The Lively Poll: A Tale of the North Sea by R. M. Ballantyne (top e book reader .TXT) š
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Manx Bradley was an admiralāāadmiral of the fleetāāthough it must be admitted that his personal appearance did not suggest a position so exalted.
With rough pilot coat and souā-wester, scarred and tarred hands, easy, rolling gait, and boots from heel to hip, with inch-thick soles, like those of a dramatic buccaneer, he bore as little resemblance to the popular idea of a lace-coated, brass-buttoned, cock-hatted admiral as a sea-urchin bears to a cockle-shell. Nevertheless Manx was a real admiralāas real as Nelson, and much harder worked.
His fleet of nearly two hundred fishing-smacks lay bobbing about one fine autumn evening on the North Sea. The vessels cruised round each other, out and in, hither and thither, in all positions, now on this tack, now on that, bowsprits pointing north, south, east, and west, as if without purpose, or engaged in a nautical game of ātouch.ā Nevertheless all eyes were bent earnestly on the admiralās vessel, for it was literally the āflagship,ā being distinguishable only by a small flag attached to its fore stay.
The fleet was hovering, awaiting orders from the admiral. A fine smart āfishing breezeā was blowing. The setting sun sparkled on the wave-crests; thin fleecy clouds streaked the sky; everything gave promise of a satisfactory night, and a good haul of fish in the morning.
With the quiet air of an amiable despot Manx nodded his venerable head. Up went the signal, and in a few minutes the fleet was reduced to order. Every smack swept round into position, and, bending over on the same tack, they all rushed like a shoal of startled minnows, away in the same directionāthe direction signalled by the admiral. Another signal from our venerable despot sent between one and two hundred trawl-nets down to the bottom of the sea, nets that were strong enough to haul up tons of fish, and rocks, and wreckage, and rubbish, with fifty-feet beams, like young masts, with iron enough in bands and chains to sink them, and so arranged that the beams were raised a few feet off the ground, thus keeping the mouths of the great nets open, while cables many fathoms in length held the gears to their respective vessels.
So the North Sea Fishermen began the nightās workāthe Nancy, the Coquette, the Rattler, the Truant, the Faith, the Playfellow, the Cherub, and all the rest of them. Of course, although the breeze was fresh, they went along slowly, because of the ponderous tails that they had to draw.
Do you ask, reader, why all this order? why this despotic admiral, and all this unity of action? why not āevery man for himselfā? Let me reply by asking you to think for a moment.
Wind blowing in one direction, perhaps you are aware, does not necessarily imply vessels sailing in the same direction. With variation of courses possible, nearly two hundred tails out astern, and no unity of action, there would arise the certainty of varied and striking incident. The Nancy would go crashing into the bows of the Coquette, the bowsprit of the Rallier would stir up the cabin of the Truant, the tail of the Faith would get entangled with that of the Cherub, and both might hook on to the tail of the Playfellow; in short, the awful result would be wreck and wretchedness on the North Sea, howling despair in the markets of Columbia and Billingsgate, and no fish for breakfast in the great metropolis. There is reason for most thingsāspecially good reason for the laws that regulate the fisheries of the North Sea, the fleets of which are over twelve in number, and the floating population over twelve thousand men and boys.
For several hours this shoal of vessels, with full sails and twinkling lights, like a moving city on the deep, continued to tug and plunge along over the ābanksā of the German ocean, to the satisfaction of the fishermen, and the surprise no doubt of the fish. About midnight the admiral again signalled, by rocket and flares, āHaul up,ā and immediately, with capstan, bar, and steam, the obedient crews began to coil in their tails.
It is not our intention to trouble the reader with a minute account of this process or the grand result, but, turning to a particular smack, we solicit attention to that. She is much like the others in size and rig. Her name is the Lively Poll. Stephen Lockley is her skipper, as fine a young fisherman as one could wish to seeātall, handsome, free, hearty, and powerful. But indeed all deep-sea fishermen possess the last quality. They would be useless if not physically strong. Many a Samson and Hercules is to be found in the North Sea fleets. āNo better nursery or training-school in time of war,ā they say. That may be true, but it is pleasanter to think of them as a training-school for times of peace.
The night was very dark. Black clouds overspread the sky, so that no light save the dim rays of a lantern cheered the men as they went tramp, tramp, round the capstan, slowly coiling in the trawl-warp. Sheets of spray sometimes burst over the side and drenched them, but they cared nothing for that, being pretty well protected by oilskins, souā-westers, and sea-boots. Straining and striving, sometimes gaining an inch or two, sometimes a yard or so, while the smack plunged and kicked, the contest seemed like a doubtful one between vis inertiae and the human will. Two hours and a half it lasted, until the great trawl-beam came to the surface, and was got up on the vesselās side, after which these indomitable men proceeded to claw up the huge net with their fingers, straining and heaving with might and main.
āYo, ho!ā cried the skipper, āheave her in, boys!ā
āHoy!ā growled Peter Jay, the mate, giving a tug that should have torn the net to piecesābut didnāt!
āLooks like as if weād got hold of a lump oā wreck,ā gasped Bob Lumsden, the smackās boy, who was also the smackās cook.
āNo, no, Lumpy,ā remarked David Duffy, who was no respecter of names or persons, āit aināt a wreck, itās a mermaid. Iāve bin told they weigh over six ton when young. Look out when she comes aboardāsheāll bite.ā
āI do believe itās old Neptune himself,ā said Jim Freeman, another of the āhands.ā āThereās his head; anā something like his pitchfork.ā
āIt does feel heavier than I ever knowed it afore,ā remarked Fred Martin.
āThatās all along of your beinā ill, Fred,ā said the mate.
āIt may be so,ā returned Martin, āfor I do feel queer, anā aāmost as weak as a baby. Come heave away!ā
It was indeed a huge mass of wreck entangled with sea-weed which had rendered the net so heavy on that occasion, but there was also a satisfactory mass of fish in the ācod-end,ā or bag, at the extremity of the net, for, when, by the aid of the winch, this cod-end was finally got inboard, and the cord fastening the bottom of it was untied, fish of all kinds gushed over the wet decks in a living cataract.
There were a few expressions of satisfaction from the men, but not much conversation, for heavy work had still to be doneādone, too, in the dark. Turbot, sole, cod, skate, and all the other treasures of the deep, had to be then and there gutted, cleaned, and packed in square boxes called ātrunks,ā so as to be ready for the steam-carrier next morning. The net also had to be cleared and let down for another catch before daybreak.
Now it is just possible that it may never have occurred to the reader to consider how difficult, not to say dangerous, must be the operation of gutting, cleaning, and packing fish on a dark night with a smack dancing a North Sea hornpipe under oneās feet. Among the dangers are two which merit notice. The one is the fishermanās liability, while working among the āruck,ā to run a sharp fish-bone into his hand, the other to gash himself with his knife while attempting to operate on the tail of a skate. Either accident may be slight or it may be severe.
A sudden exclamation from one of the men while employed in this cleaning and packing work told that something had happened.
āThere goes Martin,ā growled Joe Stubley; āyou can always tell when itās him, ācause he donāt curse anā swear.ā
Stubleyāor Stubby, as his mates called himādid not intend this for a compliment by any means, though it may sound like one. Being an irreligious as well as a stupid man, he held that all who professed religion were hypocritical and silly. Manliness, in poor Joās mind, consisted of swagger, quiet insolence, cool cursing, and general godlessness. With the exception of Fred Martin, the rest of the crew of the Lively Poll resembled him in his irreligion, but they were very different in character,āLockley, the skipper being genial; Peter Jay, the mate, very appreciative of humour, though quiet and sedate; Duffy, jovial and funny; Freeman, kindly, though reckless; and Bob, the boy-cook, easy-going both as to mind and morals. They all liked Martin, however, in spite of his religion, for he practised much and preached little.
āWhatās wrong?ā asked Lockley, who stood at the tiller looking out for lights ahead.
āOnly a bone into my left hand,ā replied Martin, going on with his somewhat dirty labours.
āWell that itās no worse, boy,ā observed Freeman, āfor weāve got no medicine-chest to fly to like that lucky Short-Blue fleet.ā
āThatās true, Jim,ā responded Martin; āI wish we had a Gospel smack with our fleet, for our souls need repairing as well as our bodies.ā
āThere you go,ā growled Stubley, flinging down a just finished fish with a flap of indignation. āA feller canāt mention the name oā them mission craft without rousinā you up to some oā your hypocritical chaff. For my part, if it wasnāt for the medicine-chest and the mittens, I think weād be better by a long way without Gospel ships, as ye call āem. Why, what good āave they done the Short-Blues? Iām sure we doesnāt want churches, or prayinā, or psalm-singinā or bookāā
āSpeak for yourself, Jo,ā interrupted Puffy.
āAlthough your head may be as thick as a three-inch plank, through which nothinā aāmost can pass either from books or anything else, you mustnāt think weāve bin all built on the same lines. I likes a good book myself, anā, though I donāt care about prayinā or psalm-singinā, seeinā I donāt understand āem, I say āgood luckā to the mission smacks, if it was for nothinā else than the books, anā doctor stuff, anā mitts what the shoregoinā ladiesābless their hearts!āis so fond oā sendinā to us.ā
āAy, an the cheap baccy, too, that they say theyāre a-goinā to send to us,ā added Freeman.
āPārāaps theyāll send us cheap grog at last,ā said Puffy, with a laugh.
āTheyāll hardly do that,ā remarked Martin; āfor itās to try anā keep us from goinā for our baccy to the copers that theyāve started this new plan.ā
āI wish āem success,ā said Lockley, in a serious tone. And there was good ground for that wish, for our genial and handsome skipper was peculiarly weak on the point of strong drink, that being to him a powerful, almost irresistible, temptation.
When the fish-cleaning and packing were completed, the men went below to snatch a few hoursā repose. Wet, weary, and sleepy, but with a large stock of reserve strength in them, they retired to the little cabin, in which they could scarcely stand up without bumping their heads, and could hardly turn round without hitting their elbows on something or other. Kicking off their long boots, and throwing aside oilskin coats and souā-westers, they tumbled into their narrow ābunksā and fell asleep almost without winking.
There was one among them, however, who did not sleep long that night. Fred Martin was soon
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