The Lively Poll: A Tale of the North Sea

Chapter One

The Fleet

Manx Bradley was an admiral—“admiral of the fleet”—though it must be admitted that his personal appearance did not suggest a position so exalted.

With rough pilot coat and sou’-wester, scarred and tarred hands, easy, rolling gait, and boots from heel to hip, with inch-thick soles, like those of a dramatic buccaneer, he bore as little resemblance to the popular idea of a lace-coated, brass-buttoned, cock-hatted admiral as a sea-urchin bears to a cockle-shell. Nevertheless Manx was a real admiral—as real as Nelson, and much harder worked.

His fleet of nearly two hundred fishing-smacks lay bobbing about one fine autumn evening on the North Sea. The vessels cruised round each other, out and in, hither and thither, in all positions, now on this tack, now on that, bowsprits pointing north, south, east, and west, as if without purpose, or engaged in a nautical game of “touch.” Nevertheless all eyes were bent earnestly on the admiral’s vessel, for it was literally the “flagship,” being distinguishable only by a small flag attached to its fore stay.

The fleet was hovering, awaiting orders from the admiral. A fine smart “fishing breeze” was blowing. The setting sun sparkled on the wave-crests; thin fleecy clouds streaked the sky; everything gave promise of a satisfactory night, and a good haul of fish in the morning.

With the quiet air of an amiable despot Manx nodded his venerable head. Up went the signal, and in a few minutes the fleet was reduced to order. Every smack swept round into position, and, bending over on the same tack, they all rushed like a shoal of startled minnows, away in the same direction—the 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 night’s work—the Nancy, the Coquette, the Rattler, the Truant, the Faith, the Playfellow, the Cherub, and all the rest of them. Of course, although the breeze was fresh, they went along slowly, because of the ponderous tails that they had to draw.

Do you ask, reader, why all this order? why this despotic admiral, and all this unity of action? why not “every man for himself”? Let me reply by asking you to think for a moment.

Wind blowing in one direction, perhaps you are aware, does not necessarily imply vessels sailing in the same direction. With variation of courses possible, nearly two hundred tails out astern, and no unity of action, there would arise the certainty of varied and striking incident. The Nancy would go crashing into the bows of the Coquette, the bowsprit of the Rallier would stir up the cabin of the Truant, the tail of the Faith would get entangled with that of the Cherub, and both might hook on to the tail of the Playfellow; in short, the awful result would be wreck and wretchedness on the North Sea, howling despair in the markets of Columbia and Billingsgate, and no fish for breakfast in the great metropolis. There is reason for most things—specially good reason for the laws that regulate the fisheries of the North Sea, the fleets of which are over twelve in number, and the floating population over twelve thousand men and boys.

For several hours this shoal of vessels, with full sails and twinkling lights, like a moving city on the deep, continued to tug and plunge along over the “banks” of the German ocean, to the satisfaction of the fishermen, and the surprise no doubt of the fish. About midnight the admiral again signalled, by rocket and flares, “Haul up,” and immediately, with capstan, bar, and steam, the obedient crews began to coil in their tails.

It is not our intention to trouble the reader with a minute account of this process or the grand result, but, turning to a particular smack, we solicit attention to that. She is much like the others in size and rig. Her name is the Lively Poll. Stephen Lockley is her skipper, as fine a young fisherman as one could wish to see—tall, handsome, free, hearty, and powerful. But indeed all deep-sea fishermen possess the last quality. They would be useless if not physically strong. Many a Samson and Hercules is to be found in the North Sea fleets. “No better nursery or training-school in time of war,” they say. That may be true, but it is pleasanter to think of them as a training-school for times of peace.

The night was very dark. Black clouds overspread the sky, so that no light save the dim rays of a lantern cheered the men as they went tramp, tramp, round the capstan, slowly coiling in the trawl-warp. Sheets of spray sometimes burst over the side and drenched them, but they cared nothing for that, being pretty well protected by oilskins, sou’-westers, and sea-boots. Straining and striving, sometimes gaining an inch or two, sometimes a yard or so, while the smack plunged and kicked, the contest seemed like a doubtful one between vis inertiae and the human will. Two hours and a half it lasted, until the great trawl-beam came to the surface, and was got up on the vessel’s side, after which these indomitable men proceeded to claw up the huge net with their fingers, straining and heaving with might and main.

“Yo, ho!” cried the skipper, “heave her in, boys!”

“Hoy!” growled Peter Jay, the mate, giving a tug that should have torn the net to pieces—but didn’t!

“Looks like as if we’d got hold of a lump o’ wreck,” gasped Bob Lumsden, the smack’s boy, who was also the smack’s cook.

“No, no, Lumpy,” remarked David Duffy, who was no respecter of names or persons, “it ain’t a wreck, it’s a mermaid. I’ve bin told they weigh over six ton when young. Look out when she comes aboard—she’ll bite.”

“I do believe it’s old Neptune himself,” said Jim Freeman, another of the “hands.” “There’s his head; an’ something like his pitchfork.”

“It does feel heavier than I ever knowed it afore,” remarked Fred Martin.

“That’s all along of your bein’ ill, Fred,” said the mate.

“It may be so,” returned Martin, “for I do feel queer, an’ a’most as weak as a baby. Come heave away!”

It was indeed a huge mass of wreck entangled with sea-weed which had rendered the net so heavy on that occasion, but there was also a satisfactory mass of fish in the “cod-end,” or bag, at the extremity of the net, for, when, by the aid of the winch, this cod-end was finally got inboard, and the cord fastening the bottom of it was untied, fish of all kinds gushed over the wet decks in a living cataract.

There were a few expressions of satisfaction from the men, but not much conversation, for heavy work had still to be done—done, too, in the dark. Turbot, sole, cod, skate, and all the other treasures of the deep, had to be then and there gutted, cleaned, and packed in square boxes called “trunks,” so as to be ready for the steam-carrier next morning. The net also had to be cleared and let down for another catch before daybreak.

Now it is just possible that it may never have occurred to the reader to consider how difficult, not to say dangerous, must be the operation of gutting, cleaning, and packing fish on a dark night with a smack dancing a North Sea hornpipe under one’s feet. Among the dangers are two which merit notice. The one is the fisherman’s liability, while working among the “ruck,” to run a sharp fish-bone into his hand, the other to gash himself with his knife while attempting to operate on the tail of a skate. Either accident may be slight or it may be severe.

A sudden exclamation from one of the men while employed in this cleaning and packing work told that something had happened.

“There goes Martin,” growled Joe Stubley; “you can always tell when it’s him, ’cause he don’t curse an’ swear.”

Stubley—or Stubby, as his mates called him—did 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 Jo’s mind, consisted of swagger, quiet insolence, cool cursing, and general godlessness. With the exception of Fred Martin, the rest of the crew of the Lively Poll resembled him in his irreligion, but they were very different in character,—Lockley, the skipper being genial; Peter Jay, the mate, very appreciative of humour, though quiet and sedate; Duffy, jovial and funny; Freeman, kindly, though reckless; and Bob, the boy-cook, easy-going both as to mind and morals. They all liked Martin, however, in spite of his religion, for he practised much and preached little.

“What’s wrong?” asked Lockley, who stood at the tiller looking out for lights ahead.

“Only a bone into my left hand,” replied Martin, going on with his somewhat dirty labours.

“Well that it’s no worse, boy,” observed Freeman, “for we’ve got no medicine-chest to fly to like that lucky Short-Blue fleet.”

“That’s true, Jim,” responded Martin; “I wish we had a Gospel smack with our fleet, for our souls need repairing as well as our bodies.”

“There you go,” growled Stubley, flinging down a just finished fish with a flap of indignation. “A feller can’t mention the name o’ them mission craft without rousin’ you up to some o’ your hypocritical chaff. For my part, if it wasn’t for the medicine-chest and the mittens, I think we’d be better by a long way without Gospel ships, as ye call ’em. Why, what good ’ave they done the Short-Blues? I’m sure we doesn’t want churches, or prayin’, or psalm-singin’ or book—”

“Speak for yourself, Jo,” interrupted Puffy.

“Although your head may be as thick as a three-inch plank, through which nothin’ a’most can pass either from books or anything else, you mustn’t think we’ve bin all built on the same lines. I likes a good book myself, an’, though I don’t care about prayin’ or psalm-singin’, seein’ I don’t understand ’em, I say ‘good luck’ to the mission smacks, if it was for nothin’ else than the books, an’ doctor stuff, an’ mitts what the shoregoin’ ladies—bless their hearts!—is so fond o’ sendin’ to us.”

“Ay, an the cheap baccy, too, that they say they’re a-goin’ to send to us,” added Freeman.

“P’r’aps they’ll send us cheap grog at last,” said Puffy, with a laugh.

“They’ll hardly do that,” remarked Martin; “for it’s to try an’ keep us from goin’ for our baccy to the copers that they’ve started this new plan.”

“I wish ’em success,” said Lockley, in a serious tone. And there was good ground for that wish, for our genial and handsome skipper was peculiarly weak on the point of strong drink, that being to him a powerful, almost irresistible, temptation.

When the fish-cleaning and packing were completed, the men went below to snatch a few hours’ repose. Wet, weary, and sleepy, but with a large stock of reserve strength in them, they retired to the little cabin, in which they could scarcely stand up without bumping their heads, and could hardly turn round without hitting their elbows on something or other. Kicking off their long boots, and throwing aside oilskin coats and sou’-westers, they tumbled into their narrow “bunks” and fell asleep almost without winking.

There was one among them, however, who did not sleep long that night. Fred Martin was soon awakened by the pain of his wound, which had begun to inflame, and by a feeling of giddiness and intense uneasiness with which he had been troubled for several days past.

Turning out at last, he sat down in front of the little iron stove that served to cook food as well as to warm the cabin, and, gazing into the embers, began to meditate on his strangely uncomfortable sensations.

“Hallo, Martin, anything wrong?” asked the mate, who descended at that moment to relight his pipe.

“I believe there is, mate. I never felt like this afore. I’ve fowt against it till I can hardly stand. I feel as if I was goin’ to knock under altogether. This hand, too, seems gittin’ bad. I do think my blood must be poisoned, or somethin’ o’ that sort. You know I don’t easily give in, but when a feller feels as if little red-hot wires was twistin’ about inside of him, an’ sees things goin’ round as if he was drunk, why—”

“Why, it’s time to think of goin’ home,” interrupted Jay, with a laugh. “But let’s have a look at you, Fred. Well, there does seem to be some o’ your riggin’ slack. Have you ever had the measles?”

“Not as I knows of.”

“Looks like it,” said the mate, lighting his pipe. “P’r’aps it’ll be as well to send you into dock to refit. You’d better turn in again, anyhow, for a snooze would do you good.”

Fred Martin acted on this advice, while Jay returned to the deck; but it was evident that the snooze was not to be had, for he continued to turn and toss uneasily, and to wonder what was wrong with him, as strong healthy men are rather apt to do when suddenly seized with sickness.

At grey dawn the admiral signalled again. The order was to haul up the nets, which had been scraping the bottom of the sea since midnight, and the whole fleet set to work without delay.

Martin turned out with the rest, and tried to defy sickness for a time, but it would not do. The strong man was obliged to succumb to a stronger than he—not, however, until he had assisted as best as he could in hauling up the trawl.

This second haul of the gear of the Lively Poll illustrated one of those mishaps to which all deep-sea trawlers are liable, and which are of frequent occurrence. A piece of wreck or a lost anchor, or something, had caught the net, and torn it badly, so that when it reached the surface all the fish had escaped.

“A night’s work for nothing!” exclaimed Stephen Lockley, with an oath.

“Might have been worse,” suggested Martin.

By that time it was broad daylight, and as they had no fish to pack, the crew busied themselves in removing the torn net from the beam, and fitting on a new one. At the same time the crews of the other smacks secured their various and varied hauls, cleaned, packed, and got ready for delivery.

The smoke of the steam-carrier was seen on the horizon early in the forenoon, and all the vessels of the fleet made for her, as chickens make for their mother in times of danger.

We may not pause here to describe the picturesque confusion that ensued—the arriving, congregating, tacking, crossing, and re-crossing of smacks; the launching of little boats, and loading them with “trunks;” the concentration of these round the steamer like minnows round a whale; the shipping of the cargo, and the tremendous hurry and energy displayed in the desire to do it quickly, and get the fish fresh to market. Suffice it to say that in less than four hours the steamer was loaded, and Fred Martin, fever-stricken and with a highly inflamed hand and arm, started on a thirty-six hours’ voyage to London.

Then the fleet sheered off and fell into order, the admiral issued his instructions, and away they all went again to continue the hard, unvarying round of hauling and toiling and moiling, in heat and cold, wet and dry, with nothing to lighten the life or cheer the heart save a game at “crib” or “all fives,” or a visit to the coper, that terrible curse of the North Sea.

Chapter Two

Accidents Afloat and Incidents Ashore

Now, although it is an undoubted fact that the skippers of the North Sea trawling smacks are first-rate seamen, it is an equally certain fact that strong drink can render them unfit for duty. One of the skippers was, if we may say so, unmanned by drink at the time the fleet sheered off from the steam-carrier, as stated in the last chapter. He was named Georgie Fox—better known in the fleet as Groggy Fox.

Unfortunately for himself as well as others, Skipper Fox had paid a visit to one of the copers the day before for the purpose of laying in a stock of tobacco, which was sold by the skipper of the floating grog-shop at 1 shilling 6 pence a pound. Of course Fox had been treated to a glass of fiery spirits, and had thereafter been induced to purchase a quantity of the same. He had continued to tipple until night, when he retired in a fuddled state to rest. On rising he tippled again, and went on tippling till his fish were put on board the steamer. Then he took the helm of his vessel, and stood with legs very wide apart, an owlish gaze in his eyes, and a look of amazing solemnity on his visage.

When a fleet sheers off from a steam-carrier after delivery of cargo, the sea around is usually very much crowded with vessels, and as these cross and re-cross or run past or alongside of each other before finally settling into the appointed course, there is a good deal of hearty recognition—shouting, questioning, tossing up of arms, and expressions of goodwill—among friends. Several men hailed and saluted Fox as his smack, the Cormorant, went by, but he took no notice except with an idiotic wink of both eyes.

“He’s bin to the coper,” remarked Puffy, as the Cormorant crossed the bow of the Lively Poll. “I say, Lumpy, come here,” he added, as Bob Lumsden came on deck. “Have ’ee got any o’ that coffee left?”

“No, not a drop. I gave the last o’t to Fred Martin just as he was goin’ away.”

“Poor Fred!” said Puffy. “He’s in for suthin’ stiff, I doubt, measles or mulligrumps, if not wuss.”

“A great pity,” remarked Peter Jay, who stood at the helm, “that Martin couldn’t hold out a week longer when our turn comes round to run for Yarmouth.”

“It’s well we got him shipped off to-day,” said Lockley. “That hand of his would have made him useless before another day was out. It’s a long time for a man in his state to be without help, that run up to Lun’on. Port your helm a bit, Jay. Is it the Cormorant that’s yawin’ about there in that fashion?”

“Ay, it’s the Cormorant,” replied Jay. “I seed her just now a’most run foul o’ the Butterfly.”

“She’ll be foul of us. Hi! Look out!” cried Lockley, becoming excited, as he saw the Cormorant change her course suddenly, without apparent reason, and bear straight down upon his vessel.

There was, indeed, no reason for the strange movements of the smack in question, except that there was at the helm a man who had rendered his reason incapable of action. With dull, fishy eyes, that stared idiotically at nothing, his hand on the tiller, and his mind asleep, Georgie Fox stood on the deck of the Cormorant steering.

“Starboard a bit, Jay,” said Lockley, with an anxious look, “she’ll barely clear us.”

As he spoke, Fox moved his helm slightly. It changed the course of his vessel only a little, but that little sufficed to send the cutwater of the Cormorant straight into the port bows of the Lively Poll with a tremendous crash, for a smart breeze was blowing at the time. The bulwarks were cut down to the deck, and, as the Cormorant recoiled and again surged ahead, the bowsprit was carried away, and part of the topmast brought down.

Deep and fierce was the growl that burst from Lockley’s lips at this disaster, but that did not mend matters. The result was that the Lively Poll had to quit the fleet a week before her time of eight weeks afloat was up, and run to Yarmouth for repairs. Next day, however, it fell calm, and several days elapsed before she finally made her port.

Meanwhile Fred Martin reached London, with his feverish complaint greatly aggravated, and his undressed wound much worse. In London he was detained some hours by his employers, and then sent on to Yarmouth, which he reached late in the afternoon, and ultimately in a state of great suffering and exhaustion, made his way to Gorleston, where his mother lived.

With his mind in a species of wild whirl, and acute pains darting through his wounded hand and arm, he wended his way slowly along the road that led to his mother’s house. Perhaps we should style it her attic, for she could claim only part of the house in which she dwelt. From a quaint gable window of this abode she had a view of the sea over the houses in front.

Part of Fred’s route lay along the banks of the Yare, not far from its mouth. At a spot where there were many old anchors and cables, old and new trawl-beams, and sundry other seafaring rusty and tarry objects, the young fisherman met a pretty young girl, who stopped suddenly, and, with her large blue eyes expressing unspeakable surprise, exclaimed, “Fred!”

The youth sprang forward, seized the girl with his uninjured hand, and exclaimed, “Isa!” as he drew her towards him.

“Fred—not here. Behave!” said Isa, holding up a warning finger.

Fred consented to behave—with a promise, however, that he would make up for it at a more fitting time and place.

“But what is the matter!” asked Isa, with an anxious look, laying her pretty little hands on the youth’s arm.

Yes, you need not smile, reader; it is not a perquisite of ladies to have pretty little hands. Isa’s hands were brown, no doubt, like her cheeks, owing to exposure and sunshine, and they were somewhat roughened by honest toil; but they were small and well-shaped, with taper fingers, and their touch was very tender as she clasped them on her lover’s arm.

“Nothing serious,” replied the youth lightly; “only an accident with a fish-bone, but it has got to be pretty bad for want of attention; an’ besides I’m out o’ sorts somehow. No physic, you see, or doctors in our fleet, like the lucky dogs of the Short-Blue. I’ve been knocked up more or less for some weeks past, so they sent me home to be looked after. But I won’t need either physic or doctor now.”

“No? why not?” asked the girl, with a simple look.

“Cause the sight o’ your sweet face does away with the need of either.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Fred.”

“If that’s nonsense,” returned the fisherman, “you’ll never hear me talk sense again as long as I live. But how about mother, Isa? Is she well!”

“Quite well. I have just left her puzzling herself over a letter from abroad that’s so ill-written that it would bother a schoolmaster to read it. I tried to read it, but couldn’t. You’re a good scholar, Fred, so you have come just in time to help her. But won’t she be surprised to see you!”

Thus conversing, and walking rather slowly, the pair made their way to the attic of Mrs Martin, where the unexpected sight of her son threw the patient woman into a great flutter of surprise and pleasure. We use the word “patient” advisedly, for Mrs Martin was one of those wholesome-minded creatures who, having to battle vigorously for the bare necessaries of life in the face of many adverse circumstances, carry on the war with a degree of hearty, sweet-tempered resolution which might put to shame many who are better off in every way. Mrs Martin was a widow and a washerwoman, and had a ne’er-do-well brother, a fisherman, who frequently “sponged” upon her. She also had a mother to support and attend upon, as well as a “bad leg” to endure. True, the attendance on her mother was to the good woman a source of great joy. It constituted one of the few sunbeams of her existence, but it was not on that account the less costly, for the old woman could do nothing whatever to increase the income of the widow’s household—she could not, indeed, move a step without assistance. Her sole occupation was to sit in the attic window and gaze over the sands upon the sea, smiling hopefully, yet with a touch of sadness in the smile; mouthing her toothless gums, and muttering now and then as if to herself, “He’ll come soon now.” Her usual attitude was that of one who listens expectantly.

Thirty years before Granny Martin had stood at the same attic window, an elderly woman even then, looking out upon the raging sea, and muttering anxiously the same words, “He’ll come soon now.” But her husband never came. He was lost at sea. As years flew by, and time as well as grief weakened her mind, the old woman seemed to forget the flight of time, and spent the greater part of every day in the attic window, evidently on the look-out for some one who was to come “soon.” When at last she was unable to walk alone, and had to be half carried to her seat in the attic window by her strong and loving daughter, the sadness seemed to pass away, and her cheery spirit revived under the impression, apparently, that the coming could not be delayed much longer. To every one Granny was condescendingly kind, especially to her grandchild Fred, of whom she was very fond.