The Lighthouse - Robert Michael Ballantyne (the best books of all time txt) 📗

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