The Lively Poll: A Tale of the North Sea by R. M. Ballantyne (top e book reader .TXT) 📕

shipped for market is always regarded as his first and all-important duty by the deep-sea trawler, who, until it is performed, will not condescend to give attention to such secondary matters as food and repose. These are usually taken when opportunity serves. Pipes and recreation, in the form of games at cards, draughts, dominoes, and yarns, are also snatched at intervals between the periods of severe toil. Nevertheless, there are times when the fisherman’s experience is very different. When prolonged calms render fishing impossible, then time hangs heavily on his hands, and—in regard to the fleet of which we write and all those similarly circumstanced—the only recreations available are sleeping, drinking, gambling, and yarn-spinning. True, such calms do not frequently occur in winter, but they sometimes do, and one of them prevailed on the afternoon of the particular winter’s day of which we treat.

After the departure of the carrier that day, the wind fell so much that the admiral deemed it advisable not to put down the nets. Before long the light air died away altogether, and the fleet was left floating idly, in picturesque groups and with flapping sails, on the glassy sea.

Among the groups thus scattered about, there was one smack which had quietly joined the fleet when the men were busy transhipping or “ferrying” the fish to the steam-carrier. Its rig was so similar to that of the other smacks that a stranger might have taken it for one of the fleet but the fishermen knew better. It was that enemy of souls, that floating grog-shop, that pirate of the North Sea, the coper.

“Good luck to ’ee,” muttered Joe Stubley, whose sharp, because sympathetic, eye was first to observe the vessel.

“It’s bad luck to you anyhow,” remarked Bob the cook, who chanced to pass at the moment.

“Mind your own business, Lumpy, an’ none o’ your sauce, if you don’t want a rope’s-endin’,” retorted the man.

“Ain’t I just mindin’ my own business? Why, wot is sauce but part of a cook’s business?” returned the boy.

“I won’t go to her,” thought Stephen Lockley, who overheard the conversation, and in whose breast a struggle had been going on, for he also had seen the coper, and, his case-bottle having run dry, he was severely tempted to have it replenished.

“Would it not be as well, skipper, to go aboard o’ the coper, as she’s so near at hand!” said the mate, coming aft at the moment.

“Well, no, Peter; I think it would be as well to drop the coper altogether. The abominable stuff the Dutchmen sell us is enough to poison a shark. You know I’m not a teetotaller, but if I’m to be killed at all, I’d rather be killed by good spirits than bad.”

“Right you are,” replied Jay, “but, you see, a lot of us are hard up for baccy, and—”

“Of course, of course; the men must have baccy,” interrupted the skipper, “an’ we don’t need to buy their vile brandy unless we like. Yes, get the boat out, Jay, an’ we’ll go.”

Stephen Lockley was not the first man who has deceived himself as to his motives. Tobacco was his excuse for visiting the floating den of temptation, but a craving for strong drink was his real motive. This craving had been created imperceptibly, and had been growing by degrees for some years past, twining its octopus arms tighter and tighter round his being, until the strong and hearty young fisherman was slowly but surely becoming an abject slave, though he had fancied himself heretofore as free as the breezes that whistled round his vessel. Now, for the first time, Lockley began to have uncomfortable suspicions about himself. Being naturally bold and candid, he turned sharply round, and, as it were, faced himself with the stern question, “Stephen, are you sure that it’s baccy that tempts you aboard of the coper? Are you clear that schnapps has nothing to do with it?”

It is one of the characteristics of the slavery to which we refer, that although strong-minded and resolute men put pointed questions of this sort to themselves not unfrequently, they very seldom return answers to them. Their once vigorous spirits, it would seem, are still capable of an occasional heave and struggle—a sort of flash in the pan—but that is all. The influence of the depraved appetite immediately weighs them down, and they relapse into willing submission to the bondage. Lockley had not returned an answer to his own question when the mate reported that the boat was ready. Without a word he jumped into her, but kept thinking to himself, “We’ll only get baccy, an’ I’ll leave the coper before the lads can do themselves any harm. I’ll not taste a drop myself—not a single drop o’ their vile stuff.”

The Dutch skipper of the coper had a round fat face and person, and a jovial, hearty manner. He received the visitors with an air of open-handed hospitality which seemed to indicate that nothing was further from his thoughts than gain.

“We’ve come for baccy,” said Lockley, as he leaped over the bulwarks and shook hands, “I s’pose you’ve plenty of that?”

“Ya,” the Dutchman had “plenty tabac—ver sheep too, an’ mit sooch a goot vlavour!”

He was what the Yankees would call a ’cute fellow, that Dutchman. Observing the emphasis with which Lockley mentioned tobacco, he understood at once that the skipper did not want his men to drink, and laid his snares accordingly.

“Com’,” he said, in a confidential tone, taking hold of Lockley’s arm, “com’ b’low, an’ you shall zee de tabac, an’ smell him yourself.”

Our skipper accepted the invitation, went below, and was soon busy commenting on the weed, which, as the Dutchman truly pointed out, was “so sheep as well as goot.” But another smell in that cabin overpowered that of the tobacco. It was the smell of Hollands, or some sort of spirit, which soon aroused the craving that had gained such power over the fisherman.

“Have some schnapps!” said the Dutch skipper, suddenly producing a case-bottle as square as himself, and pouring out a glass.

“No, thank ’ee,” said Stephen firmly.

“No!” exclaimed the other, with well-feigned surprise. “You not drink?”

“Oh yes, I drink,” replied Lockley, with a laugh, “but not to-day.”

“I not ask you to buy,” rejoined the tempter, holding the spirits a little nearer to his victim’s nose. “Joost take von leetle glass for goot vellowship.”

It seemed rude to decline a proposal so liberally made, and with such a smiling countenance. Lockley took the glass, drank it off and went hurriedly on deck, followed by the Dutchman, with the case-bottle in one hand and the glass in the other. Of course the men had no objection to be treated. They had a small glass all round.

“That’s the stuff for my money!” cried Stubley, smacking his lips. “I say, old chap, let’s have a bottle of it. None o’ your thimblefuls for me. I like a good swig when I’m at it.”

“You’d better wait till we get aboard, Joe, before you begin,” suggested Lockley, who was well aware of Joe’s tendencies.

Joe admitted the propriety of this advice, but said he would treat his mates to one glass before starting, by “way o’ wetting their whistles.”

“Ya, joost von glass vor vet deir vistles,” echoed the Dutchman, with a wink and a look which produced a roar of laughter. The glass was accepted by all, including Lockley, who had been quite demoralised by the first glass.

The victory was gained by the tempter for that time at least. The fishermen who went for baccy, remained for schnapps, and some of them were very soon more than half drunk. It was a fierce, maddening kind of spirit, which produced its powerful effects quickly.

The skipper of the Lively Poll kept himself better in hand than his men, but, being very sociable in disposition, and finding the Dutchman a humorous and chatty fellow, he saw no reason to hurry them away. Besides, his vessel was close alongside, and nothing could be done in the fishing way during the dead calm that prevailed.

While he and his men were engaged in a lively conversation about nothing in particular—though they were as earnest over it as if the fate of empires depended on their judgment—the Dutch skipper rose to welcome another boat’s crew, which approached on the other side of the coper. So eager and fuddled were the disputants of the Lively Poll that they did not at first observe the newcomers.

It was the Fairy’s boat, with Dick Martin in charge.

“Hallo, Dick, mein boy; gif me your vlipper.”

A sign from Martin induced the Dutchman to lean over the side and speak in lower tones.

“Let’s have a keg of it,” said Dick, with a mysterious look. “Ned Bryce sent me for a good supply, an’ here’s fish to pay for it.”

The fish—which of course belonged to the owner of the Fairy, not to Ned Bryce—were quickly passed up, and a keg of spirits passed down. Then the Dutchman asked if Dick or his men wanted tabac or schnapps for themselves.

“I vill take jersey, or vish, or sail, or boots, or vat you please in exchange. Com’ aboard, anyhow, an’ have von leetle glass.”

Dick and his men having thus smartly transacted their chief business, leaped on deck, made fast their painter, let the boat drop astern, and were soon smoking and drinking amicably with the crew of the Lively Poll. Not long afterwards they were quarrelling. Then Dick Martin, who was apt to become pugnacious over his liquor, asserted stoutly that something or other “was.” Joe Stubley swore that it “was not,” whereupon Dick Martin planted his fist on Joe Stubley’s nose and laid its growly owner flat on the deck.

Starting up, Joe was about to retaliate, when Lockley, seizing him by the neck thrust him over the side into the boat, and ordered his more or less drunken crew to follow. They did so with a bad grace, but the order was given in a tone which they well understood must not be disobeyed.

As they pushed off, Stubley staggered and fell into the sea. Another moment and he would have been beyond all human aid, but Lockley caught a glimpse of his shaggy black head as it sank. Plunging his long right arm down, and holding on to the boat with his left, he caught the drowning man by the hair. Strong and willing arms helped, and Stubley was hauled inboard—restored to life, opportunity, and hope—and flung into the bottom of the boat.

The oars were shipped, and they pulled for the Lively Poll. As they rode away they saw that other boats were proceeding towards the coper. The men in them were all anxious to buy baccy. No mention was made of drink. Oh dear no! They cared nothing for that, though, of course, they had no sort of objection to accept the wily Dutchman’s generous offer of “von leetle glass vor goot vellowship.”