Little Grey Ships/The Price of Fish
LITTLE GREY SHIPS
THE PRICE OF FISH
But never you think as I’m likely to sink,
Nor bid me a fond adoo—
Jist lemme alone, an’ I’ll come home,
Flappin’ my faithful screw.
The cabin was cosy with radiated steam-heat and bright with acetylene gas. The polished panels of the bunks shone; brass rails and knobs glittered. And the whole scene rose and fell, swung to and fro, in the most erratic fashion imaginable to the muffled sound of many waters and the drumming of the propeller.
Speechless Tom, skipper of the trawler Sapphire, appeared quite unconscious of any commotion. As if glued to his seat on the locker, his feet in tall sea-boots seemingly clamped to the floor, his chest hard against the table's edge, he was as one of the cabin fixtures. Unrolled and pinned to the table was a chart, recently revised, of the North Sea. Its lower portion was well-nigh covered with oblongs and triangles of pink—prohibited and dangerous areas. The Sapphire was among them now, towards the end of her voyage from the Iceland banks, a record catch in her freezing holds.
Fingering the pencil which had just marked the ship's position and future course, the skipper looked up at the clock. His lips moved in silent calculation, his brows drew together in a frown. He was a man of about forty, possibly on the wrong side, with kindly blue eyes, a short bristling red moustache, a generous mouth, and a decidedly stubborn chin. At first thought his nickname would seem appropriate, for he uttered words remarkably seldom; but a trained lip-reader would probably describe him as a talkative man. Once, in a moment of expansion, he had informed Johnny, the mate, that he had gradually become silent through endeavouring to master a habit of swearing. Johnny, however, who has sailed with him for a good number of years, is still disinclined to accept the explanation, for Johnny, having learned to “read” a little, can generally detect the bad language with his eyes. He is of opinion that Tom was born with the soundless habit, and believes that Tom's mother, were she alive, would testify that Tom as an infant never cried—made faces instead.
The same Johnny now came clattering down the ladder and blundered into the doorway, halting there and steadying himself against the jamb. Water, fresh and salt, streamed from his sou'wester and oilskins, and dripped from his beard.
“Gettin' worse—and goin' to be worser,” he said. “She's shippin' it solid now, and the rain's turnin' to sleet. We're in for a hell o' a night.” He glanced at the clock. “Only five hours! Why, Tom, she can't do it!” His gaze sought the other's lips. “'Got to do it,' says you? How?... 'Tisn't possible. The old Sapphire can stand a queer lot o' drivin', but she has her limit. She's at it now. That's why I run down to ask ye to change yer mind and let me give Bob the word to ease her a bit.” He flung up his free hand. “Hark to that! Feel it!”
A shock, a universal quivering, a roaring and sluicing of waters. The vessel heaved up and up, then sank back with a sidelong, wobbling roll. As she began to recover, another breaker swiped her port bow and swept her deck.
“Something's bound to give,” said the mate, “if we keeps on drivin' her like this. Them tons o' seas”
Tom's lips moved. “All right. I'll be up in a minute.”
“Ho, there's no need for that—if ye'll give me the authority. I thought ye was goin' to turn in for an hour or so”
Tom spoke aloud at last. “The Sapphire's goin' to be at the quay in time for the market. Ye know as well as I do she'll be 'bout the only trawler there in the mornin'. Ye counted the trawlers we sighted up yonder—not one o' them ready for home. Ye heard what Big Ben o' the Gladys said when we hailed him this mornin' on his way north—leastways, ye heard enough. 'Fish famine,' says he; 'buyers payin' anything. The Cygnet's fish fetched sixteen hundred pound. Hurry up, and yours'll fetch two thousand!' That's what he said, Johnny, and that's all I've got to say.”
It was the longest utterance the mate had heard from his skipper's mouth for many a day. After a moment he said quietly:
“Two thousand pound is a biggish temptation, 'specially when ye happens to hold a goodish share in the trawler, Tom. Still”
“I'll be up in a minute.”
With a shake of his head the mate turned and departed. He was no coward, only a moderately cautious man.
A brief, final consultation of the chart, and then the skipper unpinned and rolled it up, and stowed it in the rack overhead. He rose, steadying himself by anything handy, donned his muffler, and struggled into his still wet oilskins. Presently he ascended the ladder and stood for a little space gazing through the doorway of the deckhouse. Undoubtedly the gale had increased, even within the twenty minutes he had spent below over the chart. The lamp on the wall behind him cast a faint shine on the streaming deck, the slanting sleet, and he had glimpses of seething whiteness when a billow foamed level with the trawler's stern. A roaring filled his ears. His lips moved—” She's got to do it!”
•••••
He stepped forth, slamming the door behind him, swung round the corner, and braced himself against the bitter blast. The wind yelled among the shrouds, howled over the fire-tufted funnel, thundered in his ears. The sea crashed in its fury. Spray and sleet rattled against his oilskins. He had just fought his way past the battened skylights of the engine-room when the Sapphire gave a prodigious lurch. He clutched a stay of the funnel. Over she went; over, until the surge rushed along the rim of her bulwarks. A little further, and a cataract poured upon her deck. Then, righting herself, she scooped in a mass of water that buried him to the waist. Ere it subsided, he let go and made a dash for the bridge ladder. As he set foot on the first rung a sea bursting over the bow swept diagonally across the ship and half smothered him. He gasped, shook himself, and scrambled up to the wheel-house. It was occupied by the mate and a man steering. The tiny place seemed a haven of warmth and shelter.
The mate regarded him more in sorrow than in anger. “Takin' it over her lee now, is she?” he remarked, bawling above the din.
With a sign of dismissal, Tom took the wheel from the seaman. When the man had gone he glanced at the compass, then gave the wheel a turn.
“Great God!” softly said the mate.
Five seconds later a crested mountain of water, like snow in the blackness, rose up, and tumbled on board. The trawler shuddered, and lay over at an alarming angle. But she rolled back readily enough—to receive another thundering deluge.
Johnny, the mate, appeared to be intent on the white-rifted blackness ahead. He knew that his skipper, having altered the course a trifle, was for slipping nearer the unlighted coast, in order to save a knot or two on the remainder of the trip, and he wondered just how near that coast and the minefields the Sapphire might be at the moment. They say the trawlmen can smell their way in the dark, yet for all that they miss the friendly lights that war has extinguished.
“Even if we do 'scape rocks and them blasted mines,” Johnny was thinking, “something's bound to give.” A movement behind him made him look round.
Tom was leaning over and speaking into the tube to the engine-room.
“Bob, can't ye give her a bit more?” he said, pleasantly.
“More!” It was a screech of astonishment.
“Just so.” Tom replaced the whistle in the tube.
The mate stepped back and shouted at his ear: “Even s'posin' ye could do it in time, ye'll get stopped outside the minefields. Ye know fine ye can't take her through wi'out a pilot.”
“Can't?” queried Tom's lips.
“Dursn't, then... Who'll stop ye?... Why, the patrol.”
Tom laughed. He was warm now, steaming under wet garments.
“Ye think they won't spot us on a dirty night like this? ”
Tom spoke aloud. “I'd bet on us gettin' past. 'Tis a fair chance, anyway. Keep yer hair on, Johnny. We'll sure be at the quay in good time, and 'twill be made worth while for every man on board. Why, I do believe Bob's lettin' her have a bit more!”
“Then something is well bound to give!” the mate repeated, but under his breath, as he returned to peering ahead.
•••••
The skipper also peered ahead, watching, and perhaps measuring the lines and patches of white that seemed to flash from the darkness—breakers charging to assault, batter, and board his ship.
Suddenly, with a hiss-in of breath, he spun the wheel hard.... Too late. A gigantic sea caught the Sapphire a staggering buffet, then overwhelmed her, bridge, wheel-house, funnel and all. The mate turned his back, the skipper ducked his head only just in time. A shattering shock, and the wheel-house was alive with stinging brine and flying glass.
Presently the mate, gingerly removing a sharp fragment from the inside of his loosened collar, looked at the skipper, whose dripping sou'wester had a jagged triangle stuck in it. Tom set his teeth and proceeded to bring the reeling Sapphire back to her appointed course. Johnny showed no resentment; he did not even attempt to say, “I told ye something was bound to give.” He simply gave his head a wag of resignation, equivalent to remarking, “In for a penny, in for a pound,” and, buttoning up his collar and turning down his sou'wester, he faced the savage wind, the sleet, and whatever the storm might send him.
A couple of concerned-looking seamen appeared on the scene, but were dismissed by a gesture from the skipper.
Again and again the wheel-house was flooded, the men were drenched. The cold was intense. The skipper no longer steamed in his soaking garments. Later the sleet turned to snow—crisp, thick, blinding, stabbing snow. In the feeble light from the binnacle the two men soon appeared like white statues. During the next three hours the skipper frequently looked at his watch, but never a word did he utter. Now and then, however, he grinned. The snow might help him after all.
At last, like a man who has come to a final decision, he spun the wheel rapidly. The Sapphire fell away until she was broadside to the gale and rolling as if in agony; further round she went until the sea was on her quarter; then straight ahead she flew, wallowing.
•••••
“Lights!” cried the mate, pointing.
The skipper looked, discovered the faint sparks, which must have been near to be visible in that blizzard. He nodded calmly.
“Patrol, sure,” said Johnny. “If they signal”
“Pretend ye're blind and deaf.” Tom bent over the speaking-tube. “Give her all ye can, Bob.” He laughed and turned to his companion. “How the devil could they send us a pilot in this? Do they think to keep us hangin' around outside till the weather moderates?”
Johnny said nothing then. Already the sparks had gone out, as it seemed. At the end of a long hour he opened his bluish lips.
“Tom, are we 'mong the mines now, think ye?”
“God knows,” shouted Tom, soberly enough, “but I sorter reckon we've won through them.”
•••••
In good time for the market the Sapphire yawed into port. How the skipper found his way in, the mate still wonders, and the former's explanations are extremely vague. As soon as the Sapphire was warped to the quay, an official accompanied by a lantern-bearer came on board.
“Where's your pilot, skipper? What? Speak out, man!”
“Too dark to see him, I s'pose,” said Tom, with an involuntary yawn.
“Are you aware that you have come through the minefields?”
“If you say so, sir.
“I'm bound to report you.”
Tom nodded politely.
The Sapphire was the only arrival that black morning. Her fish fetched £2,000 and £156 more.
On the following day Tom appeared in court, charged with bringing his vessel into without a pilot. He pleaded guilty, listened respectfully to a solemn admonition and warning, and in silence paid the modified penalty of three guineas—a mere fraction of what he would have to pay were he caught playing the game a second time.
His crew cheered him as he left the courthouse. His shore friends cheered him. Strangers, including a policeman, five soldiers and a little boy with a pop-gun, cheered him. His mate wrung his hand, and led him away for refreshments. All of which was, of course, utterly wrong treatment for a man who had risked his ship, not to mention half a score of precious lives, for the sake of gain and mere adventure. But we are a wrong-headed, thoughtless people, and not even moderately consistent. For we go about complaining that fish is scandalously dear.