The Lifeboat

Denham frowned portentously, and that peculiarly dead calm which usually precedes the bursting of a storm prevailed in the office. Before the storm burst, however, the outer door was opened hastily and our friend Bax stood in the room. He was somewhat dishevelled in appearance, as if he had travelled fast. To the clerks in that small office he appeared more fierce and gigantic than usual. Peekins regarded him with undisguised admiration, and wondered in his heart if Jack the Giant-Killer would have dared to encounter such a being, supposing him to have had the chance.

“I’m glad I am not too late to find you here, sir,” said Bax, puffing off his hat and bowing slightly to his employer.

“Humph!” ejaculated Denham, “step this way.”

They entered the inner office, and, the door being shut, Ruggles internally blessed Bax and breathed freely. Under the influence of reaction he even looked defiant.

“So you have lost your schooner,” began Denham, sitting down in his chair of state and eyeing the seaman sternly. Bax returned the gaze so much more sternly that Denham felt disconcerted but did not allow his feelings to betray themselves.

“The schooner has been lost,” said Bax, “and I am here to report the fact and to present these letters, one from the seamen’s missionary at Ramsgate, the other from your nephew, both of which will show you that no blame attaches to me. I regret the loss, deeply, but it was un—”

Bax was going to have said unavoidable, but he felt that the expression would have been incorrect, and stopped.

“Finish your remark,” said Denham.

“I merely wished to say that it was out of my power to prevent it.”

“Oh!” interjected Denham, sarcastically, as he read the letters. “The seamen’s missionary is one of whom I know nothing. His opinion, therefore, carries no weight. As to my nephew, his remarks are simply unworthy of notice. But you say that no blame attaches to you. To whom then does blame attach, if not to the skipper of the vessel? Do you mean to lay it at the door of Providence?”

“No, sir, I do not,” replied Bax.

“Have you, then, the presumption to insinuate that it lies with me?”

Bax was silent.

“Am I to expect an answer?” said Denham.

“I make no insinuations,” said Bax, after a short pause; “I do but state facts. If the ‘Nancy’ had been fitted with a new tops’l-yard and jib-boom, as I advised last summer, I would have carried her safe into the Downs.”

“So,” said Denham, in a tone of increasing sarcasm, “you have the hardihood to insinuate that it was my fault?”

Bax reddened with indignation at the tone of insult in which these words were uttered. His bass voice grew deeper and sterner as he said:—

“If you insist on plain speaking, sir, you shall have it. I do think the blame of the loss of the ‘Nancy’ lies at your door, and worse than that, the loss of two human lives lies there also. There was not a sound timber or a seaworthy article aboard of the schooner from stem to stern. You know well enough that I have told you this,—in more civil language it may be,—again and again; and I hope that the telling of it now, flatly, will induce you to consider the immense responsibility that lies on your shoulders; for there are other ships belonging to your firm in much the same condition—ships with inferior charts and instruments, unsound spars, not enough of boats, and with anchors and chains scarce powerful enough to hold a Deal lugger in a moderate gale.”

Mr Denham was not prepared for this sudden and wholesale condemnation of himself and his property. He gazed at the seaman’s flushed countenance for a few seconds in mute surprise. At last he recovered self-possession, and said in a calm voice—

“You applied last year, if I remember rightly, for the situation of mate aboard our ship the ‘Trident’—now on her second voyage from Australia?”

“I did,” said Bax, shortly, not knowing how to take this sudden change of subject.

“Do you suppose,” said Denham, with a peculiar curl of his lip, “that this interview will tend to improve your chance of obtaining that situation?”

Denham put the question with the full expectation of humbling Bax, and with the further intention of following up his reply with the assurance that there was much greater probability of the moon being turned into green cheese than of his promotion taking place; but his intentions were frustrated by Bax starting, and, in a voice of indignation, exclaiming—“Sir, do you suppose I have come here to beg? If you were to offer me the command of the ‘Trident,’ or any other ship that you possess, I would refuse it with scorn. It is bad enough to risk one’s life in the rotten craft you send to sea; but that would be nothing compared with the shame of serving a house that thinks only of gain, and holds human life cheaper than the dirt I tread under my feet. No, sir; I came here to explain how the ‘Nancy’ was lost. Having done so, I take my leave.”

“Stay,” said Denham, as Bax turned to go. “Perhaps you will do me one more service before we part. Will you kindly inform my nephew that he need not be in a hurry to come back here. I extend his leave. He may continue to absent himself as long as he pleases—to all eternity if it suits him.”

Mr Denham flushed up with anger as he said the last words. Bax, without deigning a reply, turned on his heel and strode out of the room, slamming the glass-door behind him with such violence that every panel in it was shivered to atoms! He wheeled round and re-entered the room. Denham grew pale, supposing that the roused giant was about to assault him; but Bax only pointed to the door, and said sternly— “Part of the wages due me will pay for that. You can keep the balance, and buy yourself a Bible with it.”

Next moment he was gone, and Peekins stood staring at his master through the shattered door, trembling from head to foot. Immediately afterwards Denham took his hat and stick, and passed through the office. Pausing at the door he looked back:—

“Ruggles.”

“Yes, sir.”

“There are five or six foreign letters in my desk for tomorrow’s post. Copy them out to-night. See that you do it to-night. Peekins will remain with you, and lock up after you have done.”

Ruggles, who knew that this involved work till near midnight, humbly replied, “Yes, sir.”

Having thus secured the misery of at least two human beings, Denham went home, somewhat relieved, to dinner.

Bax unconsciously, but naturally, followed his example. He also went to dinner, but, having no home in that quarter, he went to the “Three Jolly Tars,” and found the landlord quite willing to supply all his wants on the shortest possible notice, namely, three-quarters of an hour.

In a snug box of that celebrated place of entertainment, he found Tommy Bogey (whom he had brought with him) awaiting his appearance. The precocious youth was deeply immersed in a three-days’-old copy of The Times.

“Hallo! Bax, you’ve been sharp about it,” said Tommy, laying down the paper and pulling a little black pipe out of his pocket, which he proceeded coolly and quietly to fill just as if he had been a bearded and grey-headed tar; for Tommy, being a worshipper of Bax, imitated, as all worshippers do, the bad as well as the good qualities of his hero, ignorant of, as well as indifferent to, the fact that it would have been more noble to imitate the good and avoid the bad.

“Ay, we’ve settled it all slick off in no time,” said Bax, sitting down beside his young companion, and proceeding also to fill his pipe.

“An’ wot about the widders and horphans?” inquired Tommy, beginning to smoke, and using his extremely little finger as a tobacco-stopper in a way that might have surprised a salamander.

“The widows!” exclaimed Bax.

“Ay, the widders—also the horphans,” repeated Tommy, with a grave nod of the head. “I ’ope he’s come down ’andsome.”

“Tommy,” said Bax, with a disconcerted look, “I’ve forgot ’em altogether!”

“Forgot ’em? Bax!”

“It’s a fact,” said Bax, with much humility, “but the truth is, that we got to loggerheads, an’ of course you know it was out of the question to talk on such a subject when we were in that state.”

“In course it was,” said Tommy. “But it’s a pity.”

The fact was that Bax had intended to make an appeal to Mr Denham in behalf of the widows and children of the poor men who had been drowned on the night when the “Nancy” was wrecked; but the unexpected turn which the conversation took had driven that subject utterly out of his mind.

“Well, Tommy, it can’t be helped now; and, after all, I don’t think the widows will come by any loss by my forgetfulness, for certain am I that Denham would as soon supply a best-bower anchor to the ‘Trident’ as give a sovereign to these poor people.”

Bax and his young friend here relapsed into a state of silent fumigation from which they were aroused by the entrance of dinner. This meal consisted of beef-steaks and porter. But it is due to Bax to say that he advised his companion to confine his potations to water, which his companion willingly agreed to, as he would have done had Bax advised him to drink butter-milk, or cider, or to go without drink altogether.

They were about done with dinner when a weak small voice in the passage attracted their attention.

“Is there one of the name of Bax ’ere,” said the meek voice.

“Here I am,” shouted Bax, “come in; what d’ye want with me?”

Peekins entered in a state of great agitation.

“Oh! sir, please sir,—I’ll never do it again; but I couldn’t help it indeed, indeed—I was dyin’, I was. It’s a great sin I knows, but—”

Here Peekins burst into tears, and sat down on the seat opposite.

“Wot a green ’un!” muttered Tommy, as he gazed at the tiger in blue through a volume of tobacco smoke.

“What’s the matter, boy?” inquired Bax, in some surprise. “Anything wrong at Redwharf Lane?”

“Ye-es—that’s to say, not exactly, only I’ve run’d away.”

“You han’t run far, then,” said Bax, smiling. “How long is’t since you ran away?”

“Just ten minutes.”

Tommy burst into a laugh at this, and Peekins, feeling somewhat relieved, smiled idiotically through his tears.

“Well now, my lad,” said Bax, leaning forward in a confidential way which quite won the affection of the tiger, and patting him on the shoulder, “I would advise you strongly to go back.”

“Oh! sir, but I can’t,” said Peekins dolefully. “I dursn’t. My life is miserable there. Mr Denham is so ’ard on me that I feels like to die every time I sees ’im. It ain’t o’ no use” (here Peekins became wildly desperate), “I won’t go back; ’cause if I do I’m sure to die slow; an’ I’d rather die quick at once and be done with it.”

Bax opened his eyes very wide at this. It revealed a state of things that he had never before imagined. Tommy Bogey puffed so large a cloud that his face was quite concealed by it, and muttered “you air a rum ’un!”

“Where d’ye stop, boy?” inquired Bax.

“In lodgin’s in Fenchurch Street.”

“D’ye owe ’em anything at the office?”

“No, nothin’; they owes me seventeen and six.”

“D’ye want it very much?”

“O no, I don’t mind that, bless ye,” said Peekins, earnestly.

“What d’ye mean to do?” inquired Bax.

“Go with you—to sea,” replied the tiger, promptly.

“But I’m not going to sea.”

“Then, I’ll go with you wherever you please. I like you,” said the boy, springing suddenly to his side and grasping his hand, “I’ve no one in the world to care for but you. I never heard any one speak like you. If you’ll only let me be your servant, I’ll go with you to the end of the world, and—and—”

Here poor Peekins was again overcome.

“Brayvo!” shouted Tommy Bogey in admiration. “You’re not such a bad fellow after all.”

“Poor boy,” said Bax, stroking the tiger’s head, “you are willing to trust too easily to a weak and broken reed. But, come, I’ll take you to the coast. Better to go there, after all, than stop with such a tender-hearted Christian as Mr Denham. Here, take a bit of dinner.”

Having tasted no food since breakfast, Peekins gladly accepted the invitation, and ate heartily of the remnants of the meal, to the great satisfaction of his companions, especially of Tommy, who regarded him as one might regard a pet canary or rabbit, which requires to be fed plenteously and handled with extreme gentleness and care.

Chapter Ten.

The “Hovel” on Deal Beach—A Storm Brewing—Plans to Circumvent the Smugglers

On a calm, soft, beautiful evening, about a week after the events narrated in the last chapter, Guy Foster issued from Sandhill Cottage, and took his way towards the beach of Deal.

It was one of those inexpressibly sweet, motionless evenings, in which one is inclined, if in ordinary health, to rejoice in one’s existence; and in which the Christian is led irresistibly to join with the Psalmist in praising God, “for his goodness, and for his wonderful works to the children of men.”

Young Foster’s thoughts ran for a considerable time in this latter channel; for he was one of those youthful Christians whose love to our Saviour does not easily grow cold. He was wont to read the Bible as if he really believed it to be the Word of God, and acted in accordance with its precepts with a degree of bold simplicity and trustfulness, that made him a laughing-stock to some, and a subject of surprise and admiration to others, of his companions and acquaintance. In short, he was a Christian of a cheerful, straightforward stamp.

Yet Guy’s course was not all sunshine, neither was his conduct altogether immaculate. He was not exempt from the general rule, that “through much tribulation” men shall enter into the Kingdom. As he walked along, rejoicing in his existence and in the beauty of that magnificent evening, a cloud would rise occasionally and call forth a sigh, as he recollected the polite intimation of his uncle, that he had extended his leave of absence ad infinitum! He could not shut his eyes to the fact that a brilliant mercantile career on which he had recently entered, and on which he might naturally look as the course cut out for him by Providence, was suddenly closed against him for ever. He knew his uncle’s temper too well to expect that he would relent, and he felt that to retract a statement which he knew to be true, or to express regret for having boldly told the truth as he had done, was out of the question. Besides, he was well aware that such a course would not now avail to restore him to his lost position. It remained, therefore, that, being without influential friends, he must begin over again and carve his own way in the world.

But what then? Was this not the lot of hundreds of thousands? Little time had been lost; he was young, and strong, and hearty. God had written, “Commit thy way unto the Lord, trust also in Him, and He shall bring it to pass.” “Whatever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might, as unto the Lord, and not unto men.” Under the influence of such thoughts the clouds cleared away from Guy’s brow, and he raised his eyes, which for some minutes had been cast down, with a hopeful gaze to the heavens.

There he soon became lost in admiration of the clouds that were floating in masses of amber and gold; rising over each other—piled up, mass upon mass—grotesque sometimes in form, solid yet soft in aspect, and inexpressibly grand, as a whole, in their towering magnificence.

There were signs, however, among the gorgeous beauties of this cloud-land, that were significant to eyes accustomed to read the face of the sky. Various lurid and luminous clouds of grey and Indian-red hues told of approaching storm, and the men of Deal knew that the sea, which just then pictured every cloud in its glassy depths as clearly as if there had been another cloud-land below its surface, would, ere long, be ruffled with a stiffish breeze; perhaps be tossed by a heavy gale.

Men in general are not prone to meditate very deeply on what is going on around them beyond the reach of their own vision. This is natural and right to some extent. If we were to be deeply touched by the joys, sorrows, calamities, and incidents that at all times affect humanity, we should cease to enjoy existence. Life would become a burden. The end of our creation would not be attained. Yet there is an evil of an opposite kind which often mars our usefulness, and makes us unconsciously participators in acts of injustice. This evil is, partial ignorance of, and indifference to, much that goes on around us beyond the range of our vision, but which nevertheless claims our attention and regard.

Every one who reflects will admit that it is pleasant to think, when we retire to rest, that a splendid system of police renders our home a place of safety, and that, although there are villains more than enough who would do their best to get at our purses and plate, we need not make ourselves uneasy so long as the stout guardians of the night are on the beat. Do we not congratulate ourselves on this? and do we not pay the police-tax without grumbling, or at least with less grumbling than we vent when paying other taxes?

Should it, good reader, be less a subject of pleasant contemplation that, when the midnight storm threatens to burst upon our shores, there are men abroad who are skilled in the perilous work of snatching its prey from the raging sea; that, when the howling gale rattles our windows and shakes our very walls, inducing us perchance to utter the mental prayer, “God have mercy on all who are on the sea this night,” that then—at that very time—the heroes of our coast are abroad all round the kingdom; strong in the possession of dauntless hearts and iron frames, and ready to plunge at any moment into the foaming sea to the rescue of life or property?

Who can say, during any storm, that he may not be personally interested in the efforts of those heroes?

We knew a family, the members of which, like those of all the other families in the land, listened to the howling of that fearful storm which covered our shores with wrecks on the 25th of November, 1859. Their thoughts were sad and anxious, as must be the case, more or less, with all who reflect that in such nights hundreds of human beings are certainly perishing on our shores. But ah! what would the feelings of that family have been had they known—as they soon came to know—that two stalwart brothers of their own went down that night among the 450 human beings who perished in the wreck of the “Royal Charter?”

In regard to the “Royal Charter,” it may be truly said that there was no necessity for the loss of that vessel. God did not send direct destruction upon her. The engines were too weak to work her off the land in the face of the gale, and the cables could not hold her. These were among the causes of her loss. And when she did get ashore, every life might have been saved had there been a lifeboat or rocket apparatus at hand. We know not why there were neither; but may it not have been because lifeboats and rockets are not sufficiently numerous all along our shores? How many bleeding hearts there were that would have given drops of their life-blood to have provided the means of saving life on the coast of Anglesea on that terrible night! A few small coins given at an earlier date might have saved those lives! No individual in the land, however far removed from the coast, can claim exemption from the dangers of the sea. His own head may indeed lie safe from the raging billow, but at any moment the sea may grasp some loved one, and thus wreck his peace of mind, or engulf his property and wreck his fortune. Why, then, should not the whole nation take the affairs of the coast nearer to its heart? The Lifeboat Institution is not supported by taxation like our police force. It depends on the charity of the people. Don’t you think, reader, that it has a strong claim on the sympathies, the prayers, and the purse of every living soul in the kingdom? But to return, with many apologies, from this digression.

Guy Foster noted the peculiar appearance of the clouds, and concluded that “something was brewing.” All along the shores stout men in glazed and tarry garments noted the same appearances, and also concluded that it would be dirty weather before long. The lifeboat men, too, were on the qui vive; and, doubtless, the coxswain of each boat, from John o’ Groat’s to the Land’s-end, was overhauling his charge to see that all was right and in readiness for instant service.

“It’s going to blow to-night, Bax,” said Guy, on entering the hovel of the former.

“So ’tis,” replied Bax, who was standing beside his friends Bluenose and Tommy Bogey, watching old Jeph, as he busied himself with the model of his lifeboat.

Jeph said that in his opinion it was going to be a regular nor’-easter, and Bluenose intimated his adherence to the same opinion, with a slap on his thigh, and a huge puff of smoke.

“You’re long about that boat, Jeph,” said Bluenose, after a pause, during which he scanned the horizon with a telescope.

“So I am. It ain’t easy to carry out the notion.”

“An’ wot may the notion be?” inquired Bluenose, sitting down on a coil of rope, and gazing earnestly at the old man.

“To get lifeboats to right themselves w’en they’re upset,” replied Jeph, regarding his model with a look of perplexity. “You see it’s all very well to have ’em filled with air-chambers, which prevents ’em from sinkin’; but w’en they’re upset, d’ye see, they ain’t o’ no use till they gets on their keels again; and that ain’t easy to manage. Now I’ve bin thinkin’ that if we wos to give ’em more sheer, and raise the stem and stern a bit, they’d turn over natural-like, of their own accord.”

“I do believe they would,” said Bax. “Why, what put that into yer head, old man?”

“Well, it ain’t altogether my own notion,” said Jeph, “for I’ve heard, when I was in the port o’ Leith, many years ago, that a clergyman o’ the name of Bremer had made a boat o’ this sort in the year 1792, that answered very well; but, somehow or other, it never came to anything. There’s nothin’ that puzzles me so much as that,” said the old man, looking up with a wondering expression of countenance. “I don’t understand how, w’en a good thing is found out, it ain’t made the most of at once! I never could discover exactly what Mr Bremer’s plan was, so I’m tryin’ to invent one.”

As he said this, Jeph placed the model on which he was engaged in a small tub of water which stood at his elbow. Guy, who was much interested in the old man’s idea, bent over him to observe the result of the experiment. Tommy Bogey sat down beside the tub as eagerly as if he expected some wonderful transformation to take place. Bax and Bluenose also looked on with unusual interest, as if they felt that a crisis in the experimental labours of their old comrade had arrived.

“It floats first-rate on an even keel,” cried Tommy, with a pleased look as the miniature boat moved slowly round its little ocean, “now then, capsize it.”

Old Jeph quietly put his finger on the side of the little boat, and turned it upside down. Instead of remaining in that position it rolled over on one side so much, that the onlookers fully expected to see it right itself, and Tommy gave vent to a premature cheer, but he cut it suddenly short on observing that the boat remained on its side with one of the gunwales immersed, unable to attain an even keel in consequence of the weight of water inside of it.

“I tell ye wot it is, Jeph,” said Bluenose, with emphasis, “you’ll do it yet; if you don’t I’ll eat my sou’-wester without sauce, so I will. As the noospapers says, you’ll inaggerate a new era in lifeboats, old boy, that’s a fact, and I’ll live to see it too!”

Having delivered himself of this opinion in tones of much fervour, the captain delivered his mouth of a series of cloudlets, and gazed through them at his old friend with unfeigned admiration.

Guy and Bax were both impressed with the partial success of the experiment, as well as with Jeph’s idea, and said to him, encouragingly, that he had very near hit it, but Jeph himself only shook his head and smiled sadly.

“Lads,” said he, “very near is sometimes a long way farther off than folk suppose. Perpetual motion has bin very nearly discovered ever since men began to try their hands at engineerin’, but it ain’t discovered yet, nor never will be—’cause why? it ain’t possible.”