“Was that your boat that went down?” shouted Groggy Fox of the Cormorant, as he sailed past the Fairy, after the carrying-steamer had left, and the numerous fishing-smacks were gradually falling into order for another attack on the finny hosts of the sea.
They were almost too far apart for the reply to be heard, and possibly Bryce’s state of mind prevented his raising his voice sufficiently, but it was believed that the answer was “Yes.”
“Poor fellows!” muttered Fox, who was a man of tender feelings, although apt to feel more for himself than for any one else.
“I think Dick Martin was in the boat,” said the mate of the Cormorant, who stood beside his skipper. “I saw them when they shoved off, and though it was a longish distance, I could make him out by his size, an’ the fur cap he wore.”
“Well, the world won’t lose much if he’s gone,” returned Fox; “he was a bad lot.”
It did not occur to the skipper at that time that he himself was nearly, if not quite, as bad a “lot.” But bad men are proverbially blind to their own faults.
“He was a cross-grained fellow,” returned the mate, “specially when in liquor, but I never heard no worse of ’im than that.”
“Didn’t you?” said Fox; “didn’t you hear what they said of ’im at Gorleston?—that he tried to do his sister out of a lot o’ money as was left her by some cove or other in furrin parts. An’ some folk are quite sure that it was him as stole the little savin’s o’ that poor widdy, Mrs Mooney, though they can’t just prove it agin him. Ah, he is a bad lot, an’ no mistake. But I may say that o’ the whole bilin’ o’ the Martins. Look at Fred, now.”
“Well, wot of him?” asked the mate, in a somewhat gruff tone.
“What of him!” repeated the skipper, “ain’t he a hypocrite, with his smooth tongue an’ his sly ways, as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, an’ now—where is he?”
“Well, where is he!” demanded the mate, with increasing gruffness.
“Why, in course nobody knows where he is,” retorted the skipper; “that’s where it is. No sooner does he get a small windfall—leastwise, his mother gets it—than he cuts the trawlers, an’ all his old friends without so much as sayin’ ‘Good-bye,’ an’ goes off to Lunnon or somewheres, to set up for a gentleman, I suppose.”
“I don’t believe nothin’ o’ the sort,” returned the mate indignantly. “Fred Martin may be smooth-tongued and shy if you like, but he’s no hypercrite—”
“Hallo! there’s that mission ship on the lee bow,” cried Fox, interrupting his mate, and going over to the lee side of the smack, whence he could see the vessel with the great blue flag clearly. “Port your helm,” he added in a deep growl to the man who steered. “I’ll give her a wide berth.”
“If she was the coper you’d steer the other way,” remarked the mate, with a laugh.
“In course I would,” retorted Fox, “for there I’d find cheap baccy and brandy.”
“Ay, bad brandy,” said the mate; “but, skipper, you can get baccy cheaper aboard the mission ships now than aboard the coper.”
“What! at a shillin’ a pound?”
“Ay, at a shillin’ a pound.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“But it’s a fact,” returned the mate firmly, “for Simon Brooks, as was in the Short-Blue fleet last week, told me it’s a noo regulation—they’ve started the sale o’ baccy in the Gospel ships, just to keep us from going to the copers.”
“That’ll not keep me from going to the copers,” said Groggy Fox, with an oath.
“Nor me,” said his mate, with a laugh; “but, skipper, as we are pretty nigh out o’ baccy just now, an’ as the mission ship is near us, an’ the breeze down, I don’t see no reason why we shouldn’t go aboard an’ see whether the reports be true. We go to buy baccy, you know, an’ we’re not bound to buy everything the shop has to sell! We don’t want their religion, an’ they can’t force it down our throats whether we will or no.”
Groggy Fox vented a loud laugh at the bare supposition of such treatment of his throat, admitted that his mate was right, and gave orders to launch the boat. In a few minutes they were rowing over the still heaving but now somewhat calmer sea, for the wind had fallen suddenly, and the smacks lay knocking about at no great distance from each other.
It was evident from the bustle on board many of them, and the launching of boats over their bulwarks, that not a few of the men intended to take advantage of this unexpected visit of a mission vessel. No doubt their motives were various. Probably some went, like the men of the Cormorant, merely for baccy; some for medicine; others, perhaps, out of curiosity; while a few, no doubt, went with more or less of desire after the “good tidings,” which they were aware had been carried to several of the other fleets that laboured on the same fishing-grounds.
Whatever the reasons, it was evident that a goodly number of men were making for the vessel with the great blue flag. Some had already reached her; more were on their way. The Cormorant’s boat was among the last to arrive.
“What does MDSF stand for?” asked Skipper Fox, as they drew near.
“Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen,” answered the mate, whose knowledge on this and other points of the Mission were due to his intercourse with his friend Simon Brooks of the Short-Blue. “But it means more than that,” he continued. “When we are close enough to make ’em out, you’ll see little letters above the MDSF which make the words I’ve just told you, an’ there are little letters below the MDSF which make the words Mighty Deliverer, Saviour, Friend.”
“Ay! That’s a clever dodge,” observed Groggy Fox, who, it need hardly be said, was more impressed with the ingenuity of the device than with the grand truth conveyed.
“But I say, mate, they seems to be uncommonly lively aboard of her.”
This was obviously the case, for by that time the boat of the Cormorant had come so near to the vessel that they could not only perceive the actions of those on board, but could hear their voices. The curiosity of Skipper Fox and his men was greatly roused, for they felt convinced that the mere visit of a passing mission ship did not fully account for the vigorous hand-shakings of those on the deck, and the hearty hailing of newcomers, and the enthusiastic cheers of some at least of the little boats’ crews as they pulled alongside.
“Seems to me as if they’ve all gone mad,” remarked Groggy Fox, with a sarcastic grin.
“I would say they was all drunk, or half-seas over,” observed the mate, “if it was a coper, but in a Gospel ship that’s impossible, ’cause they’re teetotal, you know. Isn’t that the boat o’ the Admiral that’s pullin’ alongside just now, skipper?”
“Looks like it, mate. Ay, an’ that’s Stephen Lockley of the Lively Poll close astarn of ’im—an’ ain’t they kickin’ up a rumpus now!”
Fox was right, for when the two little boats referred to ranged alongside of the vessel, and the men scrambled up the side on to her deck, there was an amount of greeting, and hand-shaking, and exclaiming in joyful surprise, which threw all previous exhibitions in that way quite into the shade, and culminated in a mighty cheer, the power of which soft people with shore-going throats and lungs and imaginations cannot hope to emulate or comprehend!
The cheer was mildly repeated with mingled laughter when the crowd on deck turned to observe the arrival of the Cormorant’s boat.
“Why, it’s the skipper o’ the Ironclad!” exclaimed a voice. “No, it’s not. It’s the skipper o’ the Cormorant,” cried another.
“What cheer? what cheer, Groggy Fox?” cried a third, as the boat swooped alongside, and several strong arms were extended. “Who’d have looked for you here? There ain’t no schnapps.”
“All right, mates,” replied Fox, with an apologetic smile, as he alighted on the deck and looked round; “I’ve come for baccy.”
A short laugh greeted this reply, but it was instantly checked, for at the moment Fred Martin stepped forward, grasped the skipper’s horny hand, and shook it warmly, as well as powerfully, for Fred was a muscular man, and had fully recovered his strength.
“You’ve come to the right shop for baccy,” he said; “I’ve got plenty o’ that, besides many other things much better. I bid you heartily welcome on board of the Sunbeam in the name of the Lord!”
For a few seconds the skipper of the Cormorant could not utter a word. He gazed at Fred Martin with his mouth partially, and his eyes wide, open. The thought that he was thus cordially received by the very man whose character he had so lately and so ungenerously traduced had something, perhaps, to do with his silence.
“A–are—are you the skipper o’ this here wessel!” he stammered.
“Ay, through God’s goodness I am.”
“A mission wessel!” said Fox, his amazement not a whit abated as he looked round.
“Just so, a Gospel ship,” answered Fred, giving the skipper another shake of the hand.
“You didn’t mistake it for a coper, did ’ee?” asked David Duffy, who was one of the visitors.
The laugh which followed this question drowned Groggy Fox’s reply.
“And you’ll be glad to hear,” said Fred, still addressing Fox, “that the Sunbeam is a new mission ship, and has been appointed to do service for God in this fleet and no other; so you’ll always be able to have books and baccy, mitts, helmets, comforters, medicines, and, best of all, Bibles and advice for body and soul, free gratis when you want ’em.”
“But where’s the doctor to give out the medicines,” asked Fox, who began to moderate his gaze as he recovered self-possession.
“Well, mate,” answered Fred, with a bashful air, “I am doctor as well as skipper. Indeed, I’m parson too—a sort of Jack-of-all-trades! I’m not full fledged of course, but on the principle, I fancy, that ‘half a loaf is better than no bread,’ I’ve been sent here after goin’ through a short course o’ trainin’ in surgery—also in divinity; something like city missionaries and Scripture-readers; not that trainin’, much or little, would fit any man for the great work unless he had the love of the Master in his heart. But I trust I have that.”
“You have, Fred, thank God!” said the Admiral of the fleet.
“And now, Skipper Fox,” continued Fred facetiously, “as I’m a sort of doctor, you must allow me to prescribe something for your complaint. Here, boy,” he added, hailing one of his crew, “fetch Skipper Fox a draught o’ that physic—the brown stuff that you keep in the kettle.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” answered a youthful voice, and in another minute Pat Stiver forced his way through the crowd, bearing in his hand a large cup or bowl of coffee.
“It’s not exactly the tipple I’m used to,” said Fox, accepting the cup with a grin, and wisely resolving to make the best of circumstances, all the more readily that he observed other visitors had been, or still were, enjoying the same beverage. “Howsever, it’s not to be expected that sick men shall have their physic exactly to their likin’, so I thank ’ee all the same, Dr Martin!”
This reply was received with much approval, and the character of Groggy Fox immediately experienced a considerable rise in the estimation of his comrades of the fleet.
Attention was drawn from him just then by the approach of another boat.
“There is some genuine surgeon’s work coming to you in that boat, Fred, if I mistake not,” remarked Stephen Lockley, as he stood beside his old friend.
“Hasn’t that man in the stern got his head tied up?”
“Looks like it.”
“By the way, what of your uncle, Dick Martin?” asked the Admiral. “It was you that picked him up, wasn’t it?”
This reference to the sad event which had occurred that morning solemnised the fishermen assembled on the Sunbeam’s deck, and they stood listening with sympathetic expressions as Fred narrated what he had seen of the catastrophe, and told that his uncle was evidently nothing the worse of it, and was lying asleep in the cabin, where everything had been done for his recovery and comfort.
In the boat which soon came alongside was a fisherman who had met with a bad accident some days before. A block tackle from aloft had fallen on his head and cut it severely. His mates had bound it up in rough-and-ready fashion; but the wound had bled freely, and the clotted blood still hung about his hair. Latterly the wound had festered, and gave him agonising pain. His comrades being utterly ignorant as to the proper treatment, could do nothing for him. Indeed, the only effectual thing that could be done was to send the poor man home. This sudden and unexpected appearance of one of the mission ships was therefore hailed as a godsend, for it was well-known that these vessels contained medicines, and it was believed that their skippers were more or less instructed in the healing art. In this belief they were right; for in addition to the well-appointed medicine-chest, each vessel has a skipper who undergoes a certain amount of instruction, and possesses a practical and plain book of directions specially prepared under the supervision of the Board of Trade for the use of captains at sea.
One can imagine, therefore, what a relief it was to this poor wounded man to be taken down into the cabin and have his head at last attended to by one who “knew what he was about.” The operation of dressing was watched with the deepest interest and curiosity by the fishermen assembled there, for it was their first experience of the value, even in temporal matters, of a Gospel ship. Their ears were open, too, as well as their eyes, and they listened with much interest to Fred Martin as he tried, after a silent prayer for the Holy Spirit’s influence, to turn his first operation to spiritual account in his Master’s interest.
“Tell me if I hurt you,” he said, observing that his patient winced a little when he was removing the bandage.
“Go on,” said the man quietly. “I ain’t a babby to mind a touch of pain.”
The cabin being too small to hold them all, some of the visitors clustered round the open skylight, and gazed eagerly down, while a few who could not find a point of vantage contented themselves with listening. Even Dick Martin was an observer at that operation, for, having been roused by the bustle around him, he raised himself on an elbow, and looking down from his berth, could both hear and see.
“There now,” said Fred Martin, when at last the bandage was removed and the festering mass laid bare. “Hand the scissors, Pat.”
Pat Stiver, who was assistant-surgeon on that occasion, promptly handed his chief the desired instrument, and stood by for further orders.
“I’ll soon relieve you,” continued Fred, removing the clotted hair, etcetera, in a few seconds, and applying a cleansing lotion. “I cut it off, you see, just as the Great Physician cuts away our sins, and washes us clean in the fountain of His own blood. You feel better already, don’t you?”
“There’s no doubt about that,” replied the patient looking up with a great sigh of relief that told far more than words could convey.
We will not record all that was said and done upon that occasion. Let it suffice to say that the man’s wound was put in a fair way of recovery without the expense and prolonged suffering of a trip home.
Thereafter, as a breeze was beginning to blow which bid fair to become a “fishing breeze,” it became necessary for the visitors to leave in haste, but not before a few books, tracts, and worsted mittens had been distributed, with an earnest invitation from the skipper of the Sunbeam to every one to repeat the visit whenever calm weather should permit, and especially on Sundays, when regular services would be held on deck or in the hold.
On this occasion Bob Lumpy and Pat Stiver had met and joined hands in great delight, not unmingled with surprise.
“Well, who’d ever have expected to find you here?” said Bob.
“Ah, who indeed?” echoed Pat. “The fact is, I came to be near you, Bob.”
“But how did it happen? Who got you the sitivation? Look alive! Don’t be long-winded, I see they’re gittin’ our boat ready.”
“This is ’ow it was, Bob. I was shovin’ Eve about the roads in the bath-chair, as you know I’ve bin doin’ ever since I entered your service, w’en a gen’lem’n come up and axed all about us. ‘Would ye like a sitivation among the North Sea fishermen?’ says he. ‘The very ticket,’ says I. ‘Come to Lun’on to-night, then,’ says he. ‘Unpossible,’ says I, fit to bu’st wi’ disappointment; ‘’cos I must first shove Miss Eve home, an’ git hold of a noo shover to take my place.’ ‘All right,’ says he, laughin’; ‘come when you can. Here’s my address.’ So away I goes; got a trustworthy, promisin’ young feller as I’ve know’d a long time to engage for Miss Eve, an’ off to Lun’on, an’—here I am!”
“Time’s up,” cried the Admiral at this point, shaking hands with Fred Martin; while Bob Lumsden sprang from the side of his little friend, and there was a general move towards the boats.
“Good-bye, mate,” said Skipper Fox, holding out his hand.
“Stop, friends,” cried Fred, in a loud voice; “that’s not the way we part on board o’ the Sunbeam.”
Taking off his hat and looking up,—a sign that all understood, for they immediately uncovered and bowed their heads,—the missionary skipper, in a few brief but earnest words, asked for a blessing on the work which he had been privileged that day to begin, that Satan might be foiled, and the name of Jesus be made precious among the fishermen of the North Sea.
Thereafter the boats scattered towards their various smacks, their crews rejoicing in this latest addition to the fleet. Even Groggy Fox gave it as his opinion that there might be worse things after all in the world than “mission wessels!”
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