Chapter Six.
The Curse of the North Sea; and the Trawls at Work
There are few objects in nature, we think, more soothing to the feelings and at the same time more heart-stirring to the soul than the wide ocean in a profound calm, when sky and temperature, health, hour, and other surrounding conditions combine to produce unison of the entire being.
Such were the conditions, one lovely morning about the end of summer, which gladdened the heart of little Billy Bright as he leaned over the side of the Evening Star, and made faces at his own reflected image in the sea, while he softly whistled a slow melody to which the gentle swell beat time.
The Evening Star was at that time the centre of a constellation—if we may so call it—of fishing-smacks, which floated in hundreds around her. It was the “Short Blue” fleet of deep-sea trawlers; so named because of the short square flag of blue by which it was distinguished from other deep-sea fleets—such as the Grimsby fleet, the Columbia fleet, the Great Northern, Yarmouth, Red Cross, and other fleets—which do our fishing business from year’s end to year’s end on the North Sea.
But Billy was thoughtless and apt to enjoy what was agreeable, without reference to its being profitable. Some of the conditions which rejoiced his heart had the reverse effect on his father. That gruff-spirited fisherman did not want oily seas, or serene blue skies, or reflected clouds and sunshine—no, what he wanted was fish, and before the Evening Star could drag her ponderous “gear” along the bottom of the sea, so as to capture fish, it was necessary that a stiffish breeze should not only ruffle but rouse the billows of the North Sea—all the better if it should fringe their crests with foam.
“My usual luck,” growled David Bright, as he came on deck after a hearty breakfast, and sat down on the bulwarks to fill his pipe and do what in him lay to spoil his digestion—though, to do David justice, his powers in that line were so strong that he appeared to be invulnerable to tobacco and spirits. We use the word “appeared” advisedly, for in reality the undermining process was going on surely, though in his case slowly.
His “hands,” having enjoyed an equally good breakfast, were moving quietly about, paying similar attention to their digestions!
There was our tall friend Joe Davidson, the mate; and Ned Spivin, a man of enormous chest and shoulders, though short in the legs; and Luke Trevor, a handsome young fellow of middle size, but great strength and activity, and John Gunter, a big sour-faced man with a low brow, rough black hair, and a surly spirit. Billy was supposed to be minding the tiller, but, in the circumstances, the tiller was left to mind itself. Zulu was the only active member on board, to judge from the clatter of his pots and pans below.
“My usual luck,” said the skipper a second time in a deeper growl.
“Seems to me,” said Gunter, in a growl that was even more deep and discontented than that of the skipper, “that luck is always down on us.”
“’Tis the same luck that the rest o’ the fleet has got, anyhow,” observed Joe Davidson, who was the most cheerful spirit in the smack; but, indeed, all on board, with the exception of the skipper and Gunter, were men of a hearty, honest, cheerful nature, more or less careless about life and limb.
To the mate’s remark the skipper said “humph,” and Gunter said that he was the unluckiest fellow that ever went to sea.
“You’re always growling, Jack,” said Ned Spivin, who was fond of chaffing his mates; “they should have named you Grunter when they were at it.”
“I only wish the Coper was alon’side,” said the skipper, “but she’s always out of the way when she’s wanted. Who saw her last?”
“I did,” said Luke Trevor, “just after we had crossed the Silver Pits; and I wish we might never see her again.”
“Why so, mate?” asked Gunter.
“Because she’s the greatest curse that floats on the North Sea,” returned Luke in a tone of indignation.
“Ah!—you hate her because you’ve jined the teetotallers,” returned Gunter with something of a sneer.
“No, mate, I don’t hate her because I’ve jined the teetotallers, but I’ve jined the teetotallers because I hate her.”
“Pretty much the same thing, ain’t it?”
“No more the same thing,” retorted Luke, “than it is the same thing to put the cart before the horse or the horse before the cart. It wasn’t total-abstainin’ that made me hate the Coper, but it was hatred of the Coper that made me take to total-abstainin’—don’t you see?”
“Not he,” said Billy Bright, who had joined the group; “Gunter never sees nothing unless you stick it on to the end of his nose, an’ even then you’ve got to tear his eyes open an’ force him to look.”
Gunter seized a rope’s-end and made a demonstration of an intention to apply it, but Billy was too active; he leaped aside with a laugh, and then, getting behind the mast, invited the man to come on “an’ do his wust.”
Gunter laid down the rope’s-end with a grim smile and turned to Luke Trevor.
“But I’m sure you’ve got no occasion,” he said, “to blackguard the Coper, for you haven’t bin to visit her much.”
“No, thank God, I have not,” said Luke earnestly, “yet I’ve bin aboard often enough to wish I had never bin there at all. It’s not that, mates, that makes me so hard on the Coper, but it was through the accursed drink got aboard o’ that floatin’ grog-shop that I lost my best friend.”
“How was that, Luke? we never heerd on it.”
The young fisherman paused a few moments as if unwilling to talk on a distasteful subject.
“Well, it ain’t surprisin’ you didn’t hear of it,” he said, “because I was in the Morgan fleet at the time, an’ it’s more than a year past. The way of it was this. We was all becalmed, on a mornin’ much like this, not far off the Borkum Reef, when our skipper jumped into the boat, ordered my friend Sterlin’ an’ me into it, an’ went off cruisin’. We visited one or two smacks, the skippers o’ which were great chums of our skipper, an’ he got drunk there. Soon after, a stiff breeze sprang up, an’ the admiral signalled to bear away to the nor’-west’ard. We bundled into our boat an’ made for our smack, but by ill luck we had to pass the Coper, an’ nothin’ would please the skipper but to go aboard and have a glass. Sterlin’ tried to prevent him, but he grew savage an’ told him to mind his own business. Well, he had more than one glass, and by that time it was blowin’ so ’ard we began to think we’d have some trouble to get back again. At last he consented to leave, an’ a difficult job it was to get him into the boat wi’ the sea that was runnin’. When we got alongside of our smack, he laid hold of Sterlin’s oar an’ told him to throw the painter aboard. My friend jumped up an’ threw the end o’ the painter to one of the hands. He was just about to lay hold o’ the side an’ spring over when the skipper stumbled against him, caused him to miss his grip, an’ sent him clean overboard. Poor Sterlin’ had on his long boots an’ a heavy jacket. He went down like a stone. We never saw him again.”
“Did none o’ you try to save him?” asked Joe quickly.
“We couldn’t,” replied Luke. “I made a dash at him, but he was out o’ sight by that time. He went down so quick that I can’t help thinkin’ he must have struck his head on the side in goin’ over.”
Luke Trevor did not say, as he might have truly said, that he dived after his friend, being himself a good swimmer, and nearly lost his own life in the attempt to save that of Sterling.
“D’ye think the skipper did it a’ purpose, mate?” asked David.
“Sartinly not,” answered Luke. “The skipper had no ill-will at him, but he was so drunk he couldn’t take care of himself, an’ didn’t know what he was about.”
“That wasn’t the fault o’ the Coper,” growled Gunter. “You say he got half-screwed afore he went there, an’ he might have got dead-drunk without goin’ aboard of her at all.”
“So he might,” retorted Luke; “nevertheless it was the Coper that finished him off at that time—as it has finished off many a man before, and will, no doubt, be the death o’ many more in time to come.”
The Copers, which Luke Trevor complained of so bitterly, are Dutch vessels which provide spirits and tobacco, the former of a cheap, bad, and peculiarly fiery nature. They follow the fleets everywhere, and are a continual source of mischief to the fishermen, many of whom, like men on shore, find it hard to resist a temptation which is continually presented to them.
“There goes the admiral,” sang out little Billy, who, while listening to the conversation, had kept his sharp little eyes moving about.
The admiral of the fleet, among North Sea fishermen, is a very important personage. There is an “admiral” to each fleet, though we write just now about the admiral of the “Short Blue.” He is chosen for steadiness and capacity, and has to direct the whole fleet as to the course it shall steer, the letting down of its “gear” or trawls, etcetera, and his orders are obeyed by all. One powerful reason for such obedience is that if they do not follow the admiral they will find themselves at last far away from the steamers which come out from the Thames daily to receive the fish; for it is a rule that those steamers make straight for the admiral’s vessel. By day the admiral is distinguished by a flag half way up the maintop-mast stay. By night signals are made with rockets.
While the crew of the Evening Star were thus conversing, a slight breeze had sprung up, and Billy had observed that the admiral’s smack was heading to windward in an easterly direction. As the breeze came down on the various vessels of the fleet, they all steered the same course, so that in a few minutes nearly two hundred smacks were following him like a shoal of herring. The glassy surface of the sea was effectually broken, and a field of rippling indigo took the place of the ethereal sheet of blue.
Thus the whole fleet passed steadily to windward, the object being to get to such a position on the “fishing-grounds” before night-fall, that they could put about and sail before the wind during the night, dragging their ponderous trawls over the banks where fish were known to lie.
Night is considered the best time to fish, though they also fish by day, the reason being, it is conjectured, that the fish do not see the net so well at night; it may be, also, that they are addicted to slumber at that period! Be the reason what it may, the fact is well-known. Accordingly, about ten o’clock the admiral hove-to for a few minutes. So did the fleet. On board the Evening Star they took soundings, and found twenty-five fathoms. Then the admiral called attention by showing a “flare.”
“Look out now, Billy,” said David Bright to his son, who was standing close by the capstan.
Billy needed no caution. His sharp eyes were already on the watch.
“A green rocket! There she goes, father.”
The green rocket signified that the gear was to be put down on the starboard side, and the fleet to steer to the southward.
Bustling activity and tremendous vigour now characterised the crew of the Evening Star as they proceeded to obey the order. A clear starry sky and a bright moon enabled them to see clearly what they were about, and they were further enlightened by a lantern in the rigging.
The trawl which they had to put down was, as we have said, a huge and ponderous affair, and could only be moved by means of powerful blocks and tackle aided by the capstan. It consisted of a thick spar called the “beam”, about forty-eight feet long, and nearly a foot thick, supported on a massive iron hoop, or runner, at each end. These irons were meant to drag over the bottom of the sea and keep the beam from touching it. Attached to this beam was the bag-net—a very powerful one, as may be supposed, with a small mesh. It was seventy feet long, and about sixteen feet of the outermost end was much stronger than the rest, and formed the bag, named the cod-end, in which the fish were ultimately collected. Besides being stronger, the cod-end was covered by flounces of old netting to prevent the rough bottom from chafing it too much. The cost of such a net alone is about 7 pounds. To the beam, attached at the two ends, was a very powerful rope called the bridle. It was twenty fathoms long. To this was fastened the warp—a rope made of best manilla and hemp, always of great strength. The amount of this paid out depended much on the weather; if very rough it might be about 40 fathoms, if moderate about 100. Sometimes such net and gear is carried away, and this involves a loss of about 60 pounds sterling. We may dismiss these statistics by saying that a good night’s fishing may be worth from 10 pounds to 27 pounds, and a good trip—of eight weeks—may produce from 200 to 280 pounds.
Soon the gear was down in the twenty-five fathom water, and the trawl-warp became as rigid almost as an iron bar, while the speed of the smack through the water was greatly reduced—perhaps to three miles an hour—by the heavy drag behind her, a drag that ever increased as fish of all sorts and sizes were scraped into the net. Why the fish are such idiots as to remain in the net when they could swim out of it at the rate of thirty miles an hour is best known to themselves.
Besides the luminaries which glittered in the sky that night the sea was alive with the mast-head lights of the fishing smacks, but these lower lights, unlike the serenely steady lights above, were ever changing in position, as well as dancing on the crested waves, giving life to the dark waters, and creating, at least in the little breast of Billy Bright, a feeling of companionship which was highly gratifying.
“Now, lad, go below and see if Zulu has got something for us to eat,” said David to his son. “Here, Luke Trevor, mind the helm.”
The young fisherman, who had been labouring with the others at the gear like a Hercules, stepped forward and took the tiller, while the skipper and his son descended to the cabin, where the rest of the men were already assembled in anticipation of supper. The cabin was remarkably snug, but it was also pre-eminently simple. So, also, was the meal. The arts of upholstery and cookery had not been brought to bear in either case. The apartment was about twelve feet long by ten broad, and barely high enough to let Joe Davidson stand upright. Two wooden lockers ran along either side of it. Behind these were the bunks of the men. At the inner end were some more lockers, and aft, there was an open stove, or fireplace, alongside of the companion-ladder. A clock and a barometer were the chief ornaments of the place. The atmosphere of it was not fresh by any means, and volumes of tobacco smoke rendered it hazy.
But what cared these heavy-booted, rough-handed, big-framed, iron-sinewed, strong-hearted men for fresh air? They got enough of that, during their long hours on deck, to counteract the stifling odours of the regions below!
“Now, then, boys, dar you is,” said Zulu, placing a huge pot on the floor, containing some sort of nautical soup. “I’s cook you soup an’ tea, an’ dar’s sugar an’ butter, an’ lots o’ fish and biskit, so you fire away till you bu’st yourselves.”
The jovial Zulu bestowed on the company a broad and genial grin as he set the example by filling a bowl with the soup. The others did not require a second bidding. What they lacked in quality was more than made up in quantity, and rendered delicious by appetite.
Conversation flagged, of course, while these hardy sons of toil were busy with their teeth, balancing themselves and their cups and bowls carefully while the little vessel rolled heavily over the heaving waves. By degrees the teeth became less active and the tongues began to wag.
“I wish that feller would knock off psalm-singin’,” said Gunter with an oath, as he laid down his knife and wiped his mouth.
He referred to Luke Trevor, who possessed a sweet mellow voice, and was cheering himself as he stood at the helm by humming a hymn, or something like one, for the words were not distinguishable in the cabin.
“I think that Luke, if he was here, would wish some other feller to knock off cursin’ an’ swearin’,” said Joe.
“Come, Joe,” said the skipper, “don’t you pretend to be one o’ the religious sort, for you know you’re not.”
“That’s true,” returned Joe, “and I don’t pretend to be; but surely a man may object to cursin’ without bein’ religious. I’ve heard men say that they don’t mean nothin’ by their swearin’. P’raps the psalm-singin’ men might say the same; but for my part if they both mean nothin’ by it, I’d rather be blessed than cursed by my mates any day.”
“The admiral’s signallin’, sir,” sung out Luke, putting his head down the companion at that moment.
The men went on deck instantly; nevertheless each found time to light the inevitable pipe before devoting himself entirely to duty.
The signal was to haul up the trawl, and accordingly all the fleet set to work at their capstans, the nets having by that time been down about three or four hours.
It was hard work and slow, that heaving at the capstans hour after hour, with the turbulent sea tossing about the little smacks, few of which were much above seventy tons burden. One or two in the fleet worked their capstans by steam-power—an immense relief to the men, besides a saving of time.
“It’s hard on the wrists,” said Gunter during a brief pause in the labour, as he turned up the cuffs of his oiled frock and displayed a pair of wrists that might well have caused him to growl. The constant chafing of the hard cuffs had produced painful sores and swellings, which were further irritated by salt water.
“My blessin’s on de sweet ladies what takes so much trouble for us,” said Zulu, pulling up his sleeves and regarding with much satisfaction a pair of worsted cuffs; “nebber had no sore wrists since I put on dese. W’y you no use him, Gunter?”
“’Cause I’ve lost ’em, you black baboon,” was Gunter’s polite reply.
“Nebber mind, you long-nosed white gorilla,” was Zulu’s civil rejoinder, “you kin git another pair when nixt we goes aboard de mission-ship. Till den you kin grin an enjoy you’self.”
“Heave away, lads,” said the skipper, and away went the capstan again as the men grasped the handles and bent their strong backs, sometimes heaving in a few turns of the great rope with a run as the trawl probably passed over a smooth bit of sand; sometimes drawing it in with difficulty, inch by inch, as the net was drawn over some rough or rocky place, and occasionally coming for a time to a dead lock, when—as is not unfrequently the case—they caught hold of a bit of old wreck, or, worse still, were caught by the fluke of a lost anchor.
Thus painfully but steadily they toiled until the bridle or rope next to the beam appeared above the waves, and then they knew that the end of all their labour was at hand.
Chapter Seven.
A Haul and its Consequences—Mysterious News from the Land
“Now Billy, you shrimp,” cried David Bright, seizing his son by the collar and giving him a friendly shake that would have been thought severe handling by any but a fisher-boy, “don’t go excitin’ of yourself. You’ll never make a man worth speakin’ of if you can’t keep down your feelin’s.”
But Billy could not keep down his feelings. They were too strong for him. He was naturally of an excitable—what we may call a jovial—jumping—disposition, and although he had now been some months at sea he had not yet succeeded in crushing down that burst of delight with which he viewed the cod-end of the great deep-sea net as it was hoisted over the side by the power of block and tackle.
“You never trouble yourself about my feelin’s, father, so long’s I do my dooty,” said the boy with native insolence, as he looked eagerly over the side at the mass of fish which gleamed faintly white as it neared the surface, while he helped with all his little might to draw in the net.
“But I want to teach you more than dooty, my boy,” returned the skipper. “I’ve got to make a man of you. I promised that to your mother, you know. If you want to be a man, you must foller my example—be cool an’ steady.”
“If I’m to foller your example, father, why don’t you let me foller it all round, an’ smoke an’ drink as well?”
“Shut up, you agrawatin’ sinner,” growled the skipper. “Heave away, lads. Here, hand me the rope, an’ send aft the tackle.”
By this time the heavy beam had been secured to the side of the vessel, most of the net hauled in, and the bag, or cod-end, was above the surface filled almost to bursting with upwards of a ton of turbots, soles, haddocks, plaice, dabs, whitings, etcetera, besides several hundredweight of mud, weeds, stones, and oysters. Sometimes, indeed, this bag does burst, and in one moment all the profit and toil of a night’s fishing is lost.
When the skipper had secured a strong rope round the bag and hooked it on to a block and tackle made fast to the rigging, the order was given to heave away, and gradually the ponderous mass rose like an oval balloon, or buoy, over the vessel’s side. When it cleared the rail it was swung inwards and secured in a hanging position, with the lower end sweeping the deck as the smack rolled from side to side. In all these operations, from the prolonged heaving at the capstan to the hauling in of the net, hand over hand, the men were exerting their great physical powers to the uttermost—almost without a moment’s relaxation—besides being deluged at times by spray, which, however, their oiled frocks, long boots, and sou’-westers prevented from quite drenching them. But now all danger of loss was over, and they proceeded to liberate the fish.
The cod-end had its lower part secured by a strong rope. All that had to be done, therefore, was to untie the rope and open the bottom of the net.
It fell to Luke Trevor to do this. Billy was standing by in eager expectation. Ned Spivin stood behind him. Now, we have said that Spivin was fond of chaffing his mates and of practical jokes. So was Billy, and between these two, therefore, there was a species of rivalry.
When Spivin observed that Luke was about to pull out the last loop that held the bag, he shouted in a loud voice of alarm—
“Hallo! Billy, catch hold of this rope, quick!”
Billy turned like a flash of light and seized the rope held out to him. The momentary distraction was enough. Before he could understand the joke the bottom of the bag opened, the ton-and-a-half, more or less, of fish burst forth, spread itself over the deck like an avalanche, swept Billy off his little legs, and almost overwhelmed him, to the immense delight of Spivin, who impudently bent down and offered to help him to rise.
“Come here, Billy, and I’ll help you up,” he said, kindly, as the tail of a skate flipped across the boy’s nose and almost slid into his mouth.
Billy made no reply, but, clearing himself of fish, jumped up, seized a gaping cod by the gills, and sent it all alive and kicking straight into Spivin’s face. The aim was true. The man was blinded for a few moments by the fish, and his mates were well-nigh choked with laughter.
“Come, come—no sky-larking!” growled the skipper. “Play when your work is done, boys.”
Thus reproved, the crew began to clear away the mass of weeds and refuse, after which all hands prepared the trawl to be ready for going down again, and then they set to work to clean and sort the fish. This was comparatively easy work at that season of the year, but when winter gales and winter frosts sweep over the North Sea, only those who suffer it know what it is to stand on the slimy pitching deck with naked and benumbed hands, disembowelling fish and packing them in small oblong boxes called “trunks,” for the London market. And little do Londoners think, perhaps, when eating their turbot, sole, plaice, cod, haddock, whiting, or other fish, by what severe night-work, amid bitter cold, and too often tremendous risks, the food has been provided for them.
It is not, however, our purpose to moralise just now, though we might do so with great propriety, but to tell our story, on which some of the seemingly trifling incidents of that night had a special bearing. One of those incidents was the cutting of a finger. Ned Spivin, whose tendency towards fun and frolic at all times rendered him rather slap-dash and careless, was engaged in the rather ignoble work of cutting off skates’ tails—these appendages not being deemed marketable. This operation he performed with a hatchet, but some one borrowed the hatchet for a few minutes, and Spivin continued the operation with his knife. One of the tails being tough, and the knife blunt, the impatient man used violence. Impatience and violence not unfrequently result in damage. The tail gave way unexpectedly, and Spivin cut a deep gash in his left hand. Cuts, gashes, and bruises are the frequent experience of smacksmen. Spivin bound up the gash with a handkerchief, and went on with his work.
Before their work was quite done, however, a gale, which had been threatening from the nor’-west, set in with considerable force, and rapidly increased, so that the packing of the last few trunks, and stowing them into the hold, became a matter not only of difficulty but of danger.
By that time the sky had clouded over, and the lantern in the rigging alone gave light.
“It will blow harder,” said Trevor to Billy as they stood under shelter of the weather bulwarks holding on to the shrouds. “Does it never come into your mind to think where we would all go to if the Evening Star went down?”
“No, Luke. I can’t say as it does. Somehow I never think of father’s smack goin’ down.”
“And yet,” returned Luke in a meditative tone, “it may happen, you know, any night. It’s not six months since the Raven went down, with all hands, though she was as tight a craft as any in the fleet, and her captain was a first-rate seaman, besides bein’ steady.”
“Ay, but then, you see,” said Billy, “she was took by three heavy seas one arter the other, and no vessel, you know, could stand that.”
“No, not even the Evening Star if she was took that fashion, an’ we never know when it’s goin’ to happen. I suspect, Billy, that the psalm-singers, as Gunter calls ’em, has the best of it. They work as well as any men in the fleet—sometimes I think better—an’ then they’re always in such a jolly state o’ mind! If good luck comes, they praise God for it, an’ if bad luck comes they praise God that it’s no worse. Whatever turns up they appear to be in a thankful state o’ mind, and that seems to me a deal better than growlin’, swearin’, and grumblin’, as so many of us do at what we can’t change. What d’ee think, Billy?”
“Well, to tell ’ee the truth, Luke, I don’t think about it at all—anyhow, I’ve never thought about it till to-night.”
“But it’s worth thinkin’ about, Billy?”
“That’s true,” returned the boy, who was of a naturally straightforward disposition, and never feared to express his opinions freely.
Just then a sea rose on the weather quarter, threatening, apparently, to fall inboard. So many waves had done the same thing before, that no one seemed to regard it much; but the experienced eye of the skipper noticed a difference, and he had barely time to give a warning shout when the wave rushed over the side like a mighty river, and swept the deck from stem to stern. Many loose articles were swept away and lost, and the boat which lay on the deck alongside of the mast, had a narrow escape. Billy and his friend Luke, being well under the lee of the bulwarks, escaped the full force of the deluge, but Ned Spivin, who steered, was all but torn from his position, though he clung with all his strength to the tiller and the rope that held it fast. The skipper was under the partial shelter of the mizzenmast, and clung to the belaying-pins. John Gunter was the only one who came to grief. He was dashed with great violence to leeward, but held on to the shrouds for his life. The mate was below at the moment and so was Zulu, whose howl coming from the cabin, coupled with a hiss of water in the fire, told that he had suffered from the shock.
The immense body of water that filled the main-sail threw the vessel for a short time nearly on her beam-ends—a position that may be better understood when we say that it converts one of the sides of the vessel into the floor, the other side into the ceiling, and the floor and deck respectively into upright walls!
Fortunately the little smack got rid of the water in a few seconds, arose slowly, and appeared to shake herself like a duck rising out of the sea. Sail had already been reduced to the utmost; nevertheless, the wind was so strong that for three hours afterwards the crew never caught sight of the lee-bulwarks, so buried were they in foam as the Evening Star leaned over and rushed madly on her course.
Towards morning the wind moderated a little, and then the crew gazed anxiously around on the heaving grey waves, for well did they know that such a squall could not pass over the North Sea without claiming its victims.
“It blowed that ’ard at one time,” said Ned Spivin to Joe Davidson, “that I expected to see the main-mast tore out of ’er.”
“I’m afeard for the Rainbow,” said Joe. “She’s nothin’ better than a old bunch o’ boards.”
“Sometimes them old things hold out longer than we expect,” returned Ned.
He was right. When the losses of that night came to be reckoned up, several good vessels were discovered to be missing, but the rotten old Rainbow still remained undestroyed though not unscathed, and a sad sight met the eyes of the men of the fleet when daylight revealed the fact that some of the smacks had their flags flying half-mast, indicating that many men had been washed overboard and lost during the night.
As the day advanced, the weather improved, and the fishermen began to look anxiously out for the steamer which was to convey their fish to market, but none was to be seen. Although a number of steamers run between Billingsgate and the Short Blue fleet, it sometimes happens that they do not manage to find the fleet at once, and occasionally a day or more is lost in searching for it—to the damage of the fish if the weather be warm. It seemed as if a delay of this kind had happened on the occasion of which we write; the admiral therefore signalled to let down the nets for a day haul.