."
"Ay, Jesus came to save the _lost_, and the worst," said the captain in
a low tone--"praise to His name!"
As soon as the trunks had been received, the admiral bore away to
windward, and the fleet began to follow and make preparation for the
night's fishing; for the fish which were destined so soon to smoke on
London tables were at that moment gambolling at the bottom of the sea!
"We must run down to the mission smack, and put you aboard at once,
sir," said the mate, "for she follows the admiral--though she does not
fish on Saturday nights, so that the hold may be clear of fish and ready
for service on Sundays."
Captain Bream was ready.
"They know you are coming, I suppose?"
"Yes, they expect me."
In a few minutes the steamer was close to the mission-ship, and soon
after, the powerful arms of its hospitable skipper and mate were
extended to help the expected invalid out of the boat which had been
sent for him.
"We're makin' things all snug for the night," said the skipper, as he
led his guest into the little cabin, "an' when we're done we shall have
tea; but if you'd like it sooner--"
"No, no, skipper, I'll wait. Though I'm just come from the shore, you
don't take me for an impatient land-lubber, do you? Go, finish your
work, and I'll rest a bit. I've been ill, you see, an' can't stand as
much as I used to," he added apologetically.
When left alone, Captain Bream's mode of resting himself was to go down
on his knees and thank God for having brought him to so congenial a
resting-place on the world of waters, and to pray that he might be made
use of to His glory while there.
How that prayer was answered we shall see.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.
ANOTHER FIGHT AND--VICTORY!
It is interesting to observe the curious, and oftentimes unlikely, ways
in which the guilt of man is brought to light, and the truth of that
word demonstrated--"Be sure your sin shall find you out."
Although John Gunter's heart was softened at the time of his old
skipper's death, it was by no means changed, so that, after a brief
space, it became harder than ever, and the man who had been melted--to
some extent washed--returned, ere long, with increased devotion to his
wallowing in the mire. This made him so disagreeable to his old
comrades, that they became anxious to get rid of him, but Joe Davidson,
whose disposition was very hopeful, hesitated; and the widow, having a
kindly feeling towards the man because he had sailed with her husband,
did not wish him to be dismissed.
Thus it came to pass that when Captain Bream joined the Short Blue fleet
he was still a member of the crew of the new _Evening Star_.
The day following that on which the captain arrived was Sunday, and, as
usual, the smacks whose skippers had become followers of the Lord Jesus
began to draw towards the mission-ship with their Bethel-flags flying.
Among them was the new admiral--Joe of the _Evening Star_. His vessel
was pointed out, of course, to the captain as she approached. We need
scarcely say that he looked at her with unusual interest, and was glad
when her boat was lowered to row part of her crew to the service about
to be held in the hold of the gospel-ship.
It was natural that Captain Bream should be much taken with the simple
cheery manners of the admiral, as he stepped aboard and shook hands all
round. It was equally natural that he should take some interest, also,
in John Gunter, for was it not obvious that that worthy was a fine
specimen of the gruff, half-savage, raw material which he had gone out
there to work upon?
"Why did you not bring Billy, Joe?" asked the skipper of the mission
vessel.
"Well, you know, we had to leave some one to look after the smack, an' I
left Luke Trevor, as he said he'd prefer to come to evenin' service, an'
Billy said he'd like to stay with Luke."
By this time a number of boats had put their rough-clad crews on the
deck, and already a fair congregation was mustered. Shaking of hands,
salutations, question and reply, were going briskly on all round, with
here and there a little mild chaffing, and occasionally a hearty laugh,
while now and then the fervent "thank God" and "praise the Lord"
revealed the spirits of the speakers.
"You mentioned the name of Billy just now," said Captain Bream, drawing
Joe Davidson aside. "Is he a man or a boy?"
"He's a boy, sir, though he don't like to be reminded o' the fact," said
Joe with a laugh. "He's the son of our skipper who was drowned--an' a
good boy he is, though larky a bit. But that don't do him no harm,
bless ye."
"I wonder," returned the captain, "if he is the boy some lady friends of
mine are so fond of, who was sent up to London some time ago to--"
"That's him, sir," interrupted Joe; "it was Billy as was sent to Lun'on;
by the wish of a Miss Ruth Pont-rap-me, or some such name. I never can
remember it rightly, but she's awful fond o' the fisher-folks."
"Ah, I know Miss Ruth Dotropy also," said the captain. "Strange that I
should find this Billy that they're all so fond of in the new _Evening
Star_. I must pay your smack a visit soon, Davidson, for I have a
particular interest in her."
"I'll be proud to see you aboard her, sir," returned Joe. "Won't you
come after service? The calm will last a good while, I think."
"Well, perhaps I may."
The conversation was interrupted here by a general move to the vessel's
hold, where the usual arrangements had been made--a table for a pulpit
and fish-boxes for seats.
"Do you feel well enough to speak to us to-day, Captain Bream?" asked
the skipper of the mission-ship.
"Oh yes, I'll be happy to do so. The trip out has begun to work wonders
already," said the captain.
Now, the truth of that proverb, "One man may take a horse to the water,
but ten men can't make him drink," is very often illustrated in the
course of human affairs. You may even treat a donkey in the same way,
and the result will be similar.
Joe Davidson had brought John Gunter to the mission-ship in the earnest
hope that he would drink at the gospel fountain, but, after having got
him there, Joe found that, so far from drinking, Gunter would not even
go down to the services at all. On this occasion he said that he
preferred to remain on deck, and smoke his pipe.
Unknown to all the world, save himself, John Gunter was at that time in
a peculiarly unhappy state of mind. His condition was outwardly
manifested in the form of additional surliness.
"You're like a bear with a sore head," Spivin had said to him when in
the boat on the way to the service.
"More like a black-face baboon wid de cholera," said Zulu.
Invulnerable alike to chaff and to earnest advice, Gunter sat on the
fore-hatch smoking, while psalms of praise were rising from the hold.
Now, it was the little silver watch which caused all this trouble to
Gunter. Bad as the man was, he had never been an absolute thief, until
the night on which he had robbed Ruth Dotropy. The horror depicted in
her pretty, innocent face when he stopped her had left an impression on
his mind which neither recklessness nor drink could remove, and
thankfully would he have returned the watch if he had known the young
lady's name or residence. Moreover, he was so inexperienced and timid
in this new line of life, that he did not know how to turn the watch
into cash with safety, and had no place in which to conceal it. On the
very day about which we write, seeing the Coper not far off, the unhappy
man had thrust the watch into his trousers pocket with the intention of
bartering it with the Dutchman for rum, if he should get the chance.
Small chance indeed, with Joe Davidson for his skipper! but there is no
accounting for the freaks of the guilty.
The watch was now metaphorically burning a hole in Gunter's pocket, and,
that pocket being somewhat similar in many respects to the pockets of
average schoolboys, Ruth's pretty little watch lay in company with a few
coppers, a bit of twine, a broken clasp-knife, two buttons, a short
pipe, a crumpled tract of the Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen, and a
half-finished quid of tobacco.
But although John Gunter would not drink of his own free-will, he could
not easily avoid the water of life that came rushing to him up the
hatchway and filled his ears. It came to him first, as we have said, in
song; and the words of the hymn, "Sinner, list to the loving call,"
passed not only his outer and inner ear, but dropped into his soul and
disturbed him.
Then he got a surprise when Captain Bream's voice resounded through the
hold,--there was something so very deep and metallic about it, yet so
tender and musical. But the greatest surprise of all came when the
captain, without a word of preface or statement as to where his text was
to be found, looked his expectant audience earnestly in the face, and
said slowly, "Thou shalt not steal."
Poor Captain Bream! nothing was further from his thoughts than the idea
that any one listening to him was actually a thief! but he had made up
his mind to press home, with the Spirit's blessing, the great truth that
the man who refuses to accept salvation in Jesus Christ robs God of the
love and honour that are His due; robs his wife and children and
fellow-men of the good example and Christian service which he was fitted
and intended to exert, and robs himself, so to speak, of Eternal Life.
The captain's arguments had much weight in the hold, but they had no
weight on deck. Many of his shafts of reason were permitted to pierce
the tough frames of the rugged men before him, and lodge with good
influence in tender hearts, but they all fell pointless on the deck
above. It was the pure unadulterated Word of God, "without note or
comment," that was destined that day to penetrate the iron heart of John
Gunter, and sink down into his soul. "_Thou shalt not steal_!" That
was all of the sermon that Gunter heard; the rest fell on deaf ears, for
these words continued to burn into his very soul. Influenced by the new
and deep feelings that had been aroused in him, he pulled the watch from
his pocket with the intention of hurling it into the sea, but the
thought that he would still deserve to be called a _thief_ caused him to
hesitate.
"Hallo! Gunter, what pretty little thing is that you've got?"
The words were uttered by Dick Herring of the _White Cloud_, who, being
like-minded with John, had remained on deck like him to smoke and
lounge.
"You've got no business wi' that," growled Gunter, as he closed his hand
on the watch, and thrust it back into his pocket.
"I didn't say I had, mate," retorted Herring, with a puff of contempt,
which at the same time emptied his mouth and his spirit.
Herring said no more; but when the service was over, and the men were
chatting about the deck, he quietly mentioned what he had seen, and some
of the waggish among the crew came up to Gunter and asked him, with
significant looks and laughs, what time o' day it was.
At first Gunter replied in his wonted surly manner; but at last, feeling
that the best way would be to put a bold face on the matter, he said
with an off-hand laugh--
"Herring thinks he's made a wonderful discovery, but surely there's
nothing very strange in a man buyin' a little watch for his sweetheart."
"You don't mean to say that _you_ have a sweetheart do you?" said a
youth of about seventeen, who had a tendency to be what is styled
cheeky.
Gunter turned on him with contempt. "Well, now," he replied, "if I had
a smooth baby-face like yours I would _not_ say as I had, but bein' a
man, you see, I may ventur' to say that I have."
"Come, Gunter, you're too hard on 'im," cried Spivin; "I don't believe
you've bought a watch for her at all; at least if you have, it must be a
pewter one."
Thus taunted, Gunter resolved to carry out the bold line of action.
"What d'ee call that?" he cried, pulling out the watch and holding it up
to view.
Captain Bream chanced to be an amused witness of this little scene, but
his expression changed to one of amazement when he beheld the peculiar
and unmistakable watch which, years before, he had given to Ruth
Dotropy's father. Recovering himself quickly he stepped forward.
"A very pretty little thing," he said, "and looks uncommonly like
silver. Let me see it."
He held out his hand, and Gunter gave it to him without the slightest
suspicion, of course, that he knew anything about it. "Yes, undoubtedly
it is silver, and a very curious style of article too," continued the
captain in a low off-hand tone. "You've no objection to my taking it to
the cabin to look at it more carefully?"
Of course Gunter had no objection, though a sensation of uneasiness
arose within him, especially when Captain Bream asked him to go below
with him, and whispered to Joe Davidson in a low tone, as he passed him,
to shut the cabin skylight.
No sooner were they below, with the cabin-door shut, than the captain
looked steadily in the man's face, and said--
"Gunter, you stole this watch from a young lady in Yarmouth."
An electric shock could not have more effectually stunned the convicted
fisherman. He gazed at the captain in speechless surprise. Then his
fists clenched, a rush of blood came to his face, and a fierce oath rose
to his white lips as he prepared to deny the charge.
"Stop!" said the captain, impressively, and there was nothing of
severity or indignation in his voice or look. "Don't commit yourself,
Gunter. See, I place the watch on this table. If you bought it to give
to your sweetheart, take it up. If you stole it from a pretty young
lady in one of the rows of Yarmouth some months ago, and would now wish
me to restore it to her--for I know her and the watch well--let it lie."
Gunter looked at the captain, then at the watch, and hesitated. Then
his head drooped, and in a low voice he said--
"I am guilty, sir."
Without a word more, Captain Bream laid his hand on the poor man's
shoulder and pressed it. Gunter knew well what was meant. He went down
on his knees. The captain kneeled beside him, and in a deep, intensely
earnest voice, claimed forgiveness of the sin that had been confessed,
and prayed that the sinner's soul might be there and then cleansed in
the precious blood of Jesus.
John Gunter was completely broken down; tears rolled over his cheeks,
and it required all his great physical strength to enable him to keep
down the sobs that well-nigh choked him.
Fishermen of the North Sea are tough. Their eyes are not easily made to
swell or look red by salt water, whether it come from the ocean without
or the mightier ocean within. When Gunter had risen from his knees and
wiped his eyes with the end of a comforter, which had probably been
worked under the superintendence of Ruth herself; there were no signs of
emotion left--only a subdued look in his weatherworn face.
"I give myself up, sir," he said, "to suffer what punishment is due."
"No punishment is due, my man. Jesus has borne all the punishment due
to you and me. In regard to man, you have restored that which you took
away, and well do I know that the young lady--like her Master--forgives
freely. I will return the watch to her. You can go back to your
comrades--nobody shall ever hear more about this. If they chaff you, or
question you, just say nothing, and smile at them."
"But--but, sir," said Gunter, moving uneasily.
"I ain't used to smilin'. I--I've bin so used to look gruff that--"
"Look gruff, then, my man," interrupted the captain, himself unable to
repress a smile. "If you're not gruff in your heart, it won't matter
much what you look like. Just look gruff, an' keep your mouth shut, and
they'll soon let you alone."
Acting on this advice, John Gunter returned to his mates looking
gruffer, if possible, and more taciturn than ever, but radically
changed, from that hour, in soul and spirit.
CHAPTER THIRTY.
THE CLIMAX REACHED AT LAST.
As the calm weather continued in the afternoon, Joe Davidson tried to
persuade Captain Bream to pay the _Evening Star_ a visit, but the latter
felt that the excitement and exertion of preaching to such earnest and
thirsting men had been more severe than he had expected. He therefore
excused himself, saying that he would lie down in his bunk for a short
time, so as to be ready for the evening service.
It was arranged that the skipper of the mission smack should conduct
that service, and he was to call the captain when they were ready to
begin. When the time came, however, it was found that the exhausted
invalid was so sound asleep that they did not like to disturb him.
But although Captain Bream was a heavy sleeper and addicted to sonorous
snoring, there were some things in nature through which even he could
not slumber; and one of these things proved to be a hymn as sung by the
fishermen of the North Sea!
When, therefore, the Lifeboat hymn burst forth in tones that no
cathedral organ ever equalled, and shook the timbers of the mission-ship
from stem to stern, the captain turned round, yawned, and opened his
eyes wide, and when the singers came to--
"Leave the poor old stranded wreck, and pull for the shore,"
he leaped out of his bunk with tremendous energy.
Pulling his garments into order, running his fingers through his hair,
and trying to look as if he had not been asleep, he slipped quietly into
the hold and sat down on a box behind the speaker, where he could see
the earnest faces of the rugged congregation brought into strong relief
by the light that streamed down the open hatchway.
What the preacher said, or what his subject was, Captain Bream never
knew, for, before he could bring his mind to bear on it, his eyes fell
on an object which seemed to stop the very pulsations of his heart,
while his face grew pale. Fortunately he was himself in the deep shadow
of the deck, and could not be easily observed.
Yet the object which created such a powerful sensation in the captain's
breast was not in itself calculated to cause amazement or alarm, for it
was nothing more than a pretty-faced, curly-haired fisher-boy, who, with
lips parted and his bright eyes gazing intently, was listening to the
preacher with all his powers. Need we say that it was our friend Billy
Bright, and that in his fair face Captain Bream thought, or rather felt,
that he recognised the features of his long-lost sister?
With a strong effort the captain restrained his feelings and tried to
listen, but in vain. Not only were his eyes riveted on the young face
before him, but his whole being seemed to be absorbed by it. The
necessity of keeping still, however, gave him time to make up his mind
as to how he should act, so that when the service was brought to a
close, he appeared on deck without a trace of his late excitement
visible.
"What lad is this?" he asked, going up to Joe, who was standing close to
Billy.
"This," said Joe, laying his hand kindly on the boy's shoulder, "is
Billy Bright, son of the late owner of the old _Evenin' Star_."
"What!" exclaimed the captain, unable to repress his surprise, "son of
the widow who owns the new _Evening Star_? then that proves that your
mother _must_ be alive?"
"In _course_ she is!" returned Billy, with a look of astonishment.
"Come down to the cabin with me, Billy," said the captain, with
increasing excitement. "I want to have a chat with you about your
mother."
Our little hero, although surprised, at once complied with the
invitation, taking the opportunity, however, to wink at Zulu in passing,
and whisper his belief that the old gen'l'man was mad.
Setting Billy on a locker in front of him, Captain Bream began at once.
"Is your mother alive, Billy,--tut, of course she's alive; I mean, is
she well--in good health?"
Billy became still more convinced that Captain Bream was mad, but
answered that his mother was well, and that she had never been ill in
her life to the best of his knowledge.
While speaking, Billy glanced round the cabin in some anxiety as to how
he should escape if the madman should proceed to violence. He made up
his mind that if the worst should come to the worst, he would dive under
the table, get between the old gentleman's legs, trip him up, and bolt
up the companion before he could regain his feet. Relieved by the
feeling that his mind was made up, he waited for more.
"Billy," resumed the captain, after a long gaze at the boy's features,
"is your mother like you?"
"I should think not," replied Billy with some indignation. "She's a
woman, you know, an' I'm a--a--man."
"Yes--of course," murmured the captain to himself, "there can be no
doubt about it--none whatever--every gesture--every look!"
Then aloud: "What was her name, my boy?"
"Her name, sir? why, her name's Bright, of course."
"Yes, yes, but I mean her maiden name."
Billy was puzzled. "If you mean the name my father used to call 'er,"
he said, "it was Nell."
"Ah! that's it--nearly, at least. Nellie she used to be known by. Yes,
yes, but that's not what I want to know. Can you tell me what her name
was before she was married?"
"Well now, that _is_ odd," answered Billy, "I've bin pumped somethink in
this way before, though nuffin' good came of it as I knows on. No, I
_don't_ know what she was called afore she was married."
"Did you ever hear of the name of Bream?" asked the captain anxiously.
"Oh yes, I've heerd o' that name," said the boy, promptly. "There's a
fish called bream, you know."
It soon became evident to poor Captain Bream that nothing of importance
was to be learned from Billy, he therefore made up his mind at once as
to how he should act. Feeling that, with such a possibility unsettled,
he would be utterly unfit for his duties with the fleet, he resolved to
go straight to Yarmouth.
"What is your mother's address?" he asked.
Billy gave it him.
"Now my boy, I happen to be much interested in your mother, so I'm goin'
to Yarmouth on purpose to see her."
"It's wery good o' you, sir, an' if you takes your turn ashore afore we
do, just give mother my respec's an' say I'm all alive and kickin'."
"I will, my boy," said the Captain, patting Billy on the head and
actually stooping to kiss his forehead affectionately, after which he
gave him leave to return on deck.
"I don' know how it is," said Billy to Zulu afterwards, "but I've took a
likin' for that old man, an' at the same time a queer sort o' fear of
'im; I can't git it out o' my noddle that he's goin' to Yarmouth to
inweigle my mother to marry him!"
Zulu showed all his teeth and gums, shut his eyes, gave way to a burst
of laughter, and said, "Nonsense!"
"It may be nonsense," retorted Billy, "but if I thought he really meant
it, I would run my head butt into his breadbasket, an' drive 'im
overboard."
Explaining to the surprised and rather disappointed skipper of the
mission vessel that an unexpected turn of affairs required his immediate
presence in Yarmouth, the captain asked what means there were of getting
to land.
"One of our fleet, the _Rainbow_, starts to-morrow morning, sir," was
the reply; "so you can go without loss of time. But I hope we shall see
you again."
"Oh yes, please God, I shall come off again--you may depend on that, for
I've taken a great fancy to the men of the Short Blue, although I've
been so short a time with them--moreover, I owe service as well as
gratitude to the Mission for sending me here."
Accordingly next morning he set sail with a fair wind, and in due course
found himself on shore. He went straight to the old abode of Mrs
Dotropy, and, to his great satisfaction, found Ruth there. He also
found young Dalton, which was not quite so much to his satisfaction, but
Ruth soon put his mind at rest by saying--
"Oh! Captain Bream, I'm _so_ glad to have this unexpected visit,
because, for months and months past I have wanted you to go with me to
visit a particular place in Yarmouth, and you have always slipped
through my fingers; but I'm determined that you shan't escape again."
"That's odd, my dear," returned the captain, "because my object in
coming here is to take _you_ to a certain place in Yarmouth, and,
although I have not had the opportunity of letting you slip through my
fingers, I've no doubt you'd do so if you were tempted away by a bait
that begins with a D."
"How dare you, sir!" said Ruth, blushing, laughing, and frowning all at
once--"but no. Even D will fail in this instance--for my business is
urgent."
"Well, Miss Ruth, my business is urgent also. The question therefore
remains, which piece of business is to be gone about _first_."
"How can you be so ungallant? Are not a lady's wishes to be considered
before those of a gentleman? Come, sir, are you ready to go? _I_ am
quite ready, and fortunately D, to whom you dared to refer just now, has
gone to the post with a letter."
Although extremely anxious to have his mind set at rest, Captain Bream
gave in with his accustomed good-nature, and went out with Ruth to
settle _her_ business first.
Rejoiced to have her little schemes at last so nearly brought to an
issue, the eager girl hurried through the town till she came to one of
its narrow Rows.
"Well, my dear," said the captain, "it is at all events a piece of good
luck that so far you have led _me_ in the very direction I desired to
lead you."
"Indeed? Well, that is odd. But after all," returned Ruth with a
sudden feeling of depression, "it _may_ turn out to be a wild-goose
chase."
"_What_ may turn out to be a wild-goose chase?"
"This--this fancy--this hope of mine, but you shall know directly--
come."
Ruth was almost running by this time, and the captain, being still far
from strong, found it difficult to keep up with her.
"This way, down here," she cried, turning a corner.
"What, _this_ way?" exclaimed the captain in amazement.
"Yes, why not?" said Ruth, reflecting some of his surprise as she looked
up in his face.
"Why--why, because this is the very Row I wanted to bring you to!"
"That _is_ strange--but--but never mind just now; you'll explain
afterwards. Come along."
Poor Ruth was too much excited to attend to any other business but that
on which her heart was set just then; and fear lest her latest castle
should prove to have no foundations and should fall like so many others
in ruins at her feet, caused her to tremble.
"Here is the door," she said at last, coming to a sudden halt before
widow Bright's dwelling, and pressing both hands on her palpitating
heart to keep it still.
"Wonders will never cease!" exclaimed the captain. "This is the very
door to which I intended to bring _you_."
Ruth turned her large blue eyes on her friend with a look that made them
larger and, if possible, bluer than ever. She suddenly began to feel as
deep an interest in the captain's business as in her own.
"_This_ door?" she said, pointing to it emphatically.
"Yes, _that_ door. Widow Bright lives there, don't she?"
"Yes--oh! yes," said Ruth, squeezing her heart tighter.
"Well, I've come here to search for a long-lost sister."
"Oh!" gasped Ruth.
But she got no time to gasp anything more, for the impatient captain had
pushed the door open without knocking, and stood in the middle of the
widow's kitchen.
Mrs Bright was up to the elbows in soap-suds at the moment, busy with
some of the absent Billy's garments. Beside her sat Mrs Joe Davidson,
endeavouring to remove, with butter, a quantity of tar with which the
"blessed babby" had recently besmeared herself.
They all looked up at the visitors, but all remained speechless, as if
suddenly paralysed, for the expression on our big captain's face was
wonderful, as well as indescribable. Mrs Bright opened her eyes to
their widest, also her mouth, and dropped the Billy-garments. Mrs
Davidson's buttery hands became motionless; so did the "babby's" tarry
visage. For three seconds this lasted. Then the captain said, in the
deepest bass notes he ever reached--
"Sister Nellie!"
A wild scream from Mrs Bright was the reply, as she sprang at Captain
Bream, seized him in her arms, and covered the back of his neck with
soap-suds.
The castle was destined to stand, after all! Ruth's joy overflowed.
She glanced hurriedly round for some object on which to expend it.
There was nothing but the "blessed babby"--and that was covered with
tar; but genuine feeling does not stick at trifles. Ruth caught up the
filthy little creature, pressed it to her bounding heart, wept and
laughed, and covered it with passionate kisses to such an extent that
her own fair face became thoroughly besmeared, and it cost Mrs Joe an
additional half hour's labour to get her clean, besides an enormous
expenditure of butter--though that was selling at the time at the high
figure of 1 shilling 6 pence a pound!
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.
THE LAST.
There came a day, not very long after the events narrated in the
previous chapter, when a grand wedding took place in Yarmouth.
But it was not meant to be a grand one, by any means. Quite the
contrary. The parties principally concerned were modest, retiring, and
courted privacy. But the more they courted privacy, the more did that
condition--like a coy maiden--fly away from them.
The name of the bride was Ruth, and the name of the bridegroom began,--
as Captain Bream was fond of saying--with a Dee.
Neither bride nor groom had anything particular to do with the sea, yet
that wedding might have easily been mistaken for a fisherman's wedding--
as well as a semi-public one, so numerous were the salts--young and
old--who attended it; some with invitation, and others without. You
see, the ceremony being performed in the old parish church, any one who
chose had a right to be there and look on.
The reason of this nautical character of the wedding was not far to
seek, for had not the bridegroom--whose name began with a Dee--risked
his life in rescuing from the deep a Bright--we might almost say the
brightest--young life belonging to the fishing fleets of the North Sea?
And was not the lovely bride one of the best and staunchest friends of
the fisherman? And was she not mixed up, somehow, with the history of
that good old sea-captain--if not actually a relation of his--who
preached so powerfully, and who laboured so earnestly to turn seamen
from darkness to light? And had not the wedding been expressly delayed
until the period of one of the smacks' return to port, so that six
fishermen--namely, Joe Davidson, Ned Spivin, Luke Trevor, John Gunter,
Billy Bright, and Zulu--might be invited guests? Besides these, there
were the skipper and crew of the gospel-ship which was also in port at
that time; and other fishermen guests there were, known by such names as
Mann, White, Snow, Johnston, Goodchild, Brown, Bowers, Tooke, Rogers,
Snell, Moore, Roberts, and many more--all good men and true--who formed
part of that great population of 12,000 which is always afloat on the
North Sea.
Besides these guests, and a host of others who were attracted by the
unusual interest displayed in this wedding, there were several people
with whom we may claim some slight acquaintance,--such as Miss Jessie
Seaward and her sister, who wept much with joy, and laughed not a little
at being so foolish as to cry, and Liffie Lee, who was roused with
excitement to the condition of a half-tamed wildcat, but was so dressed
up and brushed down and washed out that her best friend might have
failed to recognise her. But if we go on, we shall never have done--for
the whole of Yarmouth seemed to be there--high and low, rich and poor!
Of course Mrs Dotropy was also there, grand, confused, sententious as
ever, amiable, and unable to command her feelings--in a state, so to
speak, of melting magnificence. And a great many "swell" people--as
Billy styled them--came down from London, for Mrs Dotropy, to their
disgust, had positively refused to have the wedding in the West End
mansion, for reasons best known to herself.
You should have heard the cheer that followed the happy couple when they
finally left the church and drove away! We do not refer to the cheering
of the multitude; that, though very well in its way, was a mere
mosquito-squeak to the deep-toned deafening, reverberating shout of an
enthusiasm--born upon the sea, fed on the bread and water of life,
strengthened alike by the breezes of success and the gales of
adversity--which burst in hurricane violence from the leathern lungs and
throats of the North Sea fishermen! We leave it, reader, to your
imagination.
There was no wedding breakfast proper, for the happy pair left Yarmouth
immediately after the knot was tied, but there was a small select party
which drove off in a series of cabs to a feast prepared in a certain
cottage not far from the town. This party was composed chiefly of
fishermen and their wives and children. It was headed by Captain Bream
and his sister Mrs Bright. In the same carriage were Mrs Dotropy, the
Miss Seawards, and Mrs Joe Davidson and her baby. It was a big
old-fashioned carriage capable of holding six inside, and Billy Bright
"swarmed" upon the dickey.
Arrived at the cottage, which had a fine lawn in front and commanded a
splendid view of the sea, Captain Bream got down, took up a position at
the garden-gate, and, shaking hands with each guest as he or she
entered, bade him or her welcome to "Short Blue Cottage!"
"'Tis a pleasant anchorage," he said to the sisters Seaward as they
passed in, "very pleasant at the end of life's voyage. Praise the Lord
who gave it me! Show them the way, Nellie; they'll know it better
before long. You'll find gooseberry bushes in the back garden, an' the
theological library in the starboard attic. Their own berths are on the
ground-floor."
You may be sure that with such a host the guests were not long in making
themselves at home.
Captain Bream had not invited the party merely to a wedding feast. It
was the season of fruits and flowers, and he had set his heart on his
friends making a day of it. Accordingly, he had made elaborate
preparations for enjoyment. With that practical sagacity which
frequently distinguishes the nautical mind, he had provided bowls and
quoits for the men; battledore and shuttlecock for the younger women;
football and cricket and hoops, with some incomprehensible Eastern games
for the children, and a large field at the side of the cottage afforded
room for all without much chance of collision.
The feast was, of course, a strictly temperance one, and we need
scarcely say it was all the more enjoyable on that account.
"You see, my friends," said the host, referring to this in one of his
brief speeches, "as long as it may please God to leave me at anchor in
this snug port, I'll never let a drop o' strong drink enter my doors,
except in the form of physic, and even then I'll have the bottle
labelled `poison--to be taken under doctor's prescription.' So, my
lads--my friends, I mean, beggin' the ladies' pardon--you'll have to
drink this toast, and all the other toasts, in lemonade, ginger beer,
soda water, seltzer, zoedone, tea, coffee, or cold water, all of which
wholesome beverages have been supplied in overflowing abundance to this
fallen world, and are to be found represented on this table."
"Hear! hear!" from John Gunter, and it was wonderful to hear the
improvement in the tone of Gunter's voice since he had left off strong
drink. His old foe, but now fast friend, Luke Trevor, who sat beside
him, echoed the "hear! hear!" with such enthusiasm that all the others
burst into a laugh, and ended in a hearty cheer.
"Now, fill up--fill up, lads," continued the captain. "Let it be a
bumper, whatever tipple you may choose. If our drink is better than it
used to be, our cups ought not to be less full--and my toast is worthy
of all honour. I drink to the success and prosperity, temporal and
spiritual, of the North Sea Trawlers,"--there was a symptom of a
gathering cheer at this point, but the captain checked it with a raised
finger, "especially to that particular fleet which goes by the name of
the `_Short Blue_!'"
The pent-up storm burst forth now with unrestrained vehemence, insomuch
that three little ragged boys who had climbed on the low garden wall to
watch proceedings, fell off backwards as if shot by the mere sound!
Observing this, and being near them, Mrs Bright rose, quietly leaned
over the wall, and emptied a basket of strawberries on their heads by
way of consolation.
We cannot afford space for the captain's speech in full. Suffice it to
say that he renewed his former promise to re-visit the fleet and spend
some time among the fishermen as often as he could manage to do so, and
wound up by coupling the name of Joe Davidson, skipper of the _Evening
Star_, with the toast.
Whereupon, up started Joe with flashing eyes; (intense enthusiasm
overcoming sailor-like modesty;) and delivered a speech in which words
seemed to tumble out of him anyhow and everyhow--longwise, shortwise,
askew, and upside-down--without much reference to grammar, but with a
powerful tendency in the direction of common sense. We have not space
for this speech either, but we give the concluding words:
"I tell 'ee wot it is, boys. Cap'n Bream has drunk prosperity to the
_Short Blue_, an' so have we, for we love it, but there's another _Short
Blue_--"
A perfect storm of cheering broke forth at this point and drowned Joe
altogether. It would probably have blown over the three ragged boys a
second time, but they were getting used to such fire, and, besides, were
engaged with strawberries.
"There's another _Short Blue_," resumed Joe, when the squall was over,
"which my missis an' me was talkin' about this very day, when our
blessed babby fell slap out o' bed an' set up such a howl--"
Joe could get no further, because of the terrific peals of laughter
which his words, coupled with the pathetic sincerity of his expression,
drew forth. Again and again he tried to speak, but his innocent look
and his mighty shoulders, and tender voice, with the thoughts of that
"blessed babby," were too much for his mates, so that he was obliged to
finish off by shouting in a voice of thunder--"Let's drink success to
SHORT BLUE COTTAGE!" and, with a toss of his hand in the true North
Sea-salute style, sat down in a tempest of applause.
"Yes," as an Irish fisherman remarked, "it was a great day intoirely,"
that day at _Short Blue Cottage_, and as no description can do it full
justice, we will turn to other matters--remarking, however, before
quitting the subject, that we do not tell the reader the exact spot
where the cottage is situated, as publicity on this point might subject
our modest captain to much inconvenience!
"Billy," said Captain Bream one day, a few months after the wedding-day
just described, "come with me to the Theological Library; I want to have
a chat with 'ee, lad."
Billy followed his new-found uncle, and sat down opposite to him.
"Now, lad, the time has come when you and I must have it out. You're
fond o' hard work, I'm told."
"Well, uncle, I won't say as I'm exactly fond of it, but I don't object
to it."
"So far good," returned the captain. "Well, you know I'm your uncle,
an' I've got a goodish lot of tin, an' I'm goin' to leave the most of it
to your mother--for she's the only relation I have on earth,--but you
needn't expect that I'm goin' to leave it to _you_ after her."
"I never said as I _did_ expect that, uncle," said Billy with such a
straightforward look of simplicity that the captain burst into one of
his thundering laughs.
"Good, my boy," he said, in a more confidential tone. "Well, then, this
is how the matter stands. I've long held the opinion that those who
_can_ work _should_ work, and that all or nearly all the cash that
people have to spare should be given or left to those who _can't_ work--
such as poor invalids--specially women--and those who have come to grief
one way or another, and lost the use o' their limbs."
"Right you are, uncle," said Billy with strong emphasis.
"Glad you agree so heartily, boy. Well, that bein' so, I mean to leave
the interest of all that I have to your dear mother as long as she
lives--except a legacy to the Miss Seawards and some other poor folk
that I know of. Meanwhile, they have agreed, as long as I live, to stay
wi' me here in this cottage, as my librarians and assistants in the
matter of Theology. I had a tough job to get 'em to agree, but I
managed it at last. So you see, Billy, I don't mean to leave you a
sixpence."
"Well, uncle," said Billy with a quiet look, "I don't care a brass
farden!"
Again the captain laughed. "But," he continued, "I'm very fond o' you,
Billy, an' there's no reason why I shouldn't help you, to help yourself.
So, if you're willin', I'll send you to the best of schools, and after
that to college, an' give you the best of education,--in short, make a
man of you, an' put you in the way of makin' your fortune."
Captain Bream looked steadily into the fair boy's handsome face as he
made this glowing statement; but, somewhat to his disappointment, he got
no responsive glance from Billy. On the contrary, the boy became graver
and graver, and at last his mind seemed lost in meditation while his
gaze was fixed on the floor.
"What think ye, lad?" demanded the captain.
Billy seemed to awake as from a dream, and then, looking and speaking
more like a man than he had ever done before, he said--
"It is kind of you, uncle--very kind--but my dear dad once said _he_
would make a man of me, and he _did_! I'll do my best to larn as much
as ever I can o' this world's larnin', but I'll never leave the sea."
"Now, my boy," said the captain, "think well before you decide. You
could do far more good if you were a highly educated man, you know."
"Right you _may_ be, uncle, an' I don't despise edication, by no means,
but some folk are born to it, and others ain't. Besides, good of the
best kind can be done without _much_ edication, when the heart's right
an' the will strong, as I've seed before now on the North Sea."
"I'm sorry you look at it this way, Billy, for I don't see that I can do
much for you if you determine to remain a fisherman."
"Oh! yes, you can, uncle," cried Billy, rising up in his eagerness and
shaking back his curly hair. "You can do this. You can take the money
you intended to waste on my schoolin', an' send out books an' tracts and
medicines, an' all sorts o' things to the fishin' fleets. An' if you're
awful rich--as you seem to be by the way you talk--you can give some
thousands o' pounds an' fit out two or three more smacks as you did the
noo _Evenin' Star_, an' hand 'em over to the Mission to become
gospel-ships to the fleets that have got none yet. That's the way to do
good wi' your coppers. As for me--my daddy was a fisherman and my
mother was a fisherman's wife, and I'm a fisherman to the back-bone.
What my father was before me, I mean to be after him, so, God
permittin', I'll sail wi' Joe Davidson till I'm old enough to take
command o' the _Evenin' Star_; and then I'll stick through thick an'
thin to the North Sea, and live and die a fisherman of the _Short
Blue_!"
Billy Bright's determination was unalterable, so Captain Bream fell in
with it, and heartily set about that part of the work which his nephew
had recommended to him.
Whether he and Billy will remain of the same mind to the end, the future
alone can show--we cannot tell; but this we--you and I, Reader--can do
if we will--we can sympathise with our enthusiastic young Trawler, and
do what in us lies to soften the hard lot of the fisherman, by aiding
those whose life-work it is to fish for souls of men, and to toil summer
and winter, in the midst of life and death, tempest and cold, to rescue
the perishing on the North Sea.
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