The Young Trawler, R. M. Ballantyne [dark books to read TXT] 📗
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Book online «The Young Trawler, R. M. Ballantyne [dark books to read TXT] 📗». Author R. M. Ballantyne
“True, Joe, but are we all prepared to die?” rejoined Evan, looking around, earnestly. “It is said that there’s a day comin’ when the sea shall give up all its dead, and the secrets of men, whatever they are, shall be revealed.”
From this point Evan, whose earnest spirit was always hungering after the souls of men, led the conversation to religious subjects, and got his audience into a serious, attentive state of mind.
We have said that David Bright had remained that light on deck, but he did not on that account lose all that went on in the little cabin. He heard indeed the light conversation and chaff of the earlier part of the night but paid no heed to it. When, however, Evan began the foregoing anecdote, his attention was aroused, and as the speaker sat close to the foot of the companion every word he uttered was audible on deck.
At the time, our fallen skipper was giving way to despair. He had been so thoroughly determined to give up drink; had been so confident of the power of his really strong will, and had begun the struggle so well and also continued for a time so successfully, that this fall had quite overwhelmed him. It was such a thorough fall, too, accompanied by such violence to his poor boy and to one of his best men, that he had no heart for another effort. And once again the demon tempter came to him, as he stood alone there, and helpless on the deserted deck. A faint gleam of light, shooting up the companion, illuminated his pale but stern features which had an unusual expression on them, but no eye was there to look upon those features, save the all-searching Eye of God.
“It was soon over with him!” he muttered, as he listened to Evan telling of Zola’s leap into the sea. “An’ a good riddance to myself as well as to the world it would be if I followed his example. I could drop quietly over, an’ they’d never find it out till—but—”
“Come, don’t hesitate,” whispered the demon. “I thought you were a man once, but now you seem to be a coward after all!”
It was at this critical point that Evan, the mate of the Sparrow, all ignorant of the eager listener overhead, began to urge repentance on his unbelieving comrades, and pointed to the Crucified One—showing that no sinner was beyond hope, that Peter had denied his Master with oaths and curses, and that even the thief on the cross had life enough left for a saving look.
“We have nothing to do, lads, only to submit,” he said, earnestly.
“Nothing to do!” thought David Bright in surprise, not unmingled with contempt as he thought of the terrible fight he had gone through before his fall.
“Nothing to do!” exclaimed John Gunter in the cabin, echoing, as it were, the skipper’s thought, with much of his surprise and much more of his contempt. “Why, mate, I thought that you religious folk felt bound to pray, an’ sing, an’ preach, an’ work!”
“No, lad—no—not for salvation,” returned Evan; “we have only to accept salvation—to cease from refusing it and scorning it. After we have got it from and in Jesus, we will pray, and sing, and work, ay, an’ preach too, if we can, for the love of the Master who ‘loved us and gave Himself for us.’”
Light began to break in on the dark mind of David Bright, as he listened to these words, and earnestly did he ponder them, long after the speaker and the rest of the crew had turned in.
Daylight began to flow softly over the sea, like a mellow influence from the better land, when the net was hauled.
Soon the light intensified and showed the rest of the fleet floating around in all directions, and busily engaged in the same work—two of the nearest vessels being the mission smack and that of Singing Peter. Ere long the fish were cleaned, packed, put on board the steamer and off to market. By that time a dead calm prevailed, compelling the fishermen to “take things easy.”
“Billy,” said David Bright, “fetch me that bit of wood and a hatchet.”
Billy obeyed.
“Now then, let’s see how well you’ll cut that down to the size o’ this trunk—to fit on where that bit has bin tore off.”
The skipper was seated on a pile of boxes; he flung his left hand with a careless swing on the fish-box on which Billy was about to cut the piece of wood, and pointed to the trunk which needed repair. Billy raised the axe and brought it down with the precision and vigour peculiar to him. Instead of slicing off a lamp of wood, however, the hatchet struck a hard knot, glanced off, and came down on his father’s open palm, into which it cut deeply.
“Oh! father,” exclaimed the poor boy, dropping the axe and standing as if petrified with horror as the blood spouted from the gaping wound, flowed over the fish-box, and bespattered the deck.
He could say no more.
“Shove out the boat, boys,” said the skipper promptly, as he shut up the wounded hand and bound it tightly in that position with his pocket-handkerchief to stop the bleeding.
Joe Davidson, who had seen the accident, and at once understood what was wanted, sprang to the boat at the same moment with Luke and Spivin. A good heave, at the tackle; a hearty shove with strong shoulders, and the stern was over the rail. Another shove and it was in the sea.
“Lucky we are so close to her,” said Joe, as he jumped into the boat followed by Luke and Gunter.
“Lucky indeed,” responded Luke.
Somehow David Bright managed to roll or jump or scramble into his boat as smartly with one hand as with two. It is a rare school out there on the North Sea for the practice of free-hand gymnastics!
“Bear away for the mission smack, Joe.”
No need to give Joe that order. Ere the words had well passed the skipper’s lips he and Luke Trevor were bending their powerful backs, and, with little Billy at the steering oar, the boat of the Evening Star went bounding over the waves towards the fisherman’s floating refuge for wounded bodies and souls.
A fine-toned manly voice was heard, as the boat approached the mission smack, singing one of the popular hymns which are now pretty well-known throughout the fishing fleets.
“No mistaking that voice,” said David Bright turning an amused look on Billy; “Singin’ Peter won’t knock off till he’s under the sod or under the sea.”
“Then he’ll never knock off at all,” returned Billy, “for Luke there has bin tellin’ me that we only begin to sing rightly a song of praise that will never end when we git into the next world.”
“That depends, lad, on whether we goes up or down.”
“Well, I s’pose it does. But tell me, daddy, ain’t the hand very bad? I’m so awful sorry, you know.”
“It might ha’ bin worse, Billy, but don’t you take on so, my boy. We’ll be all right an’ ship-shape when we gets it spliced or fixed up somehow, on board the mission-ship.”
The hand was not however, so easily fixed up as David Bright seemed to expect.
“Come down an’ let’s have a look at it, David,” said the skipper, when the vessel’s deck was gained.
By that time Singing Peter had stopped his tune, or, rather, he had changed it into a note of earnest sympathy, for he was a very tender-hearted man, and on terms of warm friendship with the master of the Evening Star.
“It’s a bad cut,” said Peter, when the gaping gash in the poor man’s palm was laid bare, and the blood began to flow afresh. “We’ll have to try a little o’ the surgeon’s business here. You can take a stitch in human flesh I daresay, skipper? If you can’t, I’ll try.”
The mission skipper was, however, equal to the occasion. He sponged the wound clean; put a couple of stitches in it with sailor-like neatness—whether with surgeon-like exactness we cannot tell—drew the edges of the wound still more closely together by means of strips of sticking plaster; applied lint and bandages, and, finally, did up our skipper’s fist in a manner that seemed quite artistic to the observant men around him.
“A regular boxin’-glove,” exclaimed David, hitting the operator a gentle tap on the nose with it.
“Thank ’ee, friend,” said the amateur surgeon, as he proceeded to re-stow his materials in the medicine chest; “you know that the Fishermen’s Mission never asks a rap for its services, but neither does it expect to receive a rap without asking. Come, David, you mustn’t flourish it about like that. We all know you’re a plucky fellow, but it’ll never splice properly if you go on so.”
“Hold on, Mr Missionary!” cried Gunter, as the lid of the chest was being closed, “don’t shut up yet. I wants some o’ your doctor’s stuff.”
“All right my hearty! What do you want?”
“He wants a pair o’ eye-glasses,” cried Billy, whose heart was comforted, and whose spirits were raised by the success of the operation on his father’s hand; “you see he’s so short-sighted that he can’t see no good in nobody but his-self.”
“Shut up, you young catfish! See here,” said Gunter, stretching out his wrists, which were red and much swollen.
“Oh! I can give you something for that;” so saying the skipper supplied the fisherman with a little ointment, and then, going to a cupboard, produced a pair of worsted cuffs. “You rub ’em well with that first,” he said, “an’ then wear the cuffs.”
“He’ll want more cuffs than that,” said Billy.
“I think not my boy,” said the skipper, with a benignant look, as he stooped to lock the chest. “When these are worn-out he can have more.”
“Well, if you’d take my advice,” returned Billy, “you’d give him another pair. A cuff on each side of his head would do him a world of good.”
Gunter turned sharply to make a grasp at his young tormentor, but the lad had taken care to have the cabin table between them, and at once sprang laughing up the companion.
“He’s a smart boy, that,” remarked the mission skipper.
“Rather too smart,” growled Gunter, as he pocketed his salve and cuffs, and went on deck.
“Smart enough!” remarked David Bright with a low chuckle of satisfaction.
“Come now,” said the Missionary, “you’ll stop and have some coffee or cocoa with us. You can’t work wi’ that hand, you know. Besides, there’ll be no fishin’ till this calm’s over. So we mean to have a little meetin’ in the afternoon. We’re in luck too, just now,” he added in a lower voice, “for we’ve got a real parson aboard. That’s him talkin’ to my mate. He’s here on a visit—partly for his health, I believe—a regular clergyman of the Church of England and a splendid preacher, let me tell you. You’ll stop, now, won’t you?”
David Bright’s countenance grew sad. The memory of his recent failure and fall came over him.
“What’s the use o’ me attendin’ your meetin’s?” he said, almost angrily; “my soul’s past recovery, for I don’t believe in your prayin’ an’ psalm-singin’.”
“You trusted me freely wi’ your hand, David, though I’m no surgeon. Why won’t you trust me a little wi’ your soul, though I’m no parson—especially as it seems to be in a very bad way by your own account? Have a talk wi’ the parson. He’s got such a way with him that he’s sure to do you good.”
It was not so much the words thus spoken as the grave, kind, sensible tones and looks which accompanied them, that won the despairing fisherman.
“Well, I’ll stop,” he said, with a short laugh; “the cocoa may do me good, even though the meetin’ don’t.”
“Now you’re becoming soft and unmanly—a regular old wife,” whispered the demon, who had watched him anxiously throughout the whole morning.
“The boat’s alongside, father,”
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