CHAPTER X
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 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.
"Ay, ay," replied the individual in question.
Just as he spoke, another heavy sea fell on the deck, and, rushing aft like a river that has burst its banks, hurled the seaman into the arms of the officer, who fell back upon Ruby, and all three came down with tons of water into the cabin.
The scene that followed would have been ludicrous, had it not been serious. The still rising sea caused the vessel to roll with excessive violence, and the large quantity of water that had burst in swept the men, who had jumped out of their beds, and all movable things, from side to side in indescribable confusion. As the water dashed up into the lower tier of beds, it was found necessary to lift one of the scuttles in the floor, and let it flow into the limbers of the ship.
Fortunately no one was hurt, and Ruby succeeded in gaining the deck before the hatch was reclosed and fastened down upon the scene of discomfort and misery below.
This state of things continued the whole day. The seas followed in rapid succession, and each, as it struck the vessel, caused her to shake all over. At each blow from a wave the rolling and pitching ceased for a few seconds, giving the impression that the ship had broken adrift, and was running with the wind, or in the act of sinking; but when another sea came, she ranged up against it with great force. This latter effect at last became the regular intimation to the anxious men below that they were still riding safely at anchor.
No fires could be lighted, therefore nothing could be cooked, so that the men were fain to eat hard biscuits—those of them at least who were able to eat at all—and lie in their wet blankets all day.
At ten in the morning the wind had shifted to north-east, and blew, if possible, harder than before, accompanied by a much heavier swell of the sea; it was therefore judged advisable to pay out more cable, in order to lessen the danger of its giving way.
During the course of the gale nearly the whole length of the hempen cable, of 120 fathoms, was veered out, besides the chain-moorings, and, for its preservation, the cable was carefully "served", or wattled, with pieces of canvas round the windlass, and with leather well greased in the hawse-hole, where the chafing was most violent.
As may readily be imagined, the gentleman on whom rested nearly all the responsibility connected with the work at the Bell Rock, passed an anxious and sleepless time in his darkened berth. During the morning he had made an attempt to reach the deck, but had been checked by the same sea that produced the disasters above described.
About two o'clock in the afternoon great alarm was felt in consequence of a heavy sea that struck the ship, almost filling the waist, and pouring down into the berths below, through every chink and crevice of the hatches and skylights. From the motion being suddenly checked or deadened, and from the flowing in of the water above, every individual on board thought that the ship was foundering—at least all the landsmen were fully impressed with that idea.
Mr. Stevenson could not remain below any longer. As soon as the ship again began to range up to the sea, he made another effort to get on deck. Before going, however, he went through the various apartments, in order to ascertain the state of things below.
Groping his way in darkness from his own cabin, he came to that of the officers of the ship. Here all was quiet, as well as dark. He next entered the galley and other compartments occupied by the artificers; here also all was dark, but not quiet, for several of the men were engaged in prayer, or repeating psalms in a full tone of voice, while others were protesting that if they should be fortunate enough to get once more ashore, no one should ever see them afloat again; but so loud was the creaking of the bulk-heads, the dashing of water, and the whistling noise of the wind, that it was hardly possible to distinguish words or voices.
The master of the vessel accompanied Mr. Stevenson, and, in one or two instances, anxious and repeated enquiries were made by the workmen as to the state of things on deck, to all of which he returned one characteristic answer—"It can't blow long in this way, lads; we must have better weather soon."
The next compartment in succession, moving forward, was that allotted to the seamen of the ship. Here there was a characteristic difference in the scene. Having reached the middle of the darksome berth without the inmates being aware of the intrusion, the anxious engineer was somewhat reassured and comforted to find that, although they talked of bad weather and cross accidents of the sea, yet the conversation was carried on in that tone and manner which bespoke ease and composure of mind.
"Well, lads," said Mr. Stevenson, accosting the men, "what think you of this state of things? Will the good ship weather it?"
"Nae fear o' her, sir," replied one confidently, "she's light and new; it'll tak' a heavy sea to sink her."
"Ay," observed another, "and she's got little hold o' the water, good ground-tackle, and no tophamper; she'll weather anything, sir."
Having satisfied himself that all was right below, Mr. Stevenson returned aft and went on deck, where a sublime and awful sight awaited him. The waves appeared to be what we hear sometimes termed "mountains high". In reality they were perhaps about thirty feet of unbroken water in height, their foaming crests being swept and torn by the furious gale. All beyond the immediate neighbourhood of the ship was black and chaotic.
Upon deck everything movable was out of sight, having either been stowed away below previous to the gale, or washed overboard. Some parts of the quarter bulwarks were damaged by the breach of the sea, and one of the boats was broken, and half-full of water.
There was only one solitary individual on deck, placed there to watch and give the alarm if the cable should give way, and this man was Ruby Brand, who, having become tired of having nothing to do, had gone on deck, as we have seen, and volunteered his services as watchman.
Ruby had no greatcoat on, no overall of any kind, but was simply dressed in his ordinary jacket and trousers. He had thrust his cap into his pocket in order to prevent it being blown away, and his brown locks were streaming in the wind. He stood just aft the foremast, to which he had lashed himself with a gasket or small rope round his waist, to prevent his falling on the deck or being washed overboard. He was as thoroughly wet as if he had been drawn through the sea, and this was one reason why he was so lightly clad, that he might wet as few clothes as possible, and have a dry change when he went below.
There appeared to be a smile on his lips as he faced the angry gale and gazed steadily out upon the wild ocean. He seemed to be enjoying the sight of the grand elemental strife that was going on around him. Perchance he was thinking of someone not very far away—with golden hair!
Mr. Stevenson, coupling this smile on Ruby's face with the remarks of the other seamen, felt that things were not so bad as they appeared to unaccustomed eyes, nevertheless he deemed it right to advise with the master and officers as to the probable result, in the event of the ship drifting from her moorings.
"It is my opinion," said the master, on his being questioned as to this, "that we have every chance of riding out the gale, which cannot continue many hours longer with the same fury; and even if she should part from her anchor, the storm-sails have been laid ready to hand, and can be bent in a very short time. The direction of the wind being nor'-east, we could sail up the Forth to Leith Roads; but if this should appear doubtful, after passing the May we can steer for Tyningham Sands, on the western side of Dunbar, and there run the ship ashore. From the flatness of her bottom and the strength of her build, I should think there would be no danger in beaching her even in a very heavy sea."
This was so far satisfactory, and for some time things continued in pretty much the state we have just described, but soon after there was a sudden cessation of the straining motion of the ship which surprised everyone. In another moment Ruby shouted "All hands a-hoy! ship's adrift!"
The consternation that followed may be conceived but not described. The windlass was instantly manned, and the men soon gave out that there was no strain on the cable. The mizzen-sail, which was occasionally bent for the purpose of making the ship ride easily, was at once set; the other sails were hoisted as quickly as possible, and they bore away about a mile to the south-westward, where, at a spot that was deemed suitable, the best-bower anchor was let go in twenty fathoms water.
Happily the storm had begun to abate before this accident happened. Had it occurred during the height of the gale, the result might have been most disastrous to the undertaking at the Bell Rock.
Having made all fast, an attempt was made to kindle the galley fire and cook some food.
"Wot are we to 'ave, steward?" enquired Joe Dumsby, in a feeble voice.
"Plumduff, my boy, so cheer up," replied the steward, who was busy with the charming ingredients of a suet pudding, which was the only dish to be attempted, owing to the ease with which it could be both cooked and served up.
Accordingly, the suet pudding was made; the men began to cat; the gale began to "take off", as seaman express it; and, Although things were still very far removed from a state of comfort, they began to be more endurable; health began to return to the sick, and hope to those who had previously given way to despair.
CHAPTER XII
BELL ROCK BILLOWS—AN UNEXPECTED VISIT—A DISASTER AND A RESCUE
It is pleasant, it is profoundly enjoyable, to sit on the margin of the sea during the dead calm that not unfrequently succeeds a wild storm, and watch the gentle undulations of the glass-like surface, which the very gulls seem to be disinclined to ruffle with their wings as they descend to hover above their own reflected images.
It is pleasant to watch this from the shore, where the waves fall in low murmuring ripples, or from the ship's deck, far out upon the sea, where there is no sound of water save the laving of the vessel's bow as she rises and sinks in the broad-backed swell; but there is something more than pleasant, there is something deeply and peculiarly interesting, in the same scene when viewed from such a position as the Bell Rock; for there, owing to the position of the rock and the depth of water around it, the observer beholds, at the same moment, the presence, as it were, of storm and calm.
The largest waves there are seen immediately after a storm has passed away, not during its continuance, no matter how furious the gale may have been, for the rushing wind has a tendency to blow down the waves, so to speak, and prevent their rising to their utmost height. It is when the storm is over that the swell rises; but as this swell appears only like large undulations, it does not impress the beholder with its magnitude until it draws near to the rock and begins to feel the checking influence of the bottom of the sea. The upper part of the swell, having then greater velocity than the lower part, assumes more and more the form of a billow. As it comes on it towers up like a great green wall of glittering glass, moving with a grand, solemn motion, which does not at first give the idea of much force or impetus. As it nears the rock, however, its height (probably fifteen or twenty feet) becomes apparent; its velocity increases; the top, with what may be termed gentle rapidity, rushes in advance of the base; its dark green side becomes concave; the upper edge lips over, then curls majestically downwards, as if bowing to a superior power, and a gleam of light flashes for a moment on the curling top. As yet there is no sound; all has occurred in the profound silence of the calm, but another instant and there is a mighty crash—a deafening roar; the great wall of water has fallen, and a very sea of churning foam comes leaping, bursting, spouting over rocks and ledges, carrying all before it with a tremendous sweep that seems to be absolutely irresistible until it meets the higher ledges of rock, when it is hurled back, and retires with a watery hiss that suggests the idea of baffled rage.
But it is not conquered. With the calm majesty of unalterable determination, wave after wave comes on, in slow, regular succession, like the inexhaustible battalions of an unconquerable foe, to meet with a similar repulse again and again.
There is, however, this peculiar difference between the waves on the ordinary seashore and the billows on the Bell Rock, that the latter, unlike the former, are not always defeated. The spectator on shore plants his foot confidently at the very edge of the mighty sea, knowing that "thus far it may come, but no farther". On the Bell Rock the rising tide makes the conflict, for a time, more equal. Now, the rock stands proudly above the sea: anon the sea sweeps furiously over the rock with a roar of "Victory!"
Thus the war goes on, and thus the tide of battle daily and nightly ebbs and flows all the year round.
But when the cunning hand of man began to interfere, the aspect of things was changed, the sea was forced to succumb, and the rock, once a dreaded enemy, became a servant of the human race. True, the former rages in rebellion still, and the latter, although compelled to uphold the light that warns against itself, continues its perpetual warfare with the sea; but both are effectually conquered by means of the wonderful intelligence that God has given to man, and the sea for more than half a century has vainly beat against the massive tower whose foundation is on the Bell Rock.
But all this savours somewhat of anticipation. Let us return to Ruby Brand, in whose interest we have gone into this long digression; for he it was who gazed intently at the mingled scene of storm and calm which we have attempted to describe, and it was he who thought out most of the ideas which we have endeavoured to convey.
Ruby had lent a hand to work the pump at the foundation-pit that morning. After a good spell at it he took his turn of rest, and, in order to enjoy it fully, went as far out as he could upon the seaward ledges, and sat down on a piece of rock to watch the waves.
While seated there, Robert Selkirk came and sat down beside him. Selkirk was the principal builder, and ultimately laid every stone of the lighthouse with his own hand. He was a sedate, quiet man, but full of energy and perseverance. When the stones were landed faster than they could be built into their places, he and Bremner, as well as some of the other builders, used to work on until the rising tide reached their waists.
"It's a grand sight, Ruby," said Selkirk, as a larger wave than usual fell, and came rushing in torrents of foam up to their feet, sending a little of the spray over their heads.
"It is indeed a glorious sight," said Ruby. "If I had nothing to do, I believe I could sit here all day just looking at the waves and thinking."
"Thinkin'!" repeated Selkirk, in a musing tone of voice. "Can ye tell, lad, what ye think about when you're lookin' at the waves?"
Ruby smiled at the oddness of the question.
"Well," said he, "I don't think I ever thought of that before."
"Ah, but I have!" said the other, "an' I've come to the conclusion that for the most part we don't think, properly speakin', at all; that our thoughts, so to speak, think for us; that they just take the bit in their teeth and go rumblin' and tumblin' about anyhow or nohow!"
Ruby knitted his brows and pondered. He was one of those men who, when they don't understand a thing, hold their tongues and think.
"And," continued Selkirk, "it's curious to observe what a lot o' nonsense one thinks too when one is lookin' at the waves. Many a time I have pulled myself up, thinkin' the most astonishin' stuff ye could imagine."
"I would hardly have expected this of such a grave kind o' man as you," said Ruby.
"Mayhap not. It is not always the gravest looking that have the gravest thoughts."
"But you don't mean to say that you never think sense," continued
Ruby, "when you sit looking at the waves?"
"By no means," returned his companion; "I'm only talking of the way in which one's thoughts will wander. Sometimes I think seriously enough. Sometimes I think it strange that men can look at such a scene as that, and scarcely bestow a thought upon Him who made it."
"Speak for yourself, friend," said Ruby, somewhat quickly; "how know you that other men don't think about their Creator when they look at His works?"
"Because," returned Selkirk, "I find that I so seldom do so myself, even although I wish to and often try to; and I hold that every man, no matter what he is or feels, is one of a class who think and feel as he does; also, because many people, especially Christians, have told me that they have had the same experience to a large extent; also, and chiefly, because, as far as unbelieving man is concerned, the Bible tells me that 'God is not in all his thoughts'. But, Ruby, I did not make the remark as a slur upon men in general, I merely spoke of a fact,—an unfortunate fact,—that it is not natural to us, and not easy, to rise from nature to nature's God, and I thought you would agree with me."
"I believe you are right," said Ruby, half-ashamed of the petulance of his reply; "at any rate, I confess you are right as far as I am concerned."
As Selkirk and Ruby were both fond of discussion, they continued this subject some time longer, and there is no saying how far they would have gone down into the abstruse depths of theology, had not their converse been interrupted by the appearance of a boat rowing towards the rock.
"Is yonder craft a fishing boat, think you?" said Ruby, rising and pointing to it.
"Like enough, lad. Mayhap it's the pilot's, only it's too soon for him to be off again with letters. Maybe it's visitors to the rock, for I see something like a woman's bonnet."
As there was only one woman in the world at that time as far as Ruby was concerned (of course putting his mother out of the question!), it will not surprise the reader to be told that the youth started, that his cheek reddened a little, and his heart beat somewhat faster than usual. He immediately smiled, however, at the absurdity of supposing it possible that the woman in the boat could be Minnie, and as the blacksmith shouted to him at that moment, he turned on his heel and leaped from ledge to ledge of rock until he gained his wonted place at the forge.
Soon he was busy wielding the fore-hammer, causing the sparks to fly about himself and his comrade in showers, while the anvil rang out its merry peal.
Meanwhile the boat drew near. It turned out to be a party of visitors, who had come off from Arbroath to see the operations at the Bell Rock. They had been brought off by Spink, the pilot, and numbered only three—namely, a tall soldierlike man, a stout sailor-like man, and a young woman with—yes,—with golden hair.
Poor Ruby almost leaped over the forge when he raised his eyes from his work and caught sight of Minnie's sweet face. Minnie had recognized her lover before the boat reached the rock, for he stood on an elevated ledge, and the work in which he was engaged, swinging the large hammer round his shoulder, rendered him very conspicuous. She had studiously concealed her face from him until quite close, when, looking him straight in the eyes without the least sign of recognition, she turned away.
We have said that the first glance Ruby obtained caused him to leap nearly over the forge; the second created such a revulsion of feeling that he let the fore-hammer fall.
"Hallo! Got a spark in yer eye?" enquired Dove, looking up anxiously.
It flashed across Ruby at that instant that the look given him by Minnie was meant to warn him not to take any notice of her, so he answered the smith's query with "No, no; I've only let the hammer fall, don't you see? Get on, old boy, an' don't let the metal cool."
The smith continued his work without further remark, and Ruby assisted, resolving in his own mind to be a little more guarded as to the expression of his feelings.
Meanwhile Mr. Stevenson received the visitors, and showed them over the works, pointing out the peculiarities thereof, and the difficulties that stood in the way.
Presently he came towards the forge, and said, "Brand, the stout gentleman there wishes to speak to you. He says he knew you in Arbroath. You can spare him for a few minutes, I suppose, Mr. Dove?"
"Well, yes, but not for long," replied the smith. "The tide will soon be up, and I've enough to do to get through with all these."
Ruby flung down his hammer at the first word, and hastened to the ledge of rock where the visitors were standing, as far apart from the workmen as the space of the rock would admit of.
The stout gentleman was no other than his uncle, Captain Ogilvy, who put his finger to his lips as his nephew approached, and gave him a look of mystery that was quite sufficient to put the latter on his guard. He therefore went forward, pulled off his cap, and bowed respectfully to Minnie, who replied with a stiff curtsy, a slight smile, and a decided blush.
Although Ruby now felt convinced that they were all acting a part, he could scarcely bear this cold reception. His impulse was to seize Minnie in his arms; but he did not even get the comfort of a cold shake of the hand.
"Nephy," said the captain in a hoarse whisper, putting his face close to that of Ruby, "mum's the word! Silence, mystery, an' all that sort o' thing. Don't appear to be an old friend, lad; and as to Minnie here—
'O no, we never mention her,
Her name it's never heard.'
Allow me to introduce you to Major Stewart, whose house you broke into, you know, Ruby, when
'All in the Downs the fleet was moored,'
at least when the Termagant was waitin' for you to go aboard."
Here the captain winked and gave Ruby a facetious poke in the ribs, which was not quite in harmony with the ignorance of each other he was endeavouring to inculcate.
"Young man," said the major quietly, "we have come off to tell you that everything is in a prosperous state as regards the investigation into your innocence—the private investigation I mean, for the authorities happily know nothing of your being here. Captain Ogilvy has made me his confidant in this matter, and from what he tells me I am convinced that you had nothing to do with this robbery. Excuse me if I now add that the sight of your face deepens this conviction."
Ruby bowed to the compliment.
"We were anxious to write at once to the captain of the vessel in which you sailed," continued the major, "but you omitted to leave his full name and address when you left. We were afraid to write to you, lest your name on the letter might attract attention, and induce a premature arrest. Hence our visit to the rock to-day. Please to write the address in this pocket-book."
The major handed Ruby a small green pocket-book as he spoke, in which the latter wrote the full name and address of his late skipper.
"Now, nephy," said the captain, "we must, I'm sorry to say, bid ye good day, and ask you to return to your work, for it won't do to rouse suspicion, lad. Only keep quiet here, and do yer dooty—'England expects every man to do his dooty'—and as sure as your name's Ruby all will be shipshape in a few weeks."
"I thank you sincerely," said Ruby, addressing the major, but looking at Minnie.
Captain Ogilvy, observing this, and fearing some display of feeling that would be recognized by the workmen, who were becoming surprised at the length of the interview, placed himself between Minnie and her lover.
"No, no, Ruby," said he, solemnly. "I'm sorry for ye, lad, but it won't do. Patience is a virtue, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune."
"My mother?" said Ruby, wishing to prolong the interview.
"Is well," said the captain. "Now, goodbye, lad, and be off."
"Goodbye, Minnie," cried Ruby, stepping forward suddenly and seizing the girl's hand; then, wheeling quickly round, he sprang over the rocks, and returned to his post.
"Ha! it's time," cried the smith. "I thought you would never be done makin' love to that there girl. Come, blaze away!"
Ruby felt so nettled by the necessity that was laid upon him of taking no notice of Minnie, that he seized the handle of the bellows passionately, and at the first puff blew nearly all the fire away.
"Hallo! messmate," cried the smith, clearing the dust from his eyes; "what on airth ails ye? You've blowed the whole consarn out!"
Ruby made no reply, but, scraping together the embers, heaped them up and blew more gently.
In a short time the visitors re-entered their boat, and rowed out of the creek in which it had been lying.
Ruby became so exasperated at not being able even to watch the boat going away, that he showered terrific blows on the mass of metal the smith was turning rapidly on the anvil.
"Not so fast, lad; not so fast," cried Dove hurriedly.
Ruby's chafing spirit blew up just at that point; he hit the iron a crack that knocked it as flat as a pancake, and then threw down the hammer and deliberately gazed in the direction of the boat.
The sight that met his eyes appalled him. The boat had been lying in the inlet named Port Stevenson. It had to pass out to the open sea through Wilson's Track, and past a small outlying rock named Gray's Rock—known more familiarly among the men as Johnny Gray. The boat was nearing this point, when the sea, which had been rising for some time, burst completely over the seaward ledges, and swept the boat high against the rocks on the left. The men had scarcely got her again into the track when another tremendous billow, such as we have already described, swept over the rocks again and swamped the boat, which, being heavily ballasted, sank at once to the bottom of the pool.
It was this sight that met the horrified eyes of Ruby when he looked up.
He vaulted over the bellows like an antelope, and, rushing over Smith's Ledge and Trinity Ledge, sprang across Port Boyle, and dived head foremost into Neill's Pool before any of the other men, who made a general rush, could reach the spot.
A few powerful strokes brought Ruby to the place where the major and the captain, neither of whom could swim, were struggling in the water. He dived at once below these unfortunates, and almost in a second, reappeared with Minnie in his arms.
A few seconds sufficed to bring him to Smith's Ledge, where several of his comrades hauled him and his burden beyond the reach of the next wave, and where, a moment or two later, the major and captain with the crew of the boat were landed in safety.
To bear the light form of Minnie in his strong arms to the highest and driest part of the rock was the work of a few moments to Ruby. Brief though those moments were, however, they were precious to the youth beyond all human powers of calculation, for Minnie recovered partial consciousness, and fancying, doubtless, that she was still in danger, flung her arms round his neck, and grasped him convulsively. Reader, we tell you in confidence that if Ruby had at that moment been laid on the rack and torn limb from limb, he would have cheered out his life triumphantly. It was not only that he knew she loved him—that be knew before,—but he had saved the life of the girl he loved, and a higher terrestrial happiness can scarcely be attained by man.
Laying her down as gently as a mother would her firstborn, Ruby placed a coat under her head, and bade his comrades stand back and give her air. It was fortunate for him that one of the foremen, who understood what to do, came up at this moment, and ordered him to leave off chafing the girl's hand with his wet fists, and go get some water boiled at the forge if he wanted to do her good.
Second words were not needed. The bellows were soon blowing, and the fire glowed in a way that it had not done since the works at the Bell Rock began. Before the water quite boiled some tea was put in, and, with a degree of speed that would have roused the jealousy of any living waiter, a cup of tea was presented to Minnie, who had recovered almost at the moment Ruby left her.
She drank a little, and then closing her eyes, moved her lips silently for a few seconds.
Captain Ogilvy, who had attended her with the utmost assiduity and tenderness as soon as he had wrung the water out of his own garments, here took an opportunity of hastily pouring something into the cup out of a small flask. When Minnie looked up again and smiled, he presented her with the cup. She thanked him, and drank a mouthful or two before perceiving that it had been tampered with.
"There's something in it," she said hurriedly.
"So there is, my pet," said the captain, with a benignant smile, "a little nectar, that will do you more good than all the tea. Come now, don't shake your head, but down with it all, like a good child."
But Minnie was proof against persuasion, and refused to taste any more.
"Who was it that saved me, uncle?" (She had got into the way of calling the captain "uncle".)
"Ruby Brand did it, my darlin'," said the old man with a look of pride. "Ah! you're better now; stay, don't attempt to rise."
"Yes, yes, uncle," she said, getting up and looking round, "it is time that we should go now; we have a long way to go, you know. Where is the boat?"
"The boat, my precious, is at the bottom of the sea."
As he said this, he pointed to the mast, half of which was seen rising out of the pool where the boat had gone down.
"But you don't need to mind," continued the captain, "for they're goin' to send us in one o' their own boats aboord the floatin' lightship, where we'll get a change o' clothes an' some-thin' to eat."
As he spoke, one of the sailors came forward and announced that the boat was ready, so the captain and the major assisted Minnie into the boat, which soon pushed off with part of the workmen from the rock. It was to be sent back for the remainder of the crew, by which time the tide would render it necessary that all should leave.
Ruby purposely kept away from the group while they were embarking, and after they were gone proceeded to resume work.
"You took a smart dive that time, lad," observed Joe Dumsby as they went along.
"Not more than anyone would do for a girl," said Ruby.
"An' such a purty wan, too," said O'Connor. "Ah! av she's not Irish, she should ha' bin."
"Ye're a lucky chap to hae sic a chance," observed John Watt.
"Make up to her, lad," said Forsyth; "I think she couldn't refuse ye after doin' her such service."
"Time enough to chaff after work is over," cried Ruby with a laugh, as he turned up his sleeves, and, seizing the hammer, began, as his friend Dove said, "to work himself dry".
In a few minutes, work was resumed, and for another hour all continued busy as bees, cutting and pounding at the flinty surface of the Bell Rock.
CHAPTER XIII
A SLEEPLESS BUT A PLEASANT NIGHT
The evening which followed the day that has just been described was bright, calm, and beautiful, with the starry host unclouded and distinctly visible to the profoundest depths of space.
As it was intended to send the Smeaton to Arbroath next morning for a cargo of stones from the building-yard, the wrecked party were prevailed on to remain all night on board the Pharos, instead of going ashore in one of the ship's boats, which could not well be spared at the time.
This arrangement, we need hardly say, gave inexpressible pleasure to Ruby, and was not altogether distasteful to Minnie, although she felt anxious about Mrs. Brand, who would naturally be much alarmed at the prolonged absence of herself and the captain. However, "there was no help for it"; and it was wonderful the resignation which she displayed in the circumstances.
It was not Ruby's duty to watch on deck that night, yet, strange to say, Ruby kept watch the whole night long!
There was no occasion whatever for Minnie to go on deck after it was dark, yet, strange to say, Minnie kept coming on deck at intervals nearly the whole night long! Sometimes to "look at the stars", sometimes to "get a mouthful of fresh air", frequently to find out what "that strange noise could be that had alarmed her", and at last—especially towards the early hours of morning—for no reason whatever, except that "she could not sleep below".
It was very natural that when Minnie paced the quarterdeck between the stern and the mainmast, and Ruby paced the forepart of the deck between the bows and the mainmast, the two should occasionally meet at the mainmast. It was also very natural that when they did meet, the girl who had been rescued should stop and address a few words of gratitude to the man who had saved her. But it was by no means natural—nay, it was altogether unnatural and unaccountable, that, when it became dark, the said man and the said girl should get into a close and confidential conversation, which lasted for hours, to the amusement of Captain Ogilvy and the major, who quite understood it, and to the amazement of many of the ship's crew, who couldn't understand it at all.
At last Minnie bade Ruby a final good night and went below, and Ruby, who could not persuade himself that it was final, continued to walk the deck until his eyes began to shut and open involuntarily like those of a sick owl. Then he also went below, and, before he fell quite asleep (according to his own impression), was awakened by the bell that called the men to land on the rock and commence work.
It was not only Ruby who found it difficult to rouse himself that morning. The landing-bell was rung at four o'clock, as the tide suited at that early hour, but the men were so fatigued that they would gladly have slept some hours longer. This, however, the nature of the service would not admit of. The building of the Bell Rock Lighthouse was a peculiar service. It may be said to have resembled duty in the trenches in military warfare. At times the work was light enough, but for the most part it was severe and irregular, as the men had to work in all kinds of weather, as long as possible, in the face of unusual difficulties and dangers, and were liable to be called out at all unseasonable hours. But they knew and expected this, and faced the work like men.
After a growl or two, and a few heavy sighs, they all tumbled out of their berths, and, in a very short time, were mustered on deck, where a glass of rum and a biscuit were served to each, being the regular allowance when they had to begin work before breakfast. Then they got into the boats and rowed away.
Ruby's troubles were peculiar on this occasion. He could not bear the thought of leaving the Pharos without saying goodbye to Minnie; but as Minnie knew nothing of such early rising, there was no reasonable hope that she would be awake. Then he wished to put a few questions to his uncle which he had forgotten the day before, but his uncle was at that moment buried in profound repose, with his mouth wide open, and a trombone solo proceeding from his nose, which sadly troubled the unfortunates who lay near him.
As there was no way of escape from these difficulties, Ruby, like a wise man, made up his mind to cast them aside, so, after swallowing his allowance, he shouldered his big bellows, heaved a deep sigh, and took his place in one of the boats alongside.
The lassitude which strong men feel when obliged to rise before they have had enough of rest soon wears off. The two boats had not left the Pharos twenty yards astern, when Joe Dumsby cried, "Ho! boys, let's have a race."
"Hooray!" shouted O'Connor, whose elastic spirits were always equal to anything, "an' sure Ruby will sing us 'The girl we've left behind us'. Och! an' there she is, av I'm not draymin'."
At that moment a little hand was waved from one of the ports of the floating light. Ruby at once waved his in reply, but as the attention of the men had been directed to the vessel by Ned's remark, each saw the salutation, and, claiming it as a compliment to himself, uttered a loud cheer, which terminated in a burst of laughter, caused by the sight of Ruby's half-angry, half-ashamed expression of face.
As the other boat had shot ahead, however, at the first mention of the word "race", the men forgot this incident in their anxiety to overtake their comrades. In a few seconds both boats were going at full speed, and they kept it up all the way to the rock.
While this was going on, the Smeaton's boat was getting ready to take the strangers on board the sloop, and just as the workmen landed on the rock, the Smeaton cast loose her sails, and proceeded to Arbroath.
There were a few seals basking on the Bell Rock this morning when the men landed. These at once made off, and were not again seen during the day.
At first, seals were numerous on the rock. Frequently from fifty to sixty of them were counted at one time, and they seemed for a good while unwilling to forsake their old quarters, but when the forge was set up they could stand it no longer. Some of the boldest ventured to sun themselves there occasionally, but when the clatter of the anvil and the wreaths of smoke became matters of daily occurrence, they forsook the rock finally, and sought the peace and quiet which man denied them there in other regions of the deep.
The building of the lighthouse was attended with difficulties at every step. As a short notice of some of these, and an account of the mode in which the great work was carried on, cannot fail to be interesting to all who admire those engineering works which exhibit prominently the triumph of mind over matter, we shall turn aside for a brief space to consider this subject.