A bitter morning, with light, powdery snow spotting here and there a livid background; grey seas travelling fast, and a looming snow-cloud gradually drooping down. The gulls are mad with hunger, and a cloud of them skirl harshly over the taffrail of a stout smack that forges fast through the bleak sea. The smack is coated with ice from the mast-head to the water’s edge; there is not much of a sea, but when a wave does throw a jet of water over the craft it freezes like magic, and adds yet another layer to a heap which is making the deck resemble a miniature glacier.

The smack has a flag hoisted, but alas! the signal that should float bravely is twisted into a shabby icicle, and it would be lowered but for the fact that the halliards will not run through the lump of ice that gathers from the truck to the mast-head. All round to the near horizon a scattered fleet of snow-white smacks are lingering, and they look like a weird squadron from a land of chilly death. On the deck of the smack that has the flag a powerful young man is standing, and by his side-by all that is astounding-is an enormous man with an enormous beard and a voice that booms through the Arctic stillness. That is our new scene.

I am not going to play at mystery, for you know as well as I do that the young man named in that gloomy overture was Lewis Ferrier, and that his companion was good Tom Lennard;-though what brought the giant out into the frozen desolation I shall not say just yet.

Yes, Lewis kept his word, and at the time of which we are speaking he had been three weeks at work on the Bank. He had now three cloth coats on over his under-wear, and, over all, a leather coat made at Cronstadt, and redolent of Russia even after weeks of hard wear. With all this he could not do much more than keep warm. Tom was equipped in similar fashion, and both men wore that air of stoical cheerfulness which marks our maligned race, and which tells of the spirit that has sent our people as masters over all the earth.

“Let’s come down and have coffee with the men, Tom. I’m going to have a try at that Lowestoft smack if the snow only keeps away.”

“Right, my adventurer; I’m with you. But I’m not going to let you run any more risks of that life of yours, my bold mariner. Hah! I’m here to take care of you, and you’ve got to be very meek, or I’ll set up an opposition shop. Don’t you think I can? Didn’t I do up that skipper’s arm in his sling after you took off his finger? Eh! Beware of a rival. Ah-h!”

“Yes, Thomas, but if you administer turpentine for pleurisy, as you did to the big Yarmouth fellow, we shall have to turn on a special coroner to attend on you.”

“My good what’s-his-name?-Admirable Hitchin-ah-h Admirable Crichton! that child of Nature took the turpentine of his own accord. I left it with orders that the application should be external, and it was to be rubbed in until we got back with the emulsion and the proper liniment; he tastes it, and finds it hot; he swallows the lot by degrees, and he doesn’t die-he gets well. How am I to blame! I take credit for a magnificent cure, sir. If you say two words, I’ll advertise Lennard’s miraculous emulsion in every journal in town when we get back.”

“Coffee, skipper, coffee. The shipwrecked mariners demand refreshment,” boomed Thomas.

Ah! that coffee! Thick, bitter-sweet, greasy with long stewing! What a fluid it is-or rather what a solid! Its insolent stodginess has only a surface resemblance to a fluid; yet it is a comfort on snowy mornings, and our wanderers took to it kindly.

Lewis had laid himself out to be merry, and several grinning faces peered from the bunks with kindly welcome as he took his seat on a rickety fish-box. The skipper asked, “Shall the steward fetch your bread in here, sir? You can’t manage ours.”

“All right. How are the men aft?”

“The young fellow from the Achilles was jabbering a bit again. By the way, you knew Tom Betts had come away in the old Achilles, didn’t you, sir?”

“What Tom Betts? Oh yes. Man with concussion of the brain, wasn’t it?”

“So I heerd, sir. He told everybody at home how you saved him, and when he said how he thought he’d gone to heaven he set all the women in the Mission Hall a-pipin’ of their eye. He’s on the Lord’s side now, sir. You done that.” “Well, I’m a queer customer to do anything of the kind, skipper. I’m only glad I got him sewed up soon enough, but my business ends there.”

“You’re jest as good as some as makes a frap about bein’ good. I think, sir, you put’s on some of that light-come-go-away kind of a game.”

“Never mind; we’ll only hope we’ll have no more cases like that exactly. I don’t know how we should have managed if there had been such another last week.”

“That was a strongish sea, and we’re sure of more.”

You never can get a North Sea man to own that any weather is very bad. Years after a really bad gale he may give the wind credit for being in earnest, but usually he talks in a patronizing way of the elements, using diminutives, and trying to make light of the trouble so long as it lasts. There had been hard weather since Lewis came out, and, though he had ample stores and appliances now, he found that he was hampered by the limitations of space as he was on board the schooner. Life had been very rough for the young fellow and his burly worshipper since they came out, and they only kept each other up by a mutual sham of the most elaborate character. After breakfast, Lewis gave orders to run as close as might be safe to the thick of the fleet; the smack was practically under his command, and he took her where he thought he might be most needed. One of his patients in the after-cabin was muttering uneasily, for there was some feverishness; the other man had come down with a crash on the icy deck, and the shock had apparently caused concussion of the spine, for he could not move, and he was fed as if he were a child. Lewis bent over the helpless seaman, and spoke kindly. The man sighed, “Thank God I am where I am, sir. That long plaister begins to burn a bit, but I a’most like it. There’s little funny feelings runs down my arms and legs.”

“All right! You’ll soon be better. Did you work all through the gale?”

“We was about for two nights and a day, sir, and every one of us with the ulcers right up the arms. It was warm business, I can tell you, sir. My ulcers are all going away now, with this warm cabin, but they were throbbing all night before. When I come down such a crack I was makin’ a run for the taickle, for fear we might let the gear drop, and I saw a flash in my eyes, and nothing more till I was aboard here.”

“You were trawling when that breeze started?”

“Yes. We mustn’t mind weather when the market’s to be considered. Tell me now, sir-you’ve got time, haven’t you, sir? Talkin’ of the market, and I’ve been nearly dead, and not out o’ the muck yet-does the people know what us chaps gets for fish?”

“They never think. The fish comes, and the milk comes, and they pay the fishmonger’s bill and the milkman’s, and they think one’s the same as the other, my man.”

“Eh! I was thinkin’ about a gentleman as came from this Mission vessel aboard of us. He saw our twelve o’clock haul, and he says, ’Bad breeze last night, my man. Did you work through it?’ Well, there was nothing much of a wind-just enough to make us reef her; so I answers, and he says, ‘I suppose this is your night’s work. Now, what is your share?’ So I said my share would likely be tenpence. Well, he gives a reg’lar screech; and then I reckoned up the price of all the lot as well as I could guess, and he screeched again. ‘Why,’ says he, ’old Mother Baubo, that keeps the shop in my district at home, would charge me eight shillings for that turbot, four-and-six for that, eightpence for each of those sixty haddocks, and nobody knows what for the rest.’ Now, I’ve thought of that gentleman and his screech many a time since, and when I felt the light a-comin’ to my eyes here, I thought again. Do you think I shall die, sir? Excuse me.”

“Die! No. Fact is, I’m too good-natured a doctor. I shall have to stop you from talking. Die! We’ll make a man of you, and send you on board soon. Go on, I can stay another five minutes.” “Well, sir, when I thought of death, I thought what people would say if they knew how much I got for risking this smash. That night I was over the rail on to the trawl-beam twice; I was at the pumps an hour; I pulled and hauled with both arms raw, and the snow freezing with the salt as soon as it came on my ulcers, and then I got the smash. And all for about eightpence. And that screeching gentleman told me as how his Mother Baubo, as he calls her, drives a broom and two horses, or a horse and two brooms-I’m mixed. No, ’twas a land-oh and two horses, and a broom and one horse. And I gets eightpence for a-many hours and a smash. I never mind the fellows that tells us on Sundays when we’re ashore to rise and assirk our rights or something, but there’s a bit wrong somewhere, sir. It don’t seem the thing.”

“Well, you see people would say you needn’t be a fisherman; you weren’t forced to come.”

“But I was, sir. I knew no more what I was coming to than a babe, and once you’re here, you stays here.” “Well, never mind for the present, my man. Why, you’re a regular lawyer, you rascal; I shall have to mind my p’s and q’s with you. Now don’t talk any more, or you’ll fidget, and that won’t do your back any good. Will you have bread and milk, or beef-tea and toast, you luxurious person? And I must be your valet.”

“I don’t know about vally, sir. It’s vally enough for me. To think as I should have a gentleman waitin’ on me as if he was a cabin-boy! Anything you like, sir. The sight of you makes me better.”

The man’s tears were flowing; he was weak, poor fellow, and wanting in the item of well-bred reticence. Lewis fed one patient, trimmed the other’s bed, put on a woollen helmet, sou’-wester, two pairs of gloves, and the trusty Russian coat; then he was slung into the boat like a bundle of clothes; landed springily on a thole, and departed over seas not much bigger than an ordinary two-storey house. It was quite moderate weather, and the sprightly young savant had lost that feeling which makes you try to double yourself into knots when you watch a wave gradually shutting away the outer world and preparing to fold its livid gloom about you. “What would the Cowes fellows say to this, I wonder?” thought the irreverent young pioneer. Then he chuckled over the thought of the reckless Seadogs who march in nautical raiment on the pier. Those wild, rollicking Seadogs! How the North Sea men would envy them and their dower of dauntlessness! The Seadog takes his frugal lunch at the club; he begins with a sole, and no doubt he casts a patronizing thought towards the other Seadogs who trawled for the delicate fish. They are not so like seamen in appearance as is the Cowes Seadog; they do not wear shiny buttons; the polish on their boots is scarcely brilliant; they wear unclean jumpers, and flannel trousers fit to make an aesthetic Seadog faint with emotion of various sorts. No! they are not pattern Seadogs at all-those North Sea workers. Would that they could learn a lesson from the hardy Cowes Rover. Well, the Rover tries a cutlet after his fish, then he has cheese and a grape or two, and he tops up his frugal meal with a pint of British Imperial. A shilling cigar brings his lunch up to just sixteen shillings-as much as a North Sea amateur could earn in a week of luck-and then he prepares to face the terrors of the Deep. Does he tremble? Do the thoughts of the Past arise in his soul? Nay, the Seadog of Cowes is no man to be the prey of womanish tremors; he goes gaily like a true Mariner to confront the elements. The boat is ready, and four gallant salts are resting on their oars; the Seadog steps recklessly on board and looks at the weather. Ha! there is a sea of at least two inches high running, and that frail boat must traverse that wild space. No matter! The man who would blench at even two hundred yards of water, with waves even three inches high is totally, unworthy of the name of a British Seadog! One thought of friends and mother dear; one last look at the Club where that sole was served, and then, with all the ferocious determination of his conquering race, the Seadog bids the men give way. It is an awful sight! Four strokes, and the bow man receives as nearly as possible half a pint of water on his jersey! Steady! No shirking, my sons of the sea-kings. Twenty strokes more-the peril is past; and the Seadog bounds on to the deck of his stout vessel. He is saved. A basket with a turbot is in the stern-sheets; that turbot will form part of the Seadog’s humble evening meal. It cost a guinea, and the North Sea amateurs, who received two shillings of that amount, would doubtless rejoice could they know that they risked their lives in a tearing August gale to provide for the wants of a brother Seadog.

By the time Lewis had finished his heroic reverie, he was nicely sheeted with ice, for the spray froze as it fell, and he was alongside of the smack that he wanted-which was more to the purpose. In a few minutes he was engaged in dealing with a prosaic, crushed foot. A heavy boat had jammed his patient against the iron side of the steam-carrier. The man was stoical, like the rest of his mates, but he was in torture, for the bones were all huddled into a twisted mass-a gruesome thing, ladies, and a common thing, too, if you would but think it. Ferrier had to use the knife first, for the accident was not so recent as he could have wished; then for near half an hour he was working like some clever conjurer, while the vessel heaved slowly, and the reek of the cabin coiled rankly round him. What a picture! That man, the pride of his university, the rising hope of the Royal Society, the professor whom students would have idolized, was bending his superb head over a poor, groaning sailorman, and performing a hard operation amid air that was merely volatile sewage! A few men looked on; they are kind, but they all suffer so much that the suffering of others is watched with passive callousness.

“Brandy now, my man. This is your first and last drink, and you may make it a good one. Don’t give him any more, skipper, even if you have it on board. You know why? Ah! the colour’s coming back again. Now, my lad, we’re going to make your bed up on the cabin floor. Hand me a flannel; and you, my man, some water out of the kettle. Now for a clean place. I’ll set up as a housemaid when I go ashore.”

“Excuse me, sir, but if you thinks you’re goin’ to be let to scrub that ar plank, sir, you’re mistaken. I’m skipper here, and I’ll do that jest to show you how we thinks of your politeness, mister. Hand over that scrubber.”

“All right, you obstinate mule; of course you’ll have your own way. Let me see his mattress, then. Won’t do! Which of you durst come with the boat, and I’ll send a cocoanut-fibre one for him?”

“We never talks about durst here, sir. Not many on us doesn’t. We’ll go, when you goes.”

So Lewis cheerily ended his task, and when his man was laid out, with a dry bundle of netting under his head, the doctor bent over him only to smile in his face quietly. He never looked at himself in a glass excepting to part his hair; but he had learned that something in his look tended to hearten his patients, so he gazed merrily at the cripple and said, “Now, when you’re better, tell your friends Professor Ferrier said you were the pluckiest fellow he ever saw. I couldn’t have borne what you did. You are a real good, game bit of stuff! and don’t let any one tell me otherwise.”

This unconscionable young doctor was picking up the proper tone for the North Sea; he had no airs, and, when his boat was reeling away to his own vessel again over the powdery crests of the sea, an Aldeburgh fisherman said, “Well, Joe, be sewer, he’s a wunnerful fine gent, that is! He’s the wunnerfullest, finest gent ever I fared for to see. And that he is-solid.”

“Yes, Jimmy,” said the skipper. “It’s my belief, in a way o’ speakin’, that if that theer mizen-boom catched you and knocked your head off, that theer wunnerful young gent ’ud come, and he’d have his laugh, and he’d up and he’d mend you, same as if you’d never come adrift, not one little bit. What a thing is larnin’, to be sewer. Yes, sir, he’d mend you. Nobody knows what he can dew, and nobody knows what he can’t dew. If we puts to this night-and I don’t know why not, for we’re sailin’-if we gets a turbot I’ll pay for it, and he’ll have that theer fish if I swims for it.”

“You’ve always got a good way o’ puttin’ things, skipper, and I says I holds ‘long o’ you.”

The patient slumbered blissfully in the dreary cabin, which could only be likened to a bewitched laundry in which things were always being washed and never cleaned; the men awaited the Admiral’s signal; the snow thickened into ponderous falling masses;-and the professor jumped on deck, to be met with a loud boom of gratification by Tom, who had begun to dread the snow.

I like to think of that young gentleman faring over the treacherous lulls of sad water amid the sinister eddies of the snowstorm. I wonder if any other country could produce a gently-nurtured young scholar who would make a similar journey. It seems doubtful, and more than doubtful.

Tom had been reading to the paralyzed fisherman, and, although his ordinary tones had too much of the minute-gun about them to suit small apartments, he could lower his voice to a quiet deep bass which was anything but unpleasant, and he had completely charmed the poor helpless one by reading-or rather intoning-“Evangeline.” Seafaring folk will have sentiment in their literature and music; humour must be of the most obvious sort to suit them-in fact they usually care only for the horseplay of literature-but pathos of any sort they accept at once, and Tom had tears of pride in his eyes when he told Lewis how the man had understood the first part of the poem, and how he had talked for a good half-hour about the eviction of the Acadians, and its resemblance to the fate of various fishermen’s wives who had got behind with their rents. The evening closed in a troublous horror of great darkness, and the anxious night began. Ferrier always made up his mind to stay below at night, and he amused himself either by snatching a chat with the skipper, or by reading one or two good novels which he had brought. But imagine the desolation, the sombre surroundings, the risks to be run every hour-every second-and you will understand that those two English gentlemen had something in them passing self-interest, passing all that the world has to offer. Ferrier never dreamed of becoming a nautical recluse; he was too full of the joy of life for that: but he had a purpose, and he went right at his mark like a bullet from a rifle. Once that evening he went on deck and tried to peer through the wall of trembling darkness that surrounded him; the view made him feel like the victim in Poe’s awful Inquisition story-the walls seemed to be closing in. Faintly the starboard light shone, so that the snowflakes crossed its path like dropping emeralds that shone a little in glory and then fell dark; on the other side a fitful stream of rubies seemed to be pouring; the lurid gleam from the cabin shone up the hatchway;-and, for the rest, there was cold, darkness, the shadow of dread, and yet the lookout-men were singing a duet as if death were not. The freezing drift was enough to stop one’s breath, but the lads were quite at ease, and, to the air of a wicked old shanty, they sang about weathering the storm and anchoring by and by. Ferrier was not a conscious poet;-alas! had he the fearful facility which this sinful writer once possessed, I shudder to think of the sufferings of his friends when he described the brooding weariness of this night in verse. He bottled up his verses and turned them all into central fire; but he had poetry in every fibre all the same.

Tom remarked, “This is very much like being iced for market. I wonder what we could possibly do, if anything came into us as that barque did? Let’s talk about home.”

“Pleasant indoors now; I can see the fire on the edges of the furniture. The very thought of a hearthrug seems like a heathen luxury. What will you do first when you get home, Tom?”

“Turkish bath.”

“And then?”

“Oysters.”

“Then?”

“Dinner.”

“And after?”

“I’ll spend the whole evening in pretending to myself I’m on the North Sea again, and waking up to find that I’ve got my armchair under me.”

“Can you see anything, Jim, just a point or so abaft the beam.”

This was an ugly interruption to the Barmecides, who had begun to set forth shadowy feasts. That is the way in thick weather; you are no sooner out of one scrape than you blunder into another.

“Yes, sir, she’ll go clear,” sang out the man.

“She won’t, I’m afraid,” said Lewis, under his breath. It was most puzzling; there was no guide; the snow made distances ridiculous, and the black shadow came nearer.

“Up, all of you, and set your fenders. Doctor, show him a flare.”

It was a smack, and her lights had gone wrong somehow; she was moving but slowly, and she let the Mission vessel off with a hole in the mizen. The scrimmage would have meant death had any breeze been blowing; but the men took it coolly after the one dread minute of anxiety was over. If we were all able to imagine our own deaths as possible-to really imagine it, I mean-then one snowy night on the banks would drive any man mad; no brain could stand it. We all know we shall die, but none of us seem to believe it, or else no one would ever go to sea a second time in winter. A steady opiate is at work in each man’s being-blurring his vision of extinction, and thus our seamen go through a certain performance a dozen times over in a winter, and this performance is much like that of a blindfold man driving a Hansom cab from Cornhill to Marble Arch on a Saturday evening during a November fog.

The man who shoved the cork fender over the side had received a graze which sent a big flap of skin over his eye and blinded him with blood. He laughed when Lewis dressed him, and said, “That was near enough for most people, sir. I’ve seen two or three like that in a night.”

“Well, I like to see you laugh, but I thought all was over when I saw he was going to give us the stem.”

“So did I, sir; but fishermen has to git used to being drowned.”

As Lennard and the doctor sat filling the crew’s cabin with billows of smoke, the former said-“There’s a kind of frolicsome humour about these men that truly pleases me. Frolicsome! isn’t it?”

“Well, we’ve stood another dreary day out; but think of those poor beggars aft, lying in pain and loneliness. Tom, let’s say our prayers; I don’t know that there’s much good in it, but when I think of twelve thousand men bearing such a life as we’ve had, I think there must-there must be some Power that won’t let it last for ever. Mind, when we’ve done praying, no more sentiment; we’ll smoke and laugh after we’ve put in a word for the fishermen-and ourselves.”

“And somebody else.”

“Who?”

“I’ll write and ask Mr. Cassall. That’s Miss Dearsley’s uncle.”

I have seen our Englishmen fool on in that aimless way during all sorts of peril and trouble. I want you to understand that the evangelist and the sceptic both were prepared to hear the scraunch of the collision on that deadly night; they had seen two entire ships’ companies lost since they came out, yet they would not give in or look serious altogether. They had come to found a hospital for the mangled hundreds of fishermen, and they were going through with their task in the steady, dogged, light-hearted British way. Foreigners and foreigneering Englishmen say it is blockheaded denseness. Is it?