The Lively Poll: A Tale of the North Sea

Dick Martin looked up quickly.

“What!” he exclaimed, “glad to hear me say that I am the thief as stole your mother’s money! that I’m a low, vile, selfish blackguard who deserves to be kicked out o’ the North Sea fleet—off the face o’ the ’arth altogether?”

“Yes,” returned Eve, smiling through her tears—for she had been crying—“glad to hear you say all that, because Jesus came to save people like you; but He does not call them such bad names. He only calls them the ‘lost.’”

“Well, I suppose you’re right, dear child,” said the man, after a pause; “an’ I do think the Blessed Lord has saved me, for I never before felt as I do now—hatred of my old bad ways, and an awful desire to do right for His sake. If any o’ my mates had told me I’d feel an’ act like this a week ago, I’d have called him a fool. I can’t understand it. I suppose that God must have changed me altogether. My only fear is that I’ll fall back again into the old bad ways—I’m so helpless for anything good, d’ee see.”

“You forget,” returned Eve, with another of her tearful smiles; “He says, ‘I will never leave thee nor forsake thee’—”

“No, I don’t forget that,” interrupted Dick quickly; “that is what the young preacher in the mission smack said, an’ it has stuck to me. It’s that as keeps me up. But I didn’t come here to speak about my thoughts an’ feelin’s,” he continued, rising and taking a chair close to the bed, on which he placed a heavy bag. “I come here, Eve, to make restitootion. There’s every farthin’ I stole from your poor mother. I kep’ it intendin’ to go to Lun’on, and have a good long spree—so it’s all there. You’ll give it to her, but don’t tell her who stole it. That’s a matter ’tween you an’ me an’ the Almighty. Just you say that the miserable sinner who took it has bin saved by Jesus Christ, an’ now returns it and axes her pardon.”

Eve gladly promised, but while she was yet speaking, heavy footsteps were heard approaching the hut. The man started up as if to leave, and the two boys, suddenly awakening to the fact that they were eavesdropping, fled silently round the corner of the hut and hid themselves. The passer-by, whoever he was, seemed to change his mind, for the steps ceased to sound for a few moments, then they were heard again, with diminishing force, until they finally died away.

A moment later, and the key was heard to turn, and the door of the hut to open and close, after which the heavy tread of the repentant fisherman was heard as he walked quickly away.

The boys listened in silence till all was perfectly still.

“Well, now,” said Bob, drawing a long breath, “who’d have thought that things would have turned out like this?”

“Never heard of sich a case in my life before,” responded Pat Stiver with emphasis, as if he were a venerable magistrate who had been trying “cases” for the greater part of a long life. “Why, it leaves us nothin’ wotiver to do! Even a p’leeceman might manage it! The thief has gone an’ took up hisself, tried an’ condemned hisself without a jury, pronounced sentance on hisself without a judge, an’ all but hanged hisself without Jack Ketch, so there’s nothin’ for you an’ me to do but go an’ bury our thumpin’ sticks, as Red Injins bury the war-hatchet, retire to our wigwams, an’ smoke the pipe of peace.”

“Wery good; let’s go an’ do it, then,” returned Bob, curtly.

As it is not a matter of particular interest how the boys reduced this figurative intention to practice, we will leave them, and follow Dick Martin for a few minutes.

His way led him past the “Blue Boar,” which at that moment, however, proved to be no temptation to him. He paused to listen. Sounds of revelry issued from its door, and the voice of Joe Stubley was heard singing with tremendous energy—“Britons, never, never, never, shall be slaves,” although he and all his companions were at that very moment thoroughly—in one or two cases almost hopelessly—enslaved to the most terrible tyrant that has ever crushed the human race!

Dick went on, and did not pause till he reached his sister’s house. By that time the family party had broken up, but a solitary candle in the attic window showed that old Granny Martin was still on her watch-tower.

“Is that you, Dick?” said his sister, opening to his tap, and letting him in; but there was nothing of welcome or pleasure in the widow’s tone.

The fisherman did not expect a warm welcome. He knew that he did not deserve it, but he cared not, for the visit was to his mother. Gliding to her side, he went down on his knees, and laid his rugged head on her lap. Granny did not seem taken by surprise. She laid her withered hand on the head, and said: “Bless you, my boy! I knew you would come, sooner or later; praise be to His blessed name.”

We will not detail what passed between the mother and son on that occasion, but the concluding sentence of the old woman was significant: “He can’t be long of coming now, Dick, for the promises are all fulfilled at last, and I’m ready.”

She turned her head slowly again in the old direction, where, across the river and the sands, she could watch the moonbeams glittering on the solemn sea.

Three days later, and the skipper of the Sunbeam received a telegram telling him to prepare for guests, two of whom were to accompany him on his trip to the fleet.

It was a bright, warm day when the guests arrived—a dozen or more ladies and gentlemen who sympathised with the Mission, accompanied by the Director.

“All ready for sea, Martin, I suppose?” said the latter, as the party stepped on board from the wharf alongside of which the vessel lay.

“All ready, sir,” responded Fred. “If the wind holds we may be with the fleet, God willing, some time to-morrow night.”

The Sunbeam was indeed all ready, for the duties on board of her had been performed by those who did their work “as to the Lord, and not to men.” Every rope was in its place and properly coiled away, every piece of brass-work about the vessel shone like burnished gold. The deck had been scrubbed to a state of perfect cleanliness, so that, as Jim Freeman said, “you might eat your victuals off it.” In short, everything was trim and taut, and the great blue MDSF flag floated from the masthead, intimating that the Gospel ship was about to set forth on her mission of mercy, to fish for men.

Among the party who were conducted by Fred and the Director over the vessel were two clergymen, men of middle age, who had been labouring among all classes on the land: sympathising with the sad, rejoicing with the glad, praying, working, and energising for rich and poor, until health had begun to give way, and change of air and scene had become absolutely necessary. A week or so at the sea, it was thought, would revive them.

And what change of air could be more thorough than that from the smoke of the city to the billows of the North Sea? The Director had suggested the change. Men of God were sorely wanted out there, he said, and, while they renewed their health among the fresh breezes of ocean, they might do grand service for the Master among the long-neglected fishermen.

The reasoning seemed just. The offer was kind. The opportunity was good, as well as unique and interesting. The land-worn clergymen accepted the invitation, and were now on their way to the scene of their health-giving work, armed with waterproofs, sou’westers, and sea-boots.

“It will do you good, sir, both body and soul,” said Skipper Martin to the elder of the two, when presented to him. “You’ll find us a strange lot, sir, out there, but glad to see you, and game to listen to what you’ve got to say as long as ever you please.”

When the visitors had seen all that was to be seen, enjoyed a cup of coffee, prayed and sung with the crew, and wished them God-speed, they went on shore, and the Sunbeam, hoisting her sails and shaking out the blue flag, dropped quietly down the river.

Other smacks there were, very much like herself, coming and going, or moored to the wharves, but as the visitors stood on the river bank and waved their adieux, the thought was forced upon them how inconceivably vast was the difference between those vessels which laboured for time and this one which toiled for eternity.

Soon the Sunbeam swept out upon the sea, bent over to the freshening breeze, and steered on her beneficent course towards her double fishing-ground.

Chapter Thirteen

The Tide begins to turn, and Death steps in

Let us now, good reader, outstrip the Sunbeam, and, proceeding to the fleet in advance of her, pay a night visit to one or two of the smacks. We are imaginative creatures, you see, and the powers of imagination are, as you know, almost illimitable. Even now, in fact, we have you hovering over the dark sea, which, however, like the air above it, is absolutely calm, so that the numerous lanterns of the fishing-vessels around are flickering far down into the deep, like gleams of perpendicular lightning.

It is Saturday night, and the particular vessel over which we hover is the Lively Poll. Let us descend into her cabin.

A wonderful change has come over the vessel’s crew since the advent of the mission smack. Before that vessel joined the fleet, the chief occupation of the men during the hours of leisure was gambling, diversified now and then with stories and songs more or less profane.

On the night of which we write almost universal silence pervaded the smack, because the men were profoundly engaged with book and pamphlet. They could all read, more or less, though the reading of one or two involved much spelling and knitting of the brows. But it was evident that they were deeply interested, and utterly oblivious of all around them. Like a schoolboy with a good story, they could not bear to be interrupted, and were prone to explosive commentary.

David Duffy, who had fallen upon a volume of Dickens, was growing purple in the face, because of his habit of restraining laughter until it forced its way in little squeaks through his nose. Stephen Lockley, who had evidently got hold of something more serious, sat on a locker, his elbows resting on his knees, the book in his hands, and a solemn frown on his face. Hawkson was making desperate efforts to commit to memory a hymn, with the tune of which he had recently fallen in love, and the meaning of which was, unknown to himself, slowly but surely entering deep into his awakening soul. Bob Lumsden, who read his pamphlet by the binnacle light on deck, had secured an American magazine, the humorous style of which, being quite new to him, set him off ever and anon into hearty ripples of laughter.

But they were not equally persevering, for Joe Stubley, to whom reading was more of a toil than a pleasure, soon gave in, and recurred to his favourite game of “checkers.” The mate, Peter Jay, was slowly pacing the deck in profound meditation. His soul had been deeply stirred by some of the words which had fallen from the lips of John Binning, and perplexities as well as anxieties were at that time struggling fiercely in his mind.

“Well done, little marchioness!” exclaimed David Duffy, with eyes riveted on his book, and smiting his knee with his right palm, “you’re a trump!”

“Shush!” exclaimed Lockley, with eyes also glued to his book, holding up his hand as if to check interruption. “There’s somethin’ in this, although I can’t quite see it yet.”

A roar of laughter on deck announced that Bob Lumsden had found something quite to his taste. “First-rate—ha! ha! I wonder if it’s all true.”

“Hold your noise there,” cried Hawkson; “who d’ee think can learn off a hymn wi’ you shoutin’ like a bo’sun’s mate an’ Duffy snortin’ like a grampus?”

“Ah, just so,” chimed in Stubley, looking up from his board. “Why don’t you let it out, David? You’ll bu’st the b’iler if you don’t open a bigger safety-valve than your nose.”

“Smack on the weather beam, that looks like the Gospel ship, sir,” said the mate, looking down the hatchway.

The skipper closed his book at once and went on deck, but the night was so dark, and the smack in question so far off, that they were unable to make her out among the numerous lights of the fleet.

In another part of that fleet, not far distant, floated the Cormorant. Here too, as in many other smacks, the effects of the Sunbeam’s beneficent influence had begun to tell. Groggy Fox’s crew was noted as one of the most quarrelsome and dissipated in the fleet. On this particular Saturday night, however, all was quiet, for most of the men were busy with books, pamphlets, and tracts. One who had, as his mate said, come by a broken head, was slumbering in his berth, scientifically bandaged and convalescent, and Groggy himself, with a pair of tortoiseshell glasses on his nose, was deep in a book which he pronounced to be “one o’ the wery best wollums he had ever come across in the whole course of his life,” leaving it to be inferred, perhaps, that he had come across a very large number of volumes in his day.

While he was thus engaged one of the men whispered in his ear, “A coper alongside, sir.”

The skipper shut the “wery best wollum” at once, and ordered out the boat.

“Put a cask o’ oysters in her,” he said.

Usually his men were eager to go with their skipper, but on this night some of them were so interested in the books they were reading that they preferred to remain on board. Others went, and, with their skipper, got themselves “fuddled” on the proceeds of the owner’s oysters. If oysters had not been handy, fish or something else would have been used instead, for Skipper Fox was not particular—he was still clinging to “the poor old stranded wreck.”

It was dawn when, according to their appropriate phrase, they “tumbled” over the side of the coper into their boat. As they bade the Dutchman good night they observed that he was looking “black as thunder” at the horizon.

“W–wat’s wrong, ol’ b–boy?” asked Groggy.

The Dutchman pointed to the horizon. “No use for me to shtop here, mit dat alongside!” he replied.

The fishermen turned their drunken eyes in the direction indicated, and, after blinking a few seconds, clearly made out the large blue flag, with its letters MDSF, fluttering in the light breeze that had risen with the sun.

With curses both loud and deep the Dutchman trimmed his sails, and slowly but decidedly vanished from the scene. Thus the tide began to turn on the North Sea!

The light breeze went down as the day advanced, and soon the mission vessel found herself surrounded by smacks, with an ever-increasing tail of boats at her stern, and an ever-multiplying congregation on her deck. It was a busy and a lively scene, for while they were assembling, Fred Martin took advantage of the opportunity to distribute books and medicines, and to bind up wounds, etcetera. At the same time the pleasant meeting of friends, who never met in such numbers anywhere else—not even in the copers—and the hearty good wishes and shaking of hands, with now and then expressions of thankfulness from believers—all tended to increase the bustle and excitement, so that the two invalid clergymen began at once to experience the recuperative influence of glad enthusiasm.

“There is plenty to do here, both for body and soul,” remarked one of these to Fred during a moment of relaxation.

“Yes, sir, thank God. We come out here to work, and we find the work cut out for us. A good many surgical cases, too, you observe. But we expect that. In five of the fleets there were more than two thousand cases treated last year aboard of the mission smacks, so we look for our share. In fact, during our first eight weeks with this fleet we have already had two hundred men applying for medicine or dressing of wounds.”

“Quite an extensive practice, Dr Martin,” said the clergyman, with a laugh.

“Ay, sir; but ours is the medical-missionary line. The body may be first in time, but the soul is first in importance with us.”

In proof of this, as it were, the skipper now stopped all that had been going on, and announced that the real work of the day was going to begin; whereupon the congregation crowded into the hold until it was full. Those who could not find room clustered on deck round the open hatch and listened—sometimes craned their necks over and gazed.

It was a new experience for the invalid clergymen, who received another bath of recuperative influence. Fervour, interest, intelligence seemed to gleam in the steady eyes of the men while they listened, and thrilled in their resonant voices when they sang. One of the clergymen preached as he had seldom preached before, and then prayed, after which they all sang; but the congregation did not move to go away. The brother clergyman therefore preached, and, modestly fearing that he was keeping them too long, hinted as much.

“Go on, sir,” said the Admiral, who was there; “it ain’t every day we gets a chance like this.”

A murmur of assent followed, and the preacher went on; but we will not follow him. After closing with the hymn, “How sweet the name of Jesus sounds in a believer’s ear,” they all went on deck, where they found a glory of sunshine flooding the Sunbeam, and glittering on the still tranquil sea.

The meeting now resolved itself into a number of groups, among whom the peculiar work of the day was continued directly or indirectly. It was indeed a wonderful condition of things on board of the Gospel ship that Sunday—wheels within wheels, spiritual machinery at work from stem to stern. A few, whose hearts had been lifted up, got out an accordion and their books, and “went in for” hymns. Among these Bob Lumsden and his friend Pat Stiver took an active part. Here and there couples of men leaned over the side and talked to each other in undertones of their Saviour and the life to come. In the bow Manx Bradley got hold of Joe Stubley and pleaded hard with him to come to Jesus, and receive power from the Holy Spirit to enable him to give up all his evil ways. In the stern Fred Martin sought to clear away the doubts and difficulties of Ned Bryce. Elsewhere the two clergymen were answering questions, and guiding several earnest souls to a knowledge of the truth, while down in the cabin Jim Freeman prevailed on several men and boys to sign the temperance pledge. Among these last was Groggy Fox, who, irresolute of purpose, was still holding back.

“’Cause why,” said he; “I’ll be sure to break it again. I can’t keep it.”

“I know that, skipper,” said Fred, coming down at the moment. “In your own strength you’ll never keep it, but in God’s strength you shall conquer all your enemies. Let’s pray, lads, that we may all be enabled to keep to our good resolutions.”

Then and there they all knelt down, and Skipper Fox arose with the determination once again to “Leave the poor old stranded wreck, and pull for the shore.”

But that was a memorable Sunday in other respects, for towards the afternoon a stiff breeze sprang up, and an unusually low fall in the barometer turned the fishermen’s thoughts back again to wordly cares. The various boats left the Sunbeam hurriedly. As the Lively Poll had kept close alongside all the time, Stephen Lockley was last to think of leaving. He had been engaged in a deeply interesting conversation with one of the clergymen about his soul, but at last ordered his boat to be hauled alongside.

While this was being done, he observed that another smack—one of the so-called “ironclads”—was sailing so as to cross the bows of his vessel. The breeze had by that time increased considerably, and both smacks, lying well over, were rushing swiftly through the water. Suddenly some part of the ironclad’s tackling about the mainsail gave way, the head of the vessel fell to leeward; next moment she went crashing into the Lively Poll, and cut her down to the water’s edge. The ironclad seemed to rebound and tremble for a moment, and then passed on. The steersman at once threw her up into the wind with the intention of rendering assistance, but in another minute the Lively Poll had sunk and disappeared for ever, carrying Peter Jay and Hawkson along with her.

Of course several boats pushed off at once to the rescue, and hovered about the spot for some time, but neither the men nor the vessel were ever seen again.

There was a smack at some distance, which was about to quit the fleet next morning and return to port. The skipper of it knew well which vessel had been run down, but, not being near enough to see all that passed, imagined that the whole crew had perished along with her. During the night the breeze freshened to a gale, which rendered fishing impossible. This vessel therefore left the fleet before dawn, and carried the news to Gorleston that the Lively Poll had been run down and sunk with all her crew.

It was Fred Martin’s wife who undertook to break this dreadful news to poor Mrs Lockley.

Only those who have had such duty to perform can understand the struggle it cost the gentle-spirited Isa. The first sight of her friend’s face suggested to Mrs Lockley the truth, and when words confirmed it she stood for a moment with a countenance pale as death. Then, clasping her hands tightly together, the poor woman, with a cry of despair, sank insensible upon the floor.

Chapter Fourteen

The Last

But the supposed death of Stephen Lockley did not soften the heart of his wife. It only opened her eyes a little. After the first stunning effect had passed, a hard, rebellious state of mind set in, which induced her to dry her tears, and with stern countenance reject the consolation of sympathisers. The poor woman’s heart was breaking, and she refused to be comforted.

It was while she was in this condition that Mrs Mooney, of all people, took it into her head to visit and condole with her neighbour. That poor woman, although a sot, was warm-hearted, and the memory of what she had suffered when her own husband perished seemed to arouse her sympathies in an unusual degree. She was, as her male friends would have said, “screwed” when she knocked at Mrs Lockley’s door.

The poor creature was recovering from a burst of passionate grief, and turned her large dark eyes fiercely on the would-be comforter as she entered.

“My dear Mrs Lockley,” began Mrs Mooney, with sympathy beaming on her red countenance, “it do grieve me to see you like this—a’most as much as wen my—”

“You’re drunk!” interrupted Mrs Lockley, with a look of mingled sternness and indignation.

“Well, my dear,” replied Mrs Mooney, with a deprecatory smile, “that ain’t an uncommon state o’ things, an’ you’ve no call to be ’ard on a poor widdy like yourself takin’ a little consolation now an’ then when she can get it. I just thought I’d like to comfort—”

“I don’t want no comfort,” cried Mrs Lockley in a sharp tone. “Leave me. Go away!”

There was something so terrible in the mingled look of grief and anger which disturbed the handsome features of the young wife that Mrs Mooney, partly awed and partly alarmed, turned at once and left the house. She did not feel aggrieved, only astonished and somewhat dismayed. After a few moments of meditation she set off, intending to relieve her feelings in the “Blue Boar.” On her way she chanced to meet no less a personage than Pat Stiver, who, with his hands in his pockets and his big boots clattering over the stones, was rolling along in the opposite direction.

“Pat, my boy!” exclaimed the woman in surprise, “wherever did you come from?”

“From the North Sea,” said Pat, looking up at his questioner with an inquiring expression. “I say, old woman, drunk again?”

“Well, boy, who denyses of it?”

“Ain’t you ashamed of yourself?”

“No, I ain’t. Why should I? Who cares whether I’m drunk or sober?”

“Who cares, you unnat’ral old bundle o’ dirty clo’es? Don’t Eve care? An’ don’t Fred Martin an’ Bob Lumpy care? An’ don’t I care, worse than all of ’em put together, except Eve?”

“You, boy?” exclaimed the woman.

“Yes, me. But look here, old gal; where are you goin’? To have a drink, I suppose?”

“Jus’ so. That’s ’xactly where I’m a-steerin’ to.”

“Well, now,” cried Pat, seizing the woman’s hand, “come along, an’ I’ll give you somethin’ to drink. Moreover, I’ll treat you to some noos as’ll cause your blood to curdle, an’ your flesh to creep, an’ your eyes to glare, an your hair to stand on end!”

Thus adjured, and with curiosity somewhat excited, Mrs Mooney suffered herself to be led to that temperance coffee-tavern in Gorleston to which we have already referred.