Personal Reminiscences in Book Making, and Some Short Stories

“What would you advise, old man?” said Harry, glancing up at the Crusader with the mace.

The question was put gravely, for, ever since he could walk or do anything, the boy had amused himself by putting free-and-easy questions to the suits of armour, or defying them to mortal combat. As he was true to ancient friendships, he had acquired the habit of giving the warriors an occasional nod or word of recognition long after he had ceased to play with them.

“Shades of my ancestors!” exclaimed Harry with sudden animation, gazing earnestly at the Crusader on his right, “the very thing! I’ll do it.”

That evening, after tea, he went to his father’s study.

“May I sit up in the dining-room to-night, father, till two in the morning?”

“Well, it will puzzle you to do that to-night, my son; but you may if you have a good reason.”

“My reason is that I have a problem—a very curious problem—to work out, and as I positively shan’t be able to sleep until I’ve done it, I may just as well sit up as not.”

“Do as you please, Harry; I shall probably be up till that hour myself—if not later—for unexpected calls on my time have prevented the preparation of a sermon about which I have had much anxious thought of late.”

“Indeed, father!” remarked the son, in a sympathetic tone, on observing that the Reverend Theophilus passed his hand somewhat wearily over his brow. “What may be your text?”

“‘Be gentle, showing meekness to all men,’” answered the worthy man, with an abstracted faraway look, as if he were wrestling in anticipation with the seventh head.

“Well, good-night, father, and please don’t think it necessary to come in upon me to see how I am getting on. I never can work out a difficult problem if there is a chance of interruption.”

“All right, my son—good-night.”

“H’m,” thought Harry, as he returned to the dining-room in a meditative mood; “I am afraid, daddy, that you’ll find it hard to be gentle to some men to-night! However, we shall see.”

Ringing the bell, he stood with his back to the fire, gazing at the ceiling. The summons was answered by the gardener, who also performed the functions of footman and man-of-all-work at the parsonage.

“Simon, I am going out, and may not be home till late. I want either you or Robin to sit up for me.”

“Very well, sir.”

“And,” continued the youth, with an air of offhand gravity, “I shall be obliged to sit up working well into the morning, so you may have a cup of strong coffee ready for me. Wait until I ring for it—perhaps about two in the morning. I shall sit in the dining-room, but don’t bring it until I ring. Mind that, for I can’t stand interruption—as you know.”

“Yes, sir.”

Simon knew his imperious young master too well to make any comment on his commands. He returned, therefore, to the kitchen, told the cook of the order he had received to sit up and take Master Harry’s coffee to him when he should ring, and made arrangements with Robin to sit up and help him to enliven his vigil with a game of draughts.

Having thus made his arrangements, Harry Stronghand went out to enjoy a walk. He was a tremendous walker—thought nothing of twenty or thirty miles, and rather preferred to walk at night than during the day, especially when moon and stars were shining. Perhaps it was a dash of poetry in his nature that induced this preference.

About midnight he returned, went straight to the dining-room, and, entering, shut the door, while Simon retired to his own regions and resumed his game with Robin.

A small fire was burning in the dining-room grate, the flickering flames of which leaped up occasionally, illuminated the frowning ancestors on the walls, and gleamed on the armour of the ancient knight and the Crusader.

Walking up to the latter, Harry looked at him sternly; but as he looked, his mouth relaxed into a peculiar smile, and displayed his magnificent teeth as far back as the molars. Then he went to the window, saw that the fastenings were right, and drew down the blinds. He did not think it needful to close the shutters, but he drew a thick heavy curtain across the opening of the bay-window, so as to shut it off effectually from the rest of the room. This curtain was so arranged that the iron sentinels were not covered by it, but were left in the room, as it were, to mount guard over the curtain.

This done, the youth turned again to the Crusader and mounted behind him on the low pedestal on which he stood. Unfastening his chain-mail armour at the back, he opened him up, so to speak, and went in. The suit fitted him fairly well, for Harry was a tall, strapping youth for his years, and when he looked out at the aperture of the headpiece and smiled grimly, he seemed by no means a degenerate warrior.

Returning to the fireplace, he sat down in an easy chair and buried himself in a favourite author.

One o’clock struck. Harry glanced up, nodded pleasantly, as if on familiar terms with Time, and resumed his author. The timepiece chimed the quarters. This was convenient. It prevented anxious watchfulness. The half-hour chimed. Harry did not move. Then the three-quarters rang out in silvery tones. Thereupon Harry arose, shut up his author, blew out his light, drew back the heavy curtains, and, returning to the arm-chair sat down to listen in comparative darkness.

The moon by that time had set and darkness profound had settled down upon that part of the universe. The embers in the grate were just sufficient to render objects in the room barely visible and ghost-like.

Presently there was the slightest imaginable sound near the bay-window. It might have been the Crusader’s ghost, but that was not likely, for at the moment something very like Harry’s ghost flitted across the room and entered into the warrior.

Again the sound was heard, more decidedly than before. It was followed by a sharp click as the inefficient catch was forced back. Then the sash began to rise, softly, slowly—an eighth of an inch at a time. During this process Harry remained invisible and inactive; Paterfamilias in the study addressed himself to the sixth head of his discourse, and the gardener with his satellite hung in silent meditation over the draught-board in the kitchen.

After the sash stopped rising, the centre blind was moved gently to one side, and the head of Dick appeared with a furtive expression on the countenance. For a few seconds his eyes roved around without much apparent purpose; then, as they became accustomed to the dim light, a gleam of intelligence shot from them; the rugged head turned to one side; the coarse mouth turned still more to one side in its effort to address some one behind, and, in a whisper that would have been hoarse had it been loud enough, Dick said—

“Hall right, Bill. We won’t need matches. Keep clear o’ the statters in passin’.”

As he spoke, Dick’s hobnailed boot appeared, his corduroy leg followed, and next moment he stood in the room with a menacing look and attitude and a short thick bludgeon in his knuckly hand. Bill quickly stood beside him. After another cautious look round, the two advanced with extreme care—each step so carefully taken that the hobnails fell like rose-leaves on the carpet. Feeling that the “coast was clear,” Dick advanced with more confidence, until he stood between the ancient warriors, whose pedestals raised them considerably above his head.

At that moment there was a sharp click, as of an iron hinge. Dick’s heart seemed to leap into his throat. Before he could swallow it, the iron mace of the Crusader descended with stunning violence on his crown.

Well was it for the misguided man that morning that he happened to have purchased a new and strong billycock the day before, else would that mace have sent him—as it had sent many a Saracen of old—to his long home. The blow effectually spoilt the billycock, however, and stretched its owner insensible on the floor.

The other burglar was too close behind his comrade to permit of a second blow being struck. The lively Crusader, however, sprang upon him, threw his mailed arms round his neck, and held him fast.

And now began a combat of wondrous ferocity and rare conditions. The combatants were unequally matched, for the man was huge and muscular, while the youth was undeveloped and slender, but what the latter lacked in brute force was counterbalanced by the weight of his armour, his youthful agility, and his indomitable pluck. By a deft movement of his legs he caused Bill to come down on his back, and fell upon him with all his weight plus that of the Crusader. Annoyed at this, and desperately anxious to escape before the house should be alarmed, Bill delivered a roundabout blow with his practised fist that ought to have driven in the skull of his opponent, but it only scarified the man’s knuckles on the Crusader’s helmet. He tried another on the ribs, but the folds of chain-mail rendered that abortive. Then the burglar essayed strangulation, but there again the folds of mail foiled him. During these unavailing efforts the unconscious Dick came in for a few accidental raps and squeezes as he lay prone beside them.

Meanwhile, the Crusader adopted the plan of masterly inactivity, by simply holding on tight and doing nothing. He did not shout for help, because, being bull-doggish in his nature, he preferred to fight in silent ferocity. Exasperated as well as worn by this method, Bill became reckless, and made several wild plunges to regain his feet. He did not succeed, but he managed to come against the pedestal of the knight in mail with great violence. The iron warrior lost his balance, toppled over, and came down on the combatants with a hideous crash, suggestive of coal-scuttles and fire-irons.

Sleep, sermons, and draughts could no longer enchain! Mrs Stronghand awoke, buried her startled head in the bed-clothes, and quaked. Emmie sprang out of bed and huddled on her clothes, under the impression that fire-engines were at work. The Reverend Theophilus leaped up, seized the study poker and a lamp, and rushed towards the dining-room. Overturning the draught-board, Simon grasped a rolling-pin, Robin the tongs, and both made for the same place. They all collided at the door, burst it open, and advanced to the scene of war.

It was a strange scene! Bill and the Crusader, still struggling, were giving the remains of the other knight a lively time of it, and Dick, just beginning to recover, was sitting with a dazed look in a sea of iron débris.

“That’s right; hit him hard, father!” cried Harry, trying to look round.

“No, don’t, sir,” cried the burglar; “I gives in.”

“Let my son—let the Crusa— let him go, then,” said the Reverend gentleman, raising his poker.

“I can’t, sir, ’cause he won’t let me go.”

“All right, I’ll let you go now,” said Harry, unclasping his arms and rising with a long-drawn sigh. “Now you. Come to the light and let’s have a look at you.”

So saying, the lad thrust his mailed hand into the burglar’s neckerchief, and assisted by the Reverend Theophilus, led his captive to the light which had been put on the table. The gardener and Robin did the same with Dick. For one moment it seemed as if the two men meditated a rush for freedom, for they both glanced at the still open window, but the stalwart Simon with the rolling-pin and the sturdy Robin with the tongs stood between them and that mode of exit, while the Crusader with his mace and huge Mr Stronghand with the study poker stood on either side of them. They thought better of it. “Bring two chairs here,” said the clergyman, in a gentle yet decided tone.

Robin and Harry obeyed—the latter wondering what “the governor was going to be up to.”

“Sit down,” said the clergyman, quietly and with much solemnity.

The burglars humbly obeyed.

“Now, my men, I am going to preach you a sermon.”

“That’s right, father,” interrupted Harry, in gleeful surprise. “Give it ’em hot. Don’t spare them. Put plenty of brimstone into it.”

But, to Harry’s intense disgust, his father put no brimstone into it at all. On the contrary, without availing himself of heads or subdivisions, he pointed out in a few plain words the evil of their course, and the only method of escaping from that evil. Then he told them that penal servitude for many years was their due according to the law of the land.

“Now,” said he, in conclusion, “you are both of you young and strong men who may yet do good service and honest work in the land. I have no desire to ruin your lives. Penal servitude might do so. Forgiveness may save you—therefore I forgive you! There is the open window. You are at liberty to go.”

The burglars had been gazing at their reprover with wide-open eyes. They now turned and gazed at each other with half-open mouths; then they again turned to the clergyman as if in doubt, but with a benignant smile he again pointed to the open window.

They rose like men in a dream, went softly across the room, stepped humbly out, and melted into darkness.

The parson’s conduct may not have been in accordance with law, but it was eminently successful, for it is recorded that those burglars laid that sermon seriously to heart—at all events, they never again broke into that parsonage, and never again was there occasion for Harry to call in the services of the ancient knight or the Crusader.

Chapter Eight

Jim Greely, the North Sea Skipper

When Nellie Sumner married James Greely—the strapping skipper of a Yarmouth fishing-smack—there was not a prettier girl in all the town, at least so said, or thought, most of the men and many of the women who dwelt near her. Of course there were differences of opinion on the point, but there was no doubt whatever about it in the mind of James Greely, who was overwhelmed with astonishment, as well as joy, at what he styled his “luck in catching such a splendid wife.”

And there was good ground for his strong feeling, for Nellie was neat, tidy, and good-humoured, as well as good-looking, and she made Jim’s home as neat and tidy as herself.

“There’s always sunshine inside o’ my house,” said Greely to his mates once, “no matter what sort o’ weather there may be outside.”

Ere long a squall struck that house—a squall that moved the feelings of our fisherman more deeply than the fiercest gale he had ever faced on the wild North Sea, for it was the squall of a juvenile Jim! From that date the fisherman was wont to remark, with a quiet smile of satisfaction, that he had got moonlight now, as well as sunshine, in the Yarmouth home.

The only matter that distressed the family at first was that the father saw so little of his lightsome home; for, his calling being that of a deep-sea smacksman, or trawler, by far the greater part of our fisherman’s rugged life was spent on the restless ocean. Two months at sea and eight days ashore was the unvarying routine of Jim’s life, summer and winter, all the year round. That is to say, about fifty days on shore out of the year, and three hundred and fifteen days on what the cockney greengrocer living next door to Jim styled the “’owlin’ deep.”

And, truly, the greengrocer was not far wrong, for the wild North Sea does a good deal of howling, off and on, during the year, to say nothing of whistling and shrieking and other boisterous practices when the winter gales are high.

But a cloud began to descend, very gradually at first, on James Greely’s dwelling, for a demon—a very familiar one on the North Sea—had been twining his arms for a considerable time round the stalwart fisherman.

At the time of Jim’s marriage those mission-ships of the Dutch—and, we may add, of the devil—named copers, or floating grog-shops, were plying their deadly traffic in strong drink full swing among the trawlers of the North Sea. Through God’s blessing the mission-ships of the Cross have now nearly driven the copers off the sea, but at the time we write of the Dutchmen had it all their own way, and many a splendid man, whom toil, cold, hardship, and fierce conflict with the elements could not subdue, was laid low by the poisonous spirits of the coper. Greely went to the copers at first to buy tobacco, but, being a hearty, sociable fellow, he had no objection to take an occasional friendly dram. Gradually, imperceptibly, he became enslaved. He did not give way at once. He was too much of a man for that. Many a deadly battle had he with the demon—known only to himself and God—but as he fought in his own strength, of course he failed; failed again and again, until he finally gave way to despair.

Poor Nellie was quick to note the change, and tried, with a brave heart at first but a sinking heart at last, to save him, but without success. The eight days which used to be spent in the sunny home came at last to be spent in the Green Dragon public-house; and in course of time Nellie was taught by bitter experience that if her husband, on his periodical return from the sea, went straight from the smack to the public-house, it was little that she would see of him during his spell on shore. Even curly-headed juvenile Jimmie—his father’s pride—ceased to overcome the counter-attraction of strong drink.

Is it to be wondered at that Nellie lost some of her old characteristics—that, the wages being spent on drink, she found it hard to provide the mere necessaries of life for herself and her boy, and that she finally gave up the struggle to keep either person or house as neat and orderly as of yore, while a haggard look and lines of care began to spoil the beauty of her countenance? Or is it a matter for surprise that her temper began to give way under the strain?

“You are ruining yourself and killing me,” said the sorely-tried wife one evening—the last evening of a spell on shore—as Jim staggered into the once sunny home to bid his wife good-bye.

It was the first time that Nellie had spoken roughly to him. He made no answer at first. He was angry. The Green Dragon had begun to demoralise him, and the reproof which ought to have melted only hardened him.

“The last of the coals are gone,” continued the wife with bitterness in her tone, “and there’s scarcely enough of bread in the house for a good supper to Jimmie. You should be ashamed of yourself, Jim.”

A glare of drunken anger shot fiercely from the fisherman’s eyes. No word did he utter. Turning on his heel, he strode out of the house and shut the door after him with cannon-shot violence.

“O Jim—stop Jim!” burst from timid Nellie. “I’ll never—”

She ceased abruptly, for the terrified Jimmie was clinging to her skirts, and her husband was beyond the reach of her voice. Falling on her knees, she prayed to God passionately for pardon. It was their first quarrel. She ended by throwing herself on her bed and bursting into a fit of sobbing that not only horrified but astounded little Jim. To see his mother sobbing wildly while he was quiet and grave was a complete inversion of all his former experiences. As if to carry out the spirit of the situation, he proceeded to act the part of comforter by stroking his mother’s brown hair with his fat little hand until the burst of grief subsided.

“Dare, you’s dood now, muzzer. Tiss me!” he said.

Nellie flung her arms round the child and kissed him fervently.

Meanwhile James Greely’s smack, the Dolphin, was running down the Yare before a stiff breeze, and Jim himself had commenced the most momentous, and, in one sense, disastrous voyage of his life. As he stood at the tiller, guiding his vessel with consummate skill out into the darkening waters, his heart felt like lead. He would have given all he possessed to recall the past hour, to have once again the opportunity of bidding Nellie good-bye as he had been wont to do in the days that were gone. But it was too late. Wishes and repentance, he knew, avail nothing to undo a deed that is done.

Jim toiled with that branch of the North Sea fleets which is named the “Short Blue.” It was trawling at a part of the North Sea called “Botney Gut” at that time, but our fisherman had been told that it was fishing at another part named the “Silverpits.” It blew hard from the nor’west, with much snow, so that Jim took a long time to reach his destination. But no “Short Blue” fleet was to be seen at the Silverpits.

To the eyes of ordinary men the North Sea is a uniform expanse of water, calm or raging as the case may be. Not so to the deep-sea trawler. Jim’s intimate knowledge of localities, his sounding-lead and the nature of the bottom, etcetera, enabled him at any time to make for, and surely find, any of the submarine banks. But fleets, though distinguished by a name, have no “local habitation.” They may be on the “Dogger Bank” to-day, on the “Swarte Bank” or the “Great Silverpits” to-morrow. With hundreds of miles of open sea around, and neither milestone nor finger-post to direct, a lost fleet is not unlike a lost needle in a haystack. Fortunately Jim discovered a brother smacksman looking, like himself, for his own fleet. Being to windward the brother ran down to him.

“What cheer O! Have ’ee seen anything o’ the Red Cross Fleet?” roared the skipper, with the power of a brazen trumpet.

“No,” shouted Jim, in similar tones. “I’m lookin’ for the Short Blue.”

“I passed it yesterday, bearin’ away for Botney Gut.”

“’Bout ship” went Jim, and away with a stiff breeze on his quarter. He soon found the fleet—a crowd of smacks, all heading in the same direction, with their huge trawling nets down and bending over before what was styled a good “fishing-breeze.” It requires a stiff breeze to haul a heavy net, with its forty or fifty feet beam and other gear, over the rough bottom of the North Sea. With a slight breeze and the net down a smack would be simply anchored by the stern to her own gear.

Down went Jim’s net, and, like a well-drilled fisherman, he fell into line. It was a rough grey day with a little snow falling, which whitened all the ropes and covered the decks with slush.

Greely’s crew had become demoralised, like their skipper. There were five men and a fair-haired boy. All could drink and swear except the boy. Charlie was the only son of his mother, and she was a good woman, besides being a widow. Charlie was the smack’s cook.

“Grub’s ready,” cried the boy, putting his head up the hatchway after the gear was down.

He did not name the meal. Smacksmen have a way of taking food irregularly at all or any hours, when circumstances permit, and are easy about the name so long as they get it, and plenty of it. A breakfast at mid-day after a night of hardest toil might be regarded indifferently as a luncheon or an early dinner.

Black Whistler, the mate, who stood at the helm, pronounced a curse upon the weather by way of reply to Charlie’s summons.

“You should rather bless the ladies on shore that sent you them wursted mittens an’ ’elmet, you ungrateful dog,” returned the boy with a broad grin, for he and Whistler were on familiar terms.

The man growled something inaudible, while his mates went below to feed.

Each North Sea trawling fleet acts unitedly under an “admiral.” It was early morning when the signal was given by rocket to haul up the nets. Between two and three hours at the capstan—slow, heavy toil, with every muscle strained to the utmost—was the result of the admiral’s order. Bitter cold; driving snow; cutting flashes of salt spray, and dark as Erebus save for the light of a lantern lashed to the mast. Tramp, tramp, tramp, the seemingly everlasting round went on, with the clank of heavy sea-boots and the rustle of hard oil-skins, and the sound of labouring breath as accompaniment; while the endless cable came slowly up from the “vasty deep.”

But everything comes to an end, even on the North Sea! At last the great beam appears and is secured. With a sigh of relief the capstan bars are thrown down, and the men vary their toil by clawing up the net with scarred and benumbed fingers. It is heavy work, causes much heaving and gasping, and at times seems almost too much for all hands to manage.

Again Black Whistler pronounces a malediction on things in general, and is mockingly reminded by the boy-cook that he ought to bless the people as sends him wursted cuffs to save his wrists from sea-blisters.

“Seems to me we’ve got a hold of a bit o’ Noah’s ark,” growled one of the hands, as something black and big begins to appear.

He is partially right, for a bit of an old wreck is found to have been captured with a ton or so of fish. When this is disengaged the net comes in more easily, and the fish are dropped like a silver cataract on the wet deck.