The Lighthouse

The other men went about their work with similar disregard of the fury of the elements and the wet condition of their garments.

Chapter Ten

The Rising of the Tide—A Narrow Escape

The portion of the work that Mr Stevenson was now most anxious to get advanced was the beacon.

The necessity of having an erection of this kind was very obvious, for, in the event of anything happening to the boats, there would be no refuge for the men to fly to; and the tide would probably sweep them all away before their danger could be known, or assistance sent from the attendant vessels. Every man felt that his personal safety might depend on the beacon during some period of the work. The energies of all, therefore, were turned to the preliminary arrangements for its erection.

As the beacon would require to withstand the utmost fury of the elements during all seasons of the year, it was necessary that it should be possessed of immense strength.

In order to do this, six cuttings were made in the rock for the reception of the ends of the six great beams of the beacon. Each beam was to be fixed to the solid rock by two strong and massive bats, or stanchions, of iron. These bats, for the fixing of the principal and diagonal beams and bracing-chains, required fifty-four holes, each measuring a foot and a half deep, and two inches wide. The operation of boring such holes into the solid rock, was not an easy or a quick one, but by admirable arrangements on the part of the engineer, and steady perseverance on the part of the men, they progressed faster than had been anticipated.

Three men were attached to each jumper, or boring chisel; one placed himself in a sitting posture, to guide the instrument, and give it a turn at each blow of the hammer; he also sponged and cleaned out the hole, and supplied it occasionally with a little water, while the other two, with hammers of sixteen pounds weight, struck the jumper alternately, generally bringing the hammer with a swing round the shoulder, after the manner of blacksmith work.

Ruby, we may remark in passing, occupied himself at this work as often as he could get away from his duties at the forge, being particularly fond of it, as it enabled him to get rid of some of his superabundant energy, and afforded him a suitable exercise for his gigantic strength. It also tended to relieve his feelings when he happened to think of Minnie being so near, and he so utterly and hopelessly cut off from all communication with her.

But to return to the bat-holes. The three men relieved each other in the operations of wielding the hammers and guiding the jumpers, so that the work never flagged for a moment, and it was found that when the tools were of a very good temper, these holes could be sunk at the rate of one inch per minute, including stoppages. But the tools were not always of good temper; and severely was poor Dove’s temper tried by the frequency of the scolds which he received from the men, some of whom were clumsy enough, Dove said, to spoil the best tempered tool in the world.

But the most tedious part of the operation did not lie in the boring of these holes. In order that they should be of the required shape, two holes had to be bored a few inches apart from each other, and the rock cut away from between them. It was this latter part of the work that took up most time.

Those of the men who were not employed about the beacon were working at the foundation-pit.

While the party were thus busily occupied on the Bell Rock, an event occurred which rendered the importance of the beacon, if possible, more obvious than ever, and which well-nigh put an end to the career of all those who were engaged on the rock at that time.

The Pharos floating light lay at a distance of above two miles from the Bell Rock; but one of the smaller vessels, the sloop Smeaton, lay much closer to it, and some of the artificers were berthed aboard of her, instead of the floating light.

Some time after the landing of the two boats from the Pharos, the Smeaton’s boat put off and landed eight men on the rock; soon after which the crew of the boat pushed off and returned to the Smeaton to examine her riding-ropes, and see that they were in good order, for the wind was beginning to increase, and the sea to rise.

The boat had no sooner reached the vessel than the latter began to drift, carrying the boat along with her. Instantly those on board endeavoured to hoist the mainsail of the Smeaton, with the view of working her up to the buoy from which she had parted; but it blew so hard, that by the time she was got round to make a tack towards the rock, she had drifted at least three miles to leeward.

The circumstance of the Smeaton and her boat having drifted was observed first by Mr Stevenson, who prudently refrained from drawing attention to the fact, and walked slowly to the farther point of the rock to watch her. He was quickly followed by the landing-master, who touched him on the shoulder, and in perfect silence, but with a look of intense anxiety, pointed to the vessel.

“I see it, Wilson. God help us if she fails to make the rock within a very short time,” said Mr Stevenson.

“She will never reach us in time,” said Wilson, in a tone that convinced his companion he entertained no hope.

“Perhaps she may,” he said hurriedly; “she is a good sailer.”

“Good sailing,” replied the other, “cannot avail against wind and tide together. No human power can bring that vessel to our aid until long after the tide has covered the Bell Rock.”

Both remained silent for some time, watching with intense anxiety the ineffectual efforts of the little vessel to beat up to windward.

In a few minutes the engineer turned to his companion and said, “They cannot save us, Wilson. The two boats that are left—can they hold us all?”

The landing-master shook his head. “The two boats,” said he, “will be completely filled by their own crews. For ordinary rough weather they would be quite full enough. In a sea like that,” he said, pointing to the angry waves that were being gradually lashed into foam by the increasing wind, “they will be overloaded.”

“Come, I don’t know that, Wilson; we may devise something,” said Mr Stevenson, with a forced air of confidence, as he moved slowly towards the place where the men were still working, busy as bees and all unconscious of the perilous circumstances in which they were placed.

As the engineer pondered the prospect of deliverance, his thoughts led him rather to despair than to hope. There were thirty-two persons in all upon the rock that day, with only two boats, which, even in good weather, could not unitedly accommodate more than twenty-four sitters. But to row to the floating light with so much wind and in so heavy a sea, a complement of eight men for each boat was as much as could with propriety be attempted, so that about half of their number was thus unprovided for. Under these circumstances he felt that to despatch one of the boats in expectation of either working the Smeaton sooner up to the rock, or in hopes of getting her boat brought to their assistance would, besides being useless, at once alarm the workmen, each of whom would probably insist upon taking to his own boat, and leaving the eight men of the Smeaton to their chance. A scuffle might ensue, and he knew well that when men are contending for life the results may be very disastrous.

For a considerable time the men remained in ignorance of the terrible conflict that was going on in their commander’s breast. As they wrought chiefly in sitting or kneeling postures, excavating the rock or boring with jumpers, their attention was naturally diverted from everything else around them. The dense volumes of smoke, too, that rose from the forge fire, so enveloped them as to render distant objects dim or altogether invisible.

While this lasted,—while the numerous hammers were going and the anvil continued to sound, the situation of things did not appear so awful to the only two who were aware of what had occurred. But ere long the tide began to rise upon those who were at work on the lower parts of the beacon and lighthouse. From the run of the sea upon the rock, the forge fire was extinguished sooner than usual; the volumes of smoke cleared away, and objects became visible in every direction.

After having had about three hours’ work, the men began pretty generally to make towards their respective boats for their jackets and socks.

Then it was that they made the discovery that one boat was absent.

Only a few exclamations were uttered. A glance at the two boats and a hurried gaze to seaward were sufficient to acquaint them with their awful position. Not a word was spoken by anyone. All appeared to be silently calculating their numbers, and looking at each other with evident marks of perplexity depicted in their countenances. The landing-master, conceiving that blame might attach to him for having allowed the boat to leave the rock, kept a little apart from the men.

All eyes were turned, as if by instinct, to Mr Stevenson. The men seemed to feel that the issue lay with him.

The engineer was standing on an elevated part of the rock named Smith’s Ledge, gazing in deep anxiety at the distant Smeaton, in the hope that he might observe some effort being made, at least, to pull the boat to their rescue.

Slowly but surely the tide rose, overwhelming the lower parts of the rock; sending each successive wave nearer and nearer to the feet of those who were now crowded on the last ledge that could afford them standing-room.

The deep silence that prevailed was awful! It proved that each mind saw clearly the impossibility of anything being devised, and that a deadly struggle for precedence was inevitable.

Mr Stevenson had all along been rapidly turning over in his mind various schemes which might be put in practice for the general safety, provided the men could be kept under command. He accordingly turned to address them on the perilous nature of their circumstances; intending to propose that all hands should strip off their upper clothing when the higher parts of the rock should be laid under water; that the seamen should remove every unnecessary weight and encumbrance from the boats; that a specified number of men should go into each boat; and that the remainder should hang by the gunwales, while the boats were to be rowed gently towards the Smeaton, as the course to the floating light lay rather to windward of the rock.

But when he attempted to give utterance to his thoughts the words refused to come. So powerful an effect had the awful nature of their position upon him, that his parched tongue could not articulate. He learned, from terrible experience, that saliva is as necessary to speech as the tongue itself.

Stooping hastily, he dipped his hand into a pool of salt water and moistened his mouth. This produced immediate relief and he was about to speak, when Ruby Brand, who had stood at his elbow all the time with compressed lips and a stern frown on his brow, suddenly took off his cap, and waving it above his head, shouted “A boat! a boat!” with all the power of his lungs.

All eyes were at once turned in the direction to which he pointed, and there, sure enough, a large boat was seen through the haze, making towards the rock.

Doubtless many a heart there swelled with gratitude to God, who had thus opportunely and most unexpectedly sent them relief at the eleventh hour; but the only sound that escaped them was a cheer, such as men seldom give or hear save in cases of deliverance in times of dire extremity.

The boat belonged to James Spink, the Bell Rock pilot, who chanced to have come off express from Arbroath that day with letters.

We have said that Spink came off by chance; but, when we consider all the circumstances of the case, and the fact that boats seldom visited the Bell Rock at any time, and never during bad weather, we are constrained to feel that God does in His mercy interfere sometimes in a peculiar and special manner in human affairs, and that there was something more and higher than mere chance in the deliverance of Stevenson and his men upon this occasion.

The pilot-boat, having taken on board as many as it could hold, set sail for the floating light; the other boats then put off from the rock with the rest of the men, but they did not reach the Pharos until after a long and weary pull of three hours, during which the waves broke over the boats so frequently as to necessitate constant baling.

When the floating light was at last reached, a new difficulty met them, for the vessel rolled so much, and the men were so exhausted, that it proved to be a work of no little toil and danger to get them all on board.

Long Forsyth, in particular, cost them all an infinite amount of labour, for he was so sick, poor fellow, that he could scarcely move. Indeed, he did at one time beg them earnestly to drop him into the sea and be done with him altogether, a request with which they of course refused to comply. However, he was got up somehow, and the whole of them were comforted by a glass of rum and thereafter a cup of hot coffee.

Ruby had the good fortune to obtain the additional comfort of a letter from Minnie, which, although it did not throw much light on the proceedings of Captain Ogilvy (for that sapient seaman’s proceedings were usually involved in a species of obscurity which light could not penetrate), nevertheless assured him that something was being done in his behalf, and that, if he only kept quiet for a time, all would be well.

The letter also assured him of the unalterable affection of the writer, an assurance which caused him to rejoice to such an extent that he became for a time perfectly regardless of all other sublunary things, and even came to look upon the Bell Rock as a species of paradise, watched over by the eye of an angel with golden hair, in which he could indulge his pleasant dreams to the utmost.

That he had to indulge those dreams in the midst of storm and rain and smoke, surrounded by sea and seaweed, workmen and hammers, and forges and picks, and jumpers and seals, while his strong muscles and endurance were frequently tried to the uttermost, was a matter of no moment to Ruby Brand.

All experience goes to prove that great joy will utterly overbear the adverse influence of physical troubles, especially if those troubles are without, and do not touch the seats of life within. Minnie’s love, expressed as it was in her own innocent, truthful, and straightforward way, rendered his body, big though it was, almost incapable of containing his soul. He pulled the oar, hammered the jumper, battered the anvil, tore at the bellows, and hewed the solid Bell Rock with a vehemence that aroused the admiration of his comrades, and induced Jamie Dove to pronounce him to be the best fellow the world ever produced.

Chapter Eleven

A Storm and a Dismal State of Things on Board the Pharos

From what has been said at the close of the last chapter, it will not surprise the reader to be told that the storm which blew during that night had no further effect on Ruby Brand than to toss his hair about, and cause a ruddier glow than usual to deepen the tone of his bronzed countenance.

It was otherwise with many of his hapless comrades, a few of whom had also received letters that day, but whose pleasure was marred to some extent by the qualms within.

Being Saturday, a glass of rum was served out in the evening, according to custom, and the men proceeded to hold what is known by the name of “Saturday night at sea.”

This being a night that was usually much enjoyed on board, owing to the home memories that were recalled, and the familiar songs that were sung; owing, also, to the limited supply of grog, which might indeed cheer, but could not by any possibility inebriate, the men endeavoured to shake off their fatigue, and to forget, if possible, the rolling of the vessel.

The first effort was not difficult, but the second was not easy. At first, however, the gale was not severe, so they fought against circumstances bravely for a time.

“Come, lads,” cried the smith, in a species of serio-comic desperation, when they had all assembled below, “let’s drink to sweethearts and wives.”

“Hear, hear! Bless their hearts! Sweethearts and wives!” responded the men. “Hip, hip!”

The cheer that followed was a genuine one.

“Now for a song, boys,” cried one of the men, “and I think the last arrivals are bound to sing first.”

“Hear, hear! Ruby, lad, you’re in for it,” said the smith, who sat near his assistant.

“What shall I sing?” enquired Ruby.

“Oh! let me see,” said Joe Dumsby, assuming the air of one who endeavoured to recall something. “Could you come Beet’oven’s symphony on B flat?”

“Ah! howld yer tongue, Joe,” cried O’Connor, “sure the young man can only sing on the sharp kays; ain’t he always sharpin’ the tools, not to speak of his appetite?”

“You’ve a blunt way of speaking yourself, friend,” said Dumsby, in a tone of reproof.

“Hallo! stop your jokes,” cried the smith; “if you treat us to any more o’ that sort o’ thing we’ll have ye dipped over the side, and hung up to dry at the end o’ the mainyard. Fire away, Ruby, my tulip!”

“Ay, that’s hit,” said John Watt. “Gie us the girl ye left behind ye.”

Ruby flushed suddenly, and turned towards the speaker with a look of surprise.

“What’s wrang, freend? Hae ye never heard o’ that sang?” enquired Watt.

“O yes, I forgot,” said Ruby, recovering himself in some confusion. “I know the song—I—I was thinking of something—of—”

“The girl ye left behind ye, av coorse,” put in O’Connor, with a wink.

“Come, strike up!” cried the men.

Ruby at once obeyed, and sang the desired song with a sweet, full voice, that had the effect of moistening some of the eyes present.

The song was received enthusiastically.

“Your health and song, lads” said Robert Selkirk, the principal builder, who came down the ladder and joined them at that moment.

“Thank you, now it’s my call,” said Ruby. “I call upon Ned O’Connor for a song.”

“Or a speech,” cried Forsyth.

“A spaitch is it?” said O’Connor, with a look of deep modesty. “Sure, I never made a spaitch in me life, except when I axed Mrs O’Connor to marry me, an’ I never finished that spaitch, for I only got the length of ‘Och! darlint,’ when she cut me short in the middle with ‘Sure, you may have me, Ned, and welcome!’”

“Shame, shame!” said Dove, “to say that of your wife.”

“Shame to yersilf,” cried O’Connor indignantly. “Ain’t I payin’ the good woman a compliment, when I say that she had pity on me bashfulness, and came to me help when I was in difficulty?”

“Quite right, O’Connor; but let’s have a song if you won’t speak.”

“Would ye thank a cracked tay-kittle for a song?” said Ned. “Certainly not,” replied Peter Logan, who was apt to take things too literally.

“Then don’t ax me for wan,” said the Irishman, “but I’ll do this for ye, messmates: I’ll read ye the last letter I got from the mistress, just to show ye that her price is beyond all calkerlation.”

A round of applause followed this offer, as Ned drew forth a much-soiled letter from the breast pocket of his coat, and carefully unfolding it, spread it on his knee.

“It begins,” said O’Connor, in a slightly hesitating tone, “with some expressions of a—a—raither endearin’ charackter, that perhaps I may as well pass.”

“No, no,” shouted the men, “let’s have them all. Out with them, Paddy!”

“Well, well, av ye will have them, here they be.

“‘Galway.

“‘My own purty darlin’ as has bin my most luved sin’ the day we wos marrit, you’ll be grieved to larn that the pig’s gone to its long home.’”

Here O’Connor paused to make some parenthetical remarks with which, indeed, he interlarded the whole letter.

“The pig, you must know, lads, was an old sow as belonged to me wife’s gran’-mother, an’ besides bein’ a sort o’ pet o’ the family, was an uncommon profitable crature. But to purceed. She goes on to say,– ‘We waked her’ (that’s the pig, boys) ‘yisterday, and buried her this mornin’. Big Rory, the baist, was for aitin’ her, but I wouldn’t hear of it; so she’s at rest, an’ so is old Molly Mallone. She wint away just two minutes be the clock before the pig, and wos buried the day afther. There’s no more news as I knows of in the parish, except that your old flame Mary got married to Teddy O’Rook, an’ they’ve been fightin’ tooth an’ nail ever since, as I towld ye they would long ago. No man could live wid that woman. But the schoolmaster, good man, has let me off the cow. Ye see, darlin’, I towld him ye wos buildin’ a palace in the say, to put ships in afther they wos wrecked on the coast of Ameriky, so ye couldn’t be expected to send home much money at prisint. An’ he just said, “Well, well, Kathleen, you may just kaip the cow, and pay me whin ye can.” So put that off yer mind, my swait Ned.

“‘I’m sorry to hear the Faries rowls so bad, though what the Faries mains is more nor I can tell.’ (I spelled the word quite krect, lads, but my poor mistress hain’t got the best of eyesight.) ‘Let me know in yer nixt, an’ be sure to tell me if Long Forsyth has got the bitter o’ say-sickness. I’m koorius about this, bekaise I’ve got a receipt for that same that’s infallerable, as his Riverence says. Tell him, with my luv, to mix a spoonful o’ pepper, an’ two o’ salt, an’ wan o’ mustard, an’ a glass o’ whisky in a taycup, with a sprinklin’ o’ ginger; fill it up with goat’s milk, or ass’s, av ye can’t git goat’s; bait it in a pan, an’ drink it as hot as he can—hotter, if possible. I niver tried it meself, but they say it’s a suverin’ remidy; and if it don’t do no good, it’s not likely to do much harm, bein’ but a waik mixture. Me own belaif is, that the milk’s a mistake, but I suppose the doctors know best.

“‘Now, swaitest of men, I must stop, for Neddy’s just come in howlin’ like a born Turk for his tay; so no more at present from, yours till deth, Kathleen O’Connor.’”

“Has she any sisters?” enquired Joe Dumsby eagerly, as Ned folded the letter and replaced it in his pocket.

“Six of ’em,” replied Ned; “every one purtier and better nor another.”

“Is it a long way to Galway?” continued Joe.

“Not long; but it’s a coorious thing that Englishmen never come back from them parts whin they wance ventur’ into them.”

Joe was about to retort when the men called for another song.

“Come, Jamie Dove, let’s have ‘Rule, Britannia.’”

Dove was by this time quite yellow in the face, and felt more inclined to go to bed than to sing; but he braced himself up, resolved to struggle manfully against the demon that oppressed him.

It was in vain! Poor Dove had just reached that point in the chorus where Britons stoutly affirm that they “never, never, never shall be slaves,” when a tremendous roll of the vessel caused him to spring from the locker, on which he sat, and rush to his berth.

There were several of the others whose self-restraint was demolished by this example; these likewise fled, amid the laughter of their companions, who broke up the meeting and went on deck.

The prospect of things there proved, beyond all doubt, that Britons never did, and never will, rule the waves.

The storm, which had been brewing for some time past, was gathering fresh strength every moment, and it became abundantly evident that the floating light would have her anchors and cables tested pretty severely before the gale was over.

About eight o’clock in the evening the wind shifted to east-south-east; and at ten it became what seamen term a hard gale, rendering it necessary to veer out about fifty additional fathoms of the hempen cable. The gale still increasing, the ship rolled and laboured excessively, and at midnight eighty fathoms more were veered out, while the sea continued to strike the vessel with a degree of force that no one had before experienced.

That night there was little rest on board the Pharos. Everyone who has been “at sea” knows what it is to lie in one’s berth on a stormy night, with the planks of the deck only a few inches from one’s nose, and the water swashing past the little port that always leaks; the seas striking against the ship; the heavy sprays falling on the decks; and the constant rattle and row of blocks, spars, and cordage overhead. But all this was as nothing compared with the state of things on board the floating light, for that vessel could not rise to the seas with the comparatively free motions of a ship, sailing either with or against the gale. She tugged and strained at her cable, as if with the fixed determination of breaking it, and she offered all the opposition of a fixed body to the seas.