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.