R. M. Ballantyne
The Lively Poll: A Tale of the North Sea
Chapter One
The Fleet
Manx Bradley was an admiraladmiral of the fleetthough 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 admiralas 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 admirals 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 directionthe 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 nights workthe 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 thingsspecially 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 seetall, 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 vessels 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 piecesbut didnt!
Looks like as if wed got hold of a lump o wreck, gasped Bob Lumsden, the smacks boy, who was also the smacks cook.
No, no, Lumpy, remarked David Duffy, who was no respecter of names or persons, it aint a wreck, its a mermaid. Ive bin told they weigh over six ton when young. Look out when she comes aboardshell bite.
I do believe its old Neptune himself, said Jim Freeman, another of the hands. Theres his head; an something like his pitchfork.
It does feel heavier than I ever knowed it afore, remarked Fred Martin.
Thats all along of your bein ill, Fred, said the mate.
It may be so, returned Martin, for I do feel queer, an amost 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 donedone, 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.