The Lighthouse by Robert Ballantyne

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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 wellnigh 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 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 eases 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 XI

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, lad,"
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' character, 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 burried
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; hait 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.

Daylight, though ardently longed for, brought no relief. The gale
continued with unabated violence. The sea struck so hard upon the
vessel's bows that it rose in great quantities, or, as Ruby expressed
it, in "green seas", which completely swept the deck as far aft as
the quarter-deck, and not unfrequently went completely over the stern
of the ship.

Those "green seas" fell at last so heavily on the skylights that all
the glass was driven in, and the water poured down into the cabins,
producing dire consternation in the minds of those below, who thought
that the vessel was sinking.

"I'm drowned intirely," roared poor Ned O'Connor, as the first of
those seas burst in and poured straight down on his hammock, which
happened to be just beneath the skylight.

Ned sprang out on the deck, missed his footing, and was hurled with
the next roll of the ship into the arms of the steward, who was
passing through the place at the time.

Before any comments could be made the dead-lights were put on, and
the cabins were involved in almost absolute darkness.

"Och! let me in beside ye," pleaded Ned with the occupant of the
nearest berth.

"Awa' wi' ye! Na, na," cried John Watt, pushing the unfortunate man
away. "Cheinge yer wat claes first, an' I'll maybe let ye in, if ye
can find me again i' the dark."

While the Irishman was groping about in search of his chest, one of
the officers of the ship passed him on his way to the companion
ladder, intending to go on deck. Ruby Brand, feeling uncomfortable
below, leaped out of his hammock and followed him. They had both got
about halfway up the ladder when a tremendous sea struck the ship,
causing it to tremble from stem to stern. At the same moment someone
above opened the hatch, and putting his head down, shouted for the
officer, who happened to be just ascending.

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