# For the Defence

Extracted from Windsor magazine, Vol 41 1918-19, pp. 483–487. Accompanying illustrations by Dudley Tennant may be omitted.
FOR THE DEFENCE
By HAROLD BINDLOSS
Illustrated by Dudley Tennant
RITSON had been trawling in the Western Firth, and one October day put into Port Herries on the Scottish shore. He was a big Cumbrian, but his hair was going white and his brown face was lined. Stern toil and bitter weather had deepened the lines, for longshore trawling is not remarkably profitable, and when bills run up one must risk the gales. Moreover, Ritson sailed the Belle alone. For a boat of thirty feet, with a net to match, two hands is the rule, but Belle was thirty-six and a heavy craft to work. Ritson was strongly-built, reserved, and obstinate.
When he sent off his fish he was tired, since he had for some days rolled about on broken water without much sleep. All the same, he thought he would go to the inn by the castle before he went to sleep, and he and Pilot, his small biscuit-coloured dog, crossed the little quay. Stopping for a few moments at the bridge, he looked down Herries Water. The afternoon was calm and the tide was full. One could not see the muddy shoals, and the river, shining in the sun, wound like a silver riband between green pastures and yellow stubble fields. In the background red beech woods glimmered. The sea was some miles off, and when Ritson came up, the tide had helped him round the bends. He noted that the pale sky was streaked by scirrus, and got a hint of wind, but this did not bother him. He had earned a rest.
Other trawlers were at the inn—hard, brown-skinned men from both sides of the stormy Firth. They nodded when Ritson entered, and Pilot smelled approvingly their long sea-boots. For a time Ritson sat in a corner and smoked. His habit was not to talk, except sometimes to Pilot when the net was down and the boat, with sail half lowered, rolled across the broken swell. Besides, he was drowsy, and knew the arguments about the futility of the trawling laws.
The fish, the trawlers declared, needed no artificial protection from man, and throve by the thinning out of the numbers that sometimes overcrowded the inshore banks. Then all that man could take with beam and other nets did not count beside the havoc made by their natural enemies with tooth and claw. This, rudely stated, was the trawlers' firm persuasion, and they grumbled about the meddling of the Fishery Board. When fish were scarce, rules were broken; but one man talked about the risk boat-owners ran if they entered a bay that had recently been closed to the ground-net. At length Ritson heard something that interested him, and looked up.
"What's that?" he asked.
"Then ye're no' sleeping!" remarked a Scot. "I wiss saying they caught Pate Hartrod with his net doon on the Dryholm Sand."
"Pate was niver on Dryholm," Ritson rejoined.
"Aw t' same, Fishery Board has him up at Edentown to-morrow," said a Cumbrian. "If Inspector sticks to his tale, Pate will get aw t' magistrates can give. When Norman was fined, they warned him they'd mak' an example o' next they caught."
Ritson's eyes were heavy. He needed sleep and had been dozing, but he roused himself. Peter Hartrod was his dead sister's son, and, for Meg's sake, he loved the lad. Pate, like his kind, had married young and known trouble. His wife was often ill, he had lost nets and gear, and had recently been ashore a month with a broken arm. The others knew this, and it was plain they thought Pate had tried to mend his luck by trawling where fish were thick in forbidden water. All the same, Ritson knew Pate had not.
"When d'you say he was caught?" he asked.
"Monday nicht," replied the Scot. "It got misty aboot half-ebb, and the Fishery boat cam' up through the fog."
Ritson, leaning forward, drew lines on the sanded floor. "Pate wouldn't could ha' been on closed grounds," he said, and indicated a spot. "I was here, with Barcarel light just opening to starboard, before fog com't on. Pate was yonner. Tide was takkin' him t' lee, clear o' bay. I saw nea Fishery boat, but there was another smack, and she was edgin' in to shore. Maybe——"
He stopped and knitted his brows, and the Cumbrian asked: "D'you ken t'other boat?"
"Yiss," said Ritson dryly. "I saw number on her sail while light was good."
"Minding register numbers is no' chancy whiles," remarked a Scot.
"D'you tell me——" Ritson began, but the other smiled.
"Oh, we ken ye're staunch! For a' that, I'm thinking they'll no' let Pate off."
Ritson weighed this dully, and agreed. The laws had been broken. The Fishery Inspector was young and keen, and the Board would urge that trawling on the reserved grounds must be stopped. When the court was resolved to enforce the law, it was bad for the accused, and Pate's denial was his sole defence.
"Pate was niver ower t' line," he said.
"Aweel," remarked the Scot, "there's no' much use in proving that to us. Ye'll do better to tell the magistrates at Edentown."
Ritson straightened his tired body with a jerk, and his dull eyes got keen.
"Yiss," he said. "Maybe I'll mannish."
The others began to argue the thing was impossible. Edentown was on the English side, fifty miles off and some distance from the Firth. One could only enter the shallow Cumbrian harbour from which Ritson sailed for some hours each tide. Then there was no wind, and the ebb would carry him back across the Irish Sea. Ritson admitted this, but his resolution did not weaken, and it was characteristic that he meant to go by water. In some respects he and the others were strangely primitive, and they used the tools they knew. When one had a boat, one did not bother about trains. Besides, to go by train meant he must leave Belle tied up to the quay, with nobody to watch she listed inshore against the wall when the tide fell. The old boat stood for the frugal living that satisfied him.
"Ebb will tak' me doon river and oot through Sound," he said. "After that I must trust t' luck."
He went off with Pilot, and two trawlers followed to help him hoist the big black-leaded sails. They gave him a pull with the breast-rope, one waved his cap, and Belle dropped down river with the tide. The little town and castle faded, smooth fields and red woods drifted by, the black sails scarcely heeled the boat, and when the wind was very light, Ritson used the sculling oar.
When she reached the Loch, where the sands and rocks begin, Ritson lighted his pipe and stretched himself on the damp boards. Belle was steering better, and the tide carried her along. Ritson did not mean to sleep, but when Pilot barked he looked up and saw a man wave from the white lighthouse on the cliff. Then, shoving the helm over, he roused himself. He had not cleared the Causeway by much. To drowse was risky, and he lighted the stove.
A little breeze got up when the ebb swept Belle offshore, and, tracing blue lines on the shining sea, helped her to stem the stream. She carried all her sail, and swelling balloon-jib and high black topsail threw broken reflections on the languid swell. The sea was empty but for a long trail of smoke, and the beat of engines came faintly out of the distance. Ritson, sitting at the helm and drinking cheap coffee, envied the steamboat skipper who made good speed in a calm.
After a time the Scottish hills got indistinct and the heights of Cumberland sharper in the glow reflected from the west. Then the angry red on the horizon faded, and all was dim. Ritson got out the compass and began to calculate his course. At low water the stormy Firth is blocked by shoals, and when the savage flood-tide runs across the sands one must not touch bottom. The sails were drawing better, water rippled at the bow, and a silky wake trailed astern. For all that, with the current against her, Belle was hardly making two miles an hour. Ritson thought wind was coming, and wanted to pick up the Cumberland shore before it arrived. The worst was, he was horribly tired. When one is no longer young, one needs a rest after steering a boat and hauling a net for three or four days. His back and arms ached, his eyes kept shutting, and he began to talk to Pilot while they ate damp bread and canned meat.
"Yon's Colnockie light on the quarter; keep her twinkling under Scaurside Fell, and you clear Rigg Sand. Light ahead is Cammelltown furnaces on the English side, and we'll need to get across before t' flood runs strong. It's aw sands until you mak' channel, and you mustn't get aground."
Pilot pricked his ears and wagged his tail, and then, seeing the canned meat was gone, put his rough head on Ritson's knee.
Some time afterwards, Ritson put back his watch and looked about. There was a moon and the breeze was freshening. Lights from rolling mills and furnaces flickered along the English shore, but they changed their positions and drifted back towards the quivering beam from St. Bees. It was midnight and half-tide; the flood ran strongly up the Firth and the breeze was with the stream.
Ritson frowned and tried to brace himself. Somehow he had got to leeward of Cammelltown, his home; the pier lights were on his weather bow, and the boat would not beat up against the current. However, Port Senlis lay not far off to lee, and he must not be carried past, because he did not know the next small harbour, and the tide would flow for three hours yet. Now the breeze was getting fresh, an anchor would not hold the boat, and he would run some risk if she were swept along to the shallows where the stream boiled and broke at the head of the Firth. He changed the jib, hauled down the topsail, and lighted his pipe. The shore lights shifted, flickered, and now and then got blurred, but Port Senlis was under his lee bow. He would soon reach 'the harbour, if he could keep awake.
The fight he made was stern, but Nature won. For forty years he had fronted cold and gale, and the years had left their mark. Although his will and pride were strong, he was flesh and blood. Presently his grasp on the helm got slack, he slipped down on the stern seat, and Pilot curled up against his legs.
The dog's bark woke him, and while he tried to look about he felt a jar. Dazed by sleep, he jumped up and seized the coaming. Foam leaped about the side; it was plain Belle had run aground. The moon was gone and haze. obscured the sky, but Ritson, glancing at the angry water, knew he had got ashore at the head of the Firth. There was no sea, the banks he had floated over broke the waves; the trouble was, the savage tide that raced across the shoals might roll the boat over. In fact, she was going over; he saw the sand, washed from under her, boil up to lee, and the white turmoil on the other side got higher. Belle trembled, slewed round, and strained. The stream was scooping out a hole into which it would press her down.
Well, there was nothing one could do, except to lower sail, and Ritson remembered dully that he was the witness for Pate's defence. He saw blurred trees in the mist, and, after searching the vague shore-line, pulled off his long boots. On the Scottish side there were creeks and gutters up which the current flowed, and he must trust it to carry him to land. Calling Pilot, he got on the slanted deck, took a deep breath, and jumped over.
For a few moments he was tossed about in the eddies behind the boat, then she vanished, and he drifted off into the gloom. Although the water was horribly cold, the plunge had braced him, and he tried to steer for land. When a tide runs six knots an hour, a swimmer's strength does not count for much, but Ritson's luck was good. Belle had stranded near a spot where a burn comes down from the Scottish hills, and two salmon fishers were occupied at the pocket of a big stake-net. When a splash came out of the gloom, one stood up in their clumsy punt.
"Save us!" he exclaimed. "What's yon drifting up the watter?"
"A wee dog," said the other. "Handy wi' the oars, Jock! I think I see a man!"
The punt swung out into the current, and Jock threw Pilot on board, but to drag his master across the stern was another thing. Ritson could not help them much, and the rolling punt shipped some water. It cost them an effort to get him on board, and when he wiped the water from his eyes he blinked at the vanishing net.
"Salmon stakes and trees on the shore!" he said. "Have I fetched Tongland or the Burnfoot?"
"The Burnfoot," replied the Scot. "Hoo did ye get intil the watter? Where are ye from?"
"Fra Port Herries," said Ritson heavily.
"Sooming?" remarked the other. "Weel, ye're no easy dauntit! Man, it's fifty miles!"
Ritson told his story while they rowed to land, and the Scots sympathised. They had their disputes with the inspectors of nets and gear, and when a fisherman was summoned to court, all were against the Board. They took Ritson to a cothouse by a dark peat moss, and when they had given him dry clothes, Jock mused and said—
"Maybe she'll wash off at high watter, and, if no', we'll look for her on the ebb; but ye must to Edentown, to defend yere lad. If ye start early, yell get the morning train frae the Rigg."
Ritson said nothing. His head reeled and he slouched forward in his chair. Exhausted flesh and blood demanded rest. He could not eat the food the others brought, and let them help him into a cupboard bed. Then one looked at Pilot, who scratched the boards and whined.
"The wee dog wants in beside him," he said. "Weel, the mistress is awa', and if I dinna tell her she needna ken."
He put Pilot into the bed with Ritson and shut them up.
Illustration: "Calling Pilot, he got on the slanted deck, took a deep breath, and jumped over."
In the morning they wakened Ritson, gave him breakfast, and sent him up a muddy road that skirted the peat moss. When he crossed the square from the station at Eden town, it was raining, and the smoke from the big railway yards drifted about the court-house. The building was dark and cold, and the crowd was thinner than usual. Ritson crossed the floor, and sat down by a shabbily-dressed woman who nursed a fretful child.
"It's aw right, lass. I've com't to get Pate off," he said.
The woman looked up drearily. "I doubt you'll not can. Lawyer told him he'd better plead guilty."
"Where's lawyer?" Ritson asked.
She told him, and when Ritson had talked to the lawyer, he went back to Mrs. Hartrod and waited, trying to brace himself. He had not altogether slept off his fatigue, and wondered dully what had happened to his boat, and he imagined he would find Belle buried in the sand when he got back.
By and by Hartrod entered the dock. He denied 'that he had fished on the forbidden grounds, and the prosecuting lawyer gave the magistrates a chart of the Firth, and the Fishery Inspector told his tale.
He was on board the patrol boat on the night stated, and there were three trawlers in the neighbourhood, he said. For a time the moon was bright, but the sky got cloudy and thin fog drifted about. His craft was under Torwood Head, and probably indistinguishable against the land, at the spot indicated on the chart. One of the boats was dragging her net, with sail half hoisted, and the bearings he took from the Barcarel light and the Firth lightship satisfied him that she was fishing across the prohibited line. His mate checked his calculations, and was in court. The cross on the chart marked the trawler's position. He steered for the boat, and with his night-glasses made out her registry number, 19, but a belt of mist rolled up, and he lost her. When the mist cleared he saw her again, but she had moved and was then in water where fishing was allowed. He went on board, noted the number 19 on her bows, and found a quantity of fish, freshly caught and alive. Her owner declared he had not lowered his net on the wrong side of the line.
Ritson saw the Inspector was honest, and this was some relief. Moreover, he saw how the fellow had been deceived. The figure 6 is not unlike 9, when seen half inverted on the slack folds of a partly-lowered sail. All the same, his business was not to explain the mistake. Pate must not be cleared at a comrade's cost.
By and by Ritson told his tale.
"I was here," he said, moving an inkstand to indicate the spot. "Yonder's the Barcarel light, just opening and bearing north-east. You can put a pencil across compass drawn on chart, and you'll see I was weel clear o' reserved grounds. Wind was east and varra light, tide was running west, and Pate, my nivew, was aboot a mile to lee. A boat withoot an engine canna mak' head against a light wind and strong tide, and if he'd wanted, Pate wouldn't could have crossed t' line."
The magistrates studied the chart. Luckily for Hartrod, one kept a yacht and another knew something about land surveying. When they had asked Ritson a few questions, Hartrod's lawyer remarked: "The witness's statement is plain, and since there are no grounds for doubting its accuracy, we are, I think, justified in assuming it was impossible for my client's boat to have occupied the position the Inspector indicates."
The Inspector looked puzzled, and a magistrate said: "It is admitted that there were two other boats in the neighbourhood. One has not been accounted for."
Hartrod looked at Ritson, and both understood that here was an opening for a good defence that must not be used. The Inspector had seen a boat trawling, and then had lost her in the fog and boarded another. The first boat's number was 16.
"I ken nowt aboot other boat," Ritson resumed. "Where she was is Fishery Inspector's business."
"I think the witness stated the accused is his nephew," a magistrate remarked.
"He is," said Ritson, with naïve frankness; "that's why I com't across to clear him, and lost my boat on Burnfoot sand."
Hartrod's lawyer asked a question that drew out the tale, and saw he had done well, for Ritson's artless narrative moved the court to sympathy. The magistrates asked him no more, and, after a short conference, let the prisoner go.
Pate and his wife crossed the smoky square in the rain, and went to a cheap tea-shop, while Ritson looked for the post office. There he was given a telegram.
"Boat floated off and beached. Not leaking much; two planks something split," it ran.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1945, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 78 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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