Chapter Eleven
A Consultation, a Feast, and a Plot
There was—probably still is—a coffee-tavern in Gorleston where, in a cleanly, cheerful room, a retired fisherman and his wife, of temperance principles, supplied people with those hot liquids which are said to cheer without inebriating.
Here, by appointment, two friends met to discuss matters of grave importance. One was Bob Lumsden, the other his friend and admirer Pat Stiver. Having asked for and obtained two large cups of coffee and two slices of buttered bread for some ridiculously small sum of money, they retired to the most distant corner of the room, and, turning their backs on the counter, began their discussion in low tones.
Being early in the day, the room had no occupants but themselves and the fisherman’s wife, who busied herself in cleaning and arranging plates, cups, and saucers, etcetera, for expected visitors.
“Pat,” said Bob, sipping his coffee with an appreciative air, “I’ve turned a total abstainer.”
“W’ich means?” inquired Pat.
“That I don’t drink nothin’ at all,” replied Bob.
“But you’re a-drinkin’ now!” said Pat.
“You know what I mean, you small willain; I drink nothin’ with spirits in it.”
“Well, I don’t see what you gains by that, Bob, for I heerd Fred Martin say you was nat’rally ‘full o’ spirit,’ so abstainin’ ’ll make no difference.”
“Pat,” said Bob sternly, “if you don’t clap a stopper on your tongue, I’ll wollop you.”
Pat became grave at once. “Well, d’ee know, Bob,” he said, with an earnest look, “I do b’lieve you are right. You’ve always seemed to me as if you had a sort o’ dissipated look, an’ would go to the bad right off if you gave way to drink. Yes, you’re right, an’ to prove my regard for you I’ll become a total abstainer too—but, nevertheless, I can’t leave off drinkin’.”
“Can’t leave off drinkin’!” echoed Bob.
Pat shook his head. “No—can’t. ’Taint possible.”
“Why, wot do you mean?”
“Well, Bob, I mean that as I’ve never yet begun to drink, it ain’t possible for me to leave it off, d’ee see, though I was to try ever so hard. Howsever, I’ll become an abstainer all the same, just to keep company along wi’ you.”
Bob Lumsden gave a short laugh, and then, resuming his earnest air, said—
“Pat, I’ve found out that Dick Martin, the scoun’rel, has bin to Mrs Mooney’s hut again, an’ now I’m sartin sure it was him as stole the ’ooman’s money—not because I heerd him say so to Mr Binning, but because Eve told me she saw him flattenin’ his ugly nose against her window-pane last night, an’ recognised him at once for the thief. Moreover, he opened the door an’ looked into the room, but seein’ that he had given Eve a terrible fright, he drew back smartly an’ went away.”
“The willain!” exclaimed Pat Stiver, snapping his teeth as if he wanted to bite, and doubling up his little fists. It was evident that Bob’s news had taken away all his tendency to jest.
“Now it’s plain to me,” continued Bob, “that the willain means more mischief. P’r’aps he thinks the old ’ooman’s got more blunt hid away in her chest, or in the cupboard. Anyhow, he’s likely to frighten poor Eve out of her wits, so it’s my business to stop his little game. The question is, how is it to be done. D’ee think it would be of any use to commoonicate wi’ the police?”
The shaking of Pat Stiver’s head was a most emphatic answer.
“No,” said he, “wotiver you do, have nothin’ to do wi’ the p’leece. They’re a low-minded, pig-headed set, wi’ their ‘move on’s,’ an’ their ‘now then, little un’s;’ an’ their grabbin’s of your collars, without no regard to w’ether they’re clean or not, an’ their—”
“Let alone the police, Pat,” interrupted his friend, “but let’s have your adwice about what should be done.”
After a moment’s consideration, the small boy advised that Mrs Mooney’s hut should be watched.
“In course,” he said, “Dick Martin ain’t such a fool as to go an’ steal doorin’ the daytime, so we don’t need to begin till near dark. You are big an’ strong enough now, Bob, to go at a man like Dick an’ floor him wi a thumpin’ stick.”
“Scarcely,” returned Bob, with a gratified yet dubious shake of his head. “I’m game to try, but it won’t do to risk gettin’ the worst of it in a thing o’ this sort.”
“Well, but if I’m there with another thumpin’ stick to back you up,” said Pat, “you’ll have no difficulty wotsumdever. An’ then, if we should need help, ain’t the ‘Blue Boar’ handy, an’ there’s always a lot o’ hands there ready for a spree at short notice? Now, my adwice is that we go right off an’ buy two thumpin’ sticks—yaller ones, wi’ big heads like Jack the Giant Killer—get ’em for sixpence apiece. A heavy expense, no doubt, but worth goin’ in for, for the sake of Eve Mooney. And when, in the words o’ the old song, the shades of evenin’ is closin’ o’er us, we’ll surround the house of Eve, and ‘wait till the brute rolls by!’”
“You’re far too poetical, Pat, for a practical man, said his friend. Howsomediver, I think, on the whole, your adwice is not bad, so well try it on. But wot are we to do till the shades of evenin’ comes on?”
“Amoose ourselves,” answered Pat promptly.
“H’m! might do worse,” returned his friend. “I s’pose you know I’ve got to be at Widow Martin’s to take tea wi’ Fred an’ his bride on their return from their weddin’ trip. I wonder if I might take you with me, Pat. You’re small, an’ I suppose you don’t eat much.”
“Oh, don’t I, though?” exclaimed Pat.
“Well, no matter. It would be very jolly. We’d have a good blow-out, you know; sit there comfortably together till it began to git dark, and then start off to—to—”
“Go in an’ win,” suggested the little one.
Having thus discussed their plans and finished their coffee, the two chivalrous lads went off to Yarmouth and purchased two of the most formidable cudgels they could find, of the true Jack-the-Giant-Killer type, with which they retired to the Denes to “amoose” themselves.
Evening found them hungry and hearty at the tea-table of Mrs Martin—and really, for the table of a fisherman’s widow, it was spread with a very sumptuous repast; for it was a great day in the history of the Martin family. No fewer than three Mrs Martins were seated round it. There was old Granny Martin, who consented to quit her attic window on that occasion and take the head of the table, though she did so with a little sigh, and a soft remark that, “It would be sad if he were to come when she was not watching.” Then there was widow Martin, Fred’s mother—whose bad leg, by the way, had been quite cured by her legacy.
And lastly, there was pretty Mrs Isa Martin, Fred’s newly-married wife.
Besides these there were skipper Lockley of the Lively Poll, and his wife Martha—for it will be remembered Martha was cousin to Isa, and Stephen’s smack chanced to be in port at this time as well as the Sunbeam and the Fairy, alias the Ironclad, which last circumstance accounts for Dick Martin being also on shore. But Dick was not invited to this family gathering, for the good reason that he had not shown face since landing, and no one seemed to grieve over his absence, with the exception of poor old granny, whose love for her “wandering boy” was as strong and unwavering as was her love to the husband for whose coming she had watched so long.
Bob Lumsden, it may be remarked, was one of the guests, because Lockley was fond of him; and Pat Stiver was there because Bob was fond of him! Both were heartily welcomed.
Besides the improvement in Mrs Martin’s health, there was also vast improvement in the furniture and general appearance of the attic since the arrival of the legacy.
“It was quite a windfall,” remarked Mrs Lockley, handing in her cup for more tea.
“True, Martha, though I prefer to call it a godsend,” said Mrs Martin. “You see it was gettin’ so bad, what wi’ standin’ so long at the tub, an’ goin’ about wi’ the clo’es, that I felt as if I should break down altogether, I really did; but now I’ve been able to rest it I feel as if it was going to get quite strong again, and that makes me fit to look after mother far better. Have some more tea, granny!”
A mumbled assent and a pleased look showed that the old woman was fully alive to what was going on.
“Hand the butter to Isa, Pat. Thankee,” said the ex-washerwoman. “What a nice little boy your friend is, Bob Lumpy! I’m so glad you thought of bringin’ him. He quite puts me in mind of what my boy Fred was at his age—on’y a trifle broader, an’ taller, an stouter.”
“A sort of lock-stock-an’-barrel difference, mother,” said Fred, laughing.
“I dun know what you mean by your blocks, stocks, an’ barrels,” returned Mrs Martin, “but Pat is a sight milder in the face than you was, an I’m sure he’s a better boy.”
The subject of this remark cocked his ears and winked gently with one eye to his friend Bob, with such a sly look that the blooming bride, who observed it, went off into a shriek of laughter.
“An’ only to think,” continued Mrs Martin, gazing in undisguised admiration at her daughter-in-law, “that my Fred—who seems as if on’y yesterday he was no bigger than Pat, should have got Isa Wentworth—the best lass in all Gorleston—for a wife! You’re a lucky boy!”
“Right you are,” responded Fred, with enthusiasm. “I go wi’ you there, mother, but I’m more than a lucky boy—I’m a highly favoured one, and I thank God for the precious gift; and also for that other gift, which is second only to Isa, the command of a Gospel ship on the North Sea.”
A decided chuckle, which sounded like a choke, from granny, fortunately called for attentions from the bride at this point.
“But do ’ee really think your mission smack will do much good?” asked Martha Lockley, who was inclined to scepticism.
“I am sure of it,” replied Fred emphatically. “Why, we’ve done some good work already, though we have bin but a short time wi’ the fleet. I won’t speak of ourselves, but just look at what has bin done in the way of saving drunkards and swearers by the Cholmondeley in the short-Blue Fleet, and by the old Ensign in the Fleet started by Mr Burdett-Coutts, the Columbia fleet, and in the other fleets that have got Gospel ships. It is not too much to say that there are hundreds of men now prayin’ to God, singin’ the praises o’ the Lamb, an’ servin’ their owners better than they ever did before, who not long ago were godless drunkards and swearers.”
“Men are sometimes hypocrites,” objected Martha; “how d’ee know that they are honest, or that it will last?”
“Hypocrites?” exclaimed Fred, pulling a paper hastily from his pocket and unfolding it. “I think you’ll admit that sharp men o’ bussiness are pretty good judges o’ hypocrites as well as of good men. Listen to what one of the largest firms of smack-owners says: ‘Our men have been completely revolutionised, and we gladly become subscribers of ten guineas to the funds of the Mission.’ Another firm says, ‘What we have stated does not convey anything like our sense of the importance of the work you have undertaken.’”
“Ay, there’s something in that,” said Martha, who, like all sceptics, was slow to admit truth.
We say not this to the discredit of sceptics. On the contrary, we think that people who swallow what is called “truth” too easily, are apt to imbibe a deal of error along with it. Doubtless it was for the benefit of such that the word was given— “Prove all things. Hold fast that which is good.”
Fred then went to show the immense blessing that mission ships had already been to the North Sea fishermen—alike to their souls and bodies; but we may not follow him further, for Bob Lumsden and Pat Stiver claim individual attention just now.
When these enterprising heroes observed that the shades of evening were beginning to fall, they rose to take their leave.
“Why so soon away, lads?” asked Fred.
“We’re goin’ to see Eve Mooney,” answered Bob. “Whatever are the boys goin’ to do wi’ them thick sticks?” exclaimed Martha Lockley.
“Fit main an fore masts into a man-o’-war, I suppose,” suggested her husband.
The boys did not explain, but went off laughing, and Lockley called after them—
“Tell Eve I’ve got a rare lot o’ queer things for her this trip.”
“And give her my dear love,” cried Mrs Fred Martin.
“Ay, ay,” replied the boys as they hurried away on their self-imposed mission.
Chapter Twelve
The Enterprise fails—remarkably
The lads had to pass the “Blue Boar” on their way to Widow Mooney’s hut, and they went in just to see, as Bob said, how the land lay, and whether there was a prospect of help in that quarter if they should require it.
Besides a number of strangers, they found in that den of iniquity Joe Stubley, Ned Bryce, and Groggy Fox—which last had, alas! forgotten his late determination to “leave the poor old stranded wreck and pull for the shore.” He and his comrades were still out among the breakers, clinging fondly to the old wreck.
The boys saw at a glance that no assistance was to be expected from these men. Stubley was violently argumentative, Fox was maudlinly sentimental, and Bryce was in an exalted state of heroic resolve. Each sought to gain the attention and sympathy of the other, and all completely failed, but they succeeded in making a tremendous noise, which seemed partially to satisfy them as they drank deeper.
“Come, nothin’ to be got here,” whispered Bob Lumsden, in a tone of disgust, as he caught hold of his friend’s arm. “We’ll trust to ourselves—”
“An’ the thumpin’ sticks,” whispered Pat, as they reached the end of the road.
Alas for the success of their enterprise if it had depended on those formidable weapons of war!
When the hut was reached the night had become so nearly dark that they ventured to approach it with the intention of peeping in at the front window, but their steps were suddenly arrested by the sight of a man’s figure approaching from the opposite direction. They drew back, and, being in the shadow of a wall, escaped observation. The man advanced noiselessly, and with evident caution, until he reached the window, and peeped in.
“It’s Dick,” whispered Bob. “Can’t see his figure-head, but I know the cut of his jib, even in the dark.”
“Let’s go at ’im, slick!” whispered Pat, grasping his cudgel and looking fierce.
“Not yet. We must make quite sure, an’ nab him in the very act.”
As he spoke the man went with stealthy tread to the door of the hut, which the drunken owner had left on the latch. Opening it softly, he went in, shut it after him, and, to the dismay of the boys, locked it on the inside.
“Now, Pat,” said Bob, somewhat bitterly, “there’s nothin’ for it but the police.”
Pat expressed strong dissent. “The p’leece,” he said, “was useless for real work; they was on’y fit to badger boys an’ old women.”
“But what can we do?” demanded Bob anxiously, for he felt that time was precious. “You an’ I ain’t fit to bu’st in the door; an’ if we was Dick would be ready for us. If we’re to floor him he must be took by surprise.”
“Let’s go an’ peep,” suggested the smaller warrior.
“Come on, then,” growled the big one.
The sight that met their eyes when they peeped was indeed one fitted to expand these orbs of vision to the uttermost, for they beheld the thief on his knees beside the invalid’s bed, holding her thin hand in his, while his head was bowed upon the ragged counterpane.
Bob Lumsden was speechless.
“Hold me; I’m a-goin’ to bu’st,” whispered Pat, by way of expressing the depth of his astonishment.
Presently Eve spoke. They could hear her faintly, yet distinctly, through the cracked and patched windows, and listened with all their ears.
“Don’t take on so, poor man,” she said in her soft loving tones. “Oh, I am so glad to hear what you say!”
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.