On the signal for supper being given, there was a general rush down the ladders into the kitchen, where as comfortable a meal as one could wish for was smoking in pot and pan and platter.
As there were twenty-three to partake, it was impossible, of course, for all to sit down to table. They were obliged to stow themselves away on such articles of furniture as came most readily to hand, and eat as they best could. Hungry men find no difficulty in doing this. For some time the conversation was restricted to a word or two. Soon, however, as appetite began to be appeased, tongues began to loosen. The silence was first broken by a groan.
"Ochone!" exclaimed O'Connor, as well as a mouthful of pork and potatoes would allow him; "was it you that groaned like a dyin' pig?"
The question was put to Forsyth, who was holding his head between his hands, and swaying his body to and fro in agony.
"Hae ye the oolic, freen'?" enquired John Watt, in a tone of sympathy.
"No—n—o," groaned Forsyth, "it's a—a—to—tooth!"
"Och! is that all?"
"Have it out, man, at once."
"Bam a red-hot skewer into it."
"No, no; let it alone, and it'll go away."
Such was the advice tendered, and much more of a similar nature, to the suffering man.
"There's nothink like 'ot water an' cold," said Joe Dumsby in the tones of an oracle. "Just fill your mouth with bilin' 'ot water, an' dip your face in a basin o' cold, and it's sartain to cure."
"Or kill," suggested Jamie Dove.
"It's better now," said Forsyth, with a sigh of relief. "I scrunched a bit o' bone into it; that was all."
"There's nothing like the string and the red-hot poker," suggested Ruby Brand. "Tie the one end o' the string to a post and t'other end to the tooth, an' stick a red-hot poker to your nose. Away it comes at once."
"Hoot! nonsense," said Watt. "Ye might as weel tie a string to his lug an' dip him into the sea. Tak' my word for't, there's naethin' like pooin'."
"D'you mean pooh pooin'?" enquired Dumsby. Watt's reply was interrupted by a loud gust of wind, which burst upon the beacon house at that moment and shook it violently.
Everyone started up, and all clustered round the door and windows to observe the appearance of things without. Every object was shrouded in thick darkness, but a flash of lightning revealed the approach of the storm which had been predicted, and which had already commenced to blow.
All tendency to jest instantly vanished, and for a time some of the men stood watching the scene outside, while others sat smoking their pipes by the fire in silence.
"What think ye of things?" enquired one of the men, as Ruby came up from the mortar-gallery, to which he had descended at the first gust of the storm.
"I don't know what to think," said he gravely. "It's clear enough that we shall have a stiffish gale. I think little of that with a tight craft below me and plenty of sea-room; but I don't know what to think of a beacon in a gale."
As he spoke another furious burst of wind shook the place, and a flash of vivid lightning was speedily followed by a crash of thunder, that caused some hearts there to beat faster and harder than usual.
"Pooh!" cried Bremner, as he proceeded coolly to wash up his dishes, "that's nothing, boys. Has not this old timber house weathered all the gales o' last winter, and d'ye think it's goin' to come down before a summer breeze? Why, there's a lighthouse in France, called the Tour de Cordouan, which rises right out o' the sea, an' I'm told it had some fearful gales to try its metal when it was buildin'. So don't go an' git narvous."
"Who's gittin' narvous?" exclaimed George Forsyth, at whom Bremner had looked when he made the last remark.
"Sure ye misjudge him," cried O'Connor. "It's only another twist o' the toothick. But it's all very well in you to spake lightly o' gales in that fashion. Wasn't the Eddy-stone Lighthouse cleared away wan stormy night, with the engineer and all the men, an' was niver more heard on?"
"That's true," said Ruby. "Come, Bremner, I have heard you say that you had read all about that business. Let's hear the story; it will help to while away the time, for there's no chance of anyone gettin' to sleep with such a row outside."
"I wish it may be no worse than a row outside," said Forsyth in a doleful tone, as he shook his head and looked round on the party anxiously.
"Wot! another fit o' the toothick?" enquired O'Connor ironically.
"Don't try to put us in the dismals," said Jamie Dove, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, and refilling that solace of his leisure hours. "Let us hear about the Eddystone, Bremner; it'll cheer up our spirits a bit."
"Will it though?" said Bremner, with a look that John Watt described as "awesome". "Well, we shall see."
"You must know, boys——"
'"Ere, light your pipe, my 'earty," said Dumsby.
"Hold yer tongue, an' don't interrupt him," cried one of the men, flattening Dumsby's cap over his eyes.
"And don't drop yer Aaitches," observed another, "'cause if ye do they'll fall into the sea an' be drownded, an' then yell have none left to put into their wrong places when ye wants 'em."
"Come, Bremner, go on."
"Well, then, boys," began Bremner, "you must know that it is more than a hundred years since the Eddystone Lighthouse was begun—in the year 1696, if I remember rightly—that would be just a hundred and thirteen years to this date. Up to that time these rocks were as great a terror to sailors as the Bell Rock is now, or, rather, as it was last year, for now that this here comfortable beacon has been put up, it's no longer a terror to nobody——"
"Except Geordie Forsyth," interposed O'Connor.
"Silence," cried the men.
"Well," resumed Bremner, "as you all know, the Eddystone Rocks lie in the British Channel, fourteen miles from Plymouth and ten from the Ram Head, an' open to a most tremendious sea from the Bay o' Biscay and the Atlantic, as I knows well, for I've passed the place in a gale, close enough a'most to throw a biscuit on the rocks.
"They are named the Eddystone Rocks because of the whirls and eddies that the tides make among them; but for the matter of that, the Bell Rock might be so named on the same ground. Howsever, it's six o' one an' half a dozen o' t'other. Only there's this difference, that the highest point o' the Eddystone is barely covered at high water, while here the rock is twelve or fifteen feet below water at high tide.
"Well, it was settled by the Trinity Board in 1696, that a lighthouse should be put up, and a Mr. Winstanley was engaged to do it. He was an uncommon clever an' ingenious man. He used to exhibit wonderful waterworks in London; and in his house, down in Essex, he used to astonish his friends, and frighten them sometimes, with his queer contrivances. He had invented an easy chair which laid hold of anyone that sat down in it, and held him prisoner until Mr. Winstanley set him free. He made a slipper also, and laid it on his bedroom floor, and when anyone put his foot into it he touched a spring that caused a ghost to rise from the hearth. He made a summer house, too, at the foot of his garden, on the edge of a canal, and if anyone entered into it and sat down, he very soon found himself adrift on the canal.
"Such a man was thought to be the best for such a difficult work as the building of a lighthouse on the Eddystone, so he was asked to undertake it, and agreed, and began it well. He finished it, too, in four years, his chief difficulty being the distance of the rock from land, and the danger of goin' backwards and forwards. The light was first shown on the 14th November, 1698. Before this the engineer had resolved to pass a night in the building, which he did with a party of men; but he was compelled to pass more than a night, for it came on to blow furiously, and they were kept prisoners for eleven days, drenched with spray all the time, and hard up for provisions.
"It was said the sprays rose a hundred feet above the lantern of this first Eddystone Lighthouse. Well, it stood till the year 1703, when repairs became necessary, and Mr. Winstanley went down to Plymouth to superintend. It had been prophesied that this lighthouse would certainly be carried away. But dismal prophecies are always made about unusual things. If men were to mind prophecies there would be precious little done in this world. Howsever, the prophecies unfortunately came true. Winstanley's friends advised him not to go to stay in it, but he was so confident of the strength of his work that he said he only wished to have the chance o' bein' there in the greatest storm that ever blew, that he might see what effect it would have on the buildin'. Poor man! he had his wish. On the night of the 26th November a terrible storm arose, the worst that had been for many years, and swept the lighthouse entirely away. Not a vestige of it or the people on it was ever seen afterwards. Only a few bits of the iron fastenings were left fixed in the rocks."
"That was terrible," said Forsyth, whose uneasiness was evidently increasing with the rising storm.
"Ay, but the worst of it was," continued Bremner, "that, owing to the absence of the light, a large East Indiaman went on the rocks immediately after, and became a total wreck. This, however, set the Trinity House on putting up another which was begun in 1706, and the light shown in 1708. This tower was ninety-two feet high, built partly of wood and partly of stone. It was a strong building, and stood for forty-nine years. Mayhap it would have been standin' to this day but for an accident, which you shall hear of before I have done. While this lighthouse was building, a French privateer carried off all the workmen prisoners to France, but they were set at liberty by the King, because their work was of such great use to all nations.
"The lighthouse, when finished, was put in charge of two keepers, with instructions to hoist a flag when anything was wanted from the shore. One of these men became suddenly ill, and died. Of course his comrade hoisted the signal, but the weather was so bad that it was found impossible to send a boat off for four weeks. The poor keeper was so afraid that people might suppose he had murdered his companion that he kept the corpse beside him all that time. What his feelin's could have been I don't know, but they must have been awful; for, besides the horror of such a position in such a lonesome place, the body decayed to an extent——"
"That'll do, lad; don't be too partickler," said Jamie Dove.
The others gave a sigh of relief at the interruption, and Bremner continued—
"There were always three keepers in the Eddystone after that. Well, it was in the year 1755, on the 2nd December, that one o' the keepers went to snuff the candles, for they only burned candles in the lighthouses at that time, and before that time great open grates with coal fires were the most common; but there were not many lights either of one kind or another in those days. On gettin' up to the lantern he found it was on fire. All the efforts they made failed to put it out,' and it was soon burned down. Boats put off to them, but they only succeeded in saving the keepers; and of them, one went mad on reaching the shore, and ran off, and never was heard of again; and another, an old man, died from the effects of melted lead which had run down his throat from the roof of the burning lighthouse. They did not believe him when he said he had swallowed lead, but after he died it was found to be a fact.
"The tower became red-hot, and burned for five days before it was utterly destroyed. This was the end o' the second Eddystone. Its builder was a Mr. John Rudyerd, a silk mercer of London.
"The third Eddystone, which has now stood for half a century as firm as the rock itself, and which bids fair to stand till the end of time, was begun in 1756 and completed in 1759. It was lighted by means of twenty-four candles. Of Mr. Smeaton, the engineer who built it, those who knew him best said that 'he had never undertaken anything without completing it to the satisfaction of his employers'.
"D'ye know, lads," continued Bremner in a half-musing tone, "I've sometimes been led to couple this character of Smeaton with the text that he put round the top of the first room of the lighthouse—'Except the Lord build the house, they labour in vain that build it'; and also the words, 'Praise God', which he cut in Latin on the last stone, the lintel of the lantern door. I think these words had somethin' to do with the success of the last Eddystone Lighthouse."
"I agree with you," said Robert Selkirk, with a nod of hearty approval; "and, moreover, I think the Bell Rock Lighthouse stands a good chance of equal success, for whether he means to carve texts on the stones or not I don't know, but I feel assured that our engineer is animated by the same spirit."
When Bremner's account of the Eddystone came to a close, most of the men had finished their third or fourth pipes, yet no one proposed going to rest.
The storm without raged so furiously that they felt a strong disinclination to separate. At last, however, Peter Logan rose, and said he would turn in for a little. Two or three of the others also rose, and were about to ascend to their barrack, when a heavy sea struck the building, causing it to quiver to its foundation.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE STORM
"'Tis a fearful night," said Logan, pausing with his foot on the first step of the ladder. "Perhaps we had better sit up."
"What's the use?" said O'Connor, who was by nature reckless. "Av the beacon howlds on, we may as well slape as not; an' if it don't howld on, why, we'll be none the worse o' slapin' anyhow."
"I mean to sit up," said Forsyth, whose alarm was aggravated by another fit of violent toothache.
"So do I," exclaimed several of the men, as another wave dashed against the beacon, and a quantity of spray came pouring down from the rooms above.
This latter incident put an end to further conversation. While some sprang up the ladder to see where the leak had occurred, Ruby opened the door, which was on the lee side of the building, and descended to the mortar-gallery to look after his tools, which lay there.
Here he was exposed to the full violence of the gale, for, as we have said, this first floor of the beacon was not protected by sides. There was sufficient light to enable him to see all round for a considerable distance. The sight was not calculated to comfort him.
The wind was whistling with what may be termed a vicious sound among the beams, to one of which Ruby was obliged to cling to prevent his being carried away. The sea was bursting, leaping, and curling wildly over the rocks, which were now quite covered, and as he looked down through the chinks in the boards of the floor, he could see the foam whirling round the beams of his trembling abode, and leaping up as if to seize him. As the tide rose higher and higher, the waves roared straight through below the floor, their curling backs rising terribly near to where he stood, and the sprays drenching him and the whole edifice completely.
As he gazed into the dark distance, where the turmoil of waters seemed to glimmer with ghostly light against a sky of the deepest black, he missed the light of the Smeaton, which, up to that time, had been moored as near to the lee of the rock as was consistent with safety. He fancied she must have gone down, and it was not till next day that the people on the beacon knew that she had parted her cables, and had been obliged to make for the Firth of Forth for shelter from the storm.
While he stood looking anxiously in the direction of the tender, a wave came so near to the platform that he almost involuntarily leaped up the ladder for safety. It broke before reaching the beacon, and the spray dashed right over it, carrying away several of the smith's tools.
"Ho, boys! lend a hand here, some of you," shouted Ruby, as he leaped down on the mortar-gallery again.
Jamie Dove, Bremner, O'Connor, and several others were at his side in a moment, and, in the midst of tremendous sprays, they toiled to secure the movable articles that lay there. These were passed up to the sheltered parts of the house; but not without great danger to all who stood on the exposed gallery below.
Presently two of the planks were torn up by a sea, and several bags of coal, a barrel of small beer, and a few casks containing lime and sand, were all swept away. The men would certainly have shared the fate of these, had they not clung to the beams until the sea had passed.
As nothing remained after that which could be removed to the room above, they left the mortar-gallery to its fate, and returned to the kitchen, where they were met by the anxious glances and questions of their comrades.
The fire, meanwhile, could scarcely be got to burn, and the whole place was full of smoke, besides being wet with the sprays that burst over the roof, and found out all the crevices that had not been sufficiently stopped up. Attending to these leaks occupied most of the men at intervals during the night. Ruby and his friend the smith spent much of the time in the doorway, contemplating the gradual destruction of their workshop.
For some time the gale remained steady, and the anxiety of the men began to subside a little, as they became accustomed to the ugly twisting of the great beams, and found that no evil consequences followed.
In the midst of this confusion, poor Forsyth's anxiety of mind became as nothing compared with the agony of his toothache!
Bremner had already made several attempts to persuade the miserable man to have it drawn, but without success.
"I could do it quite easy," said he, "only let me get a hold of it, an' before you could wink I'd have it out."
"Well, you may try," cried Forsyth in desperation, with a face of ashy paleness.
It was an awful situation truly. In danger of his life; suffering the agonies of toothache, and with the prospect of torments unbearable from an inexpert hand; for Forsyth did not believe in Bremner's boasted powers.
"What'll you do it with?" he enquired meekly. "Jamie Dove's small pincers. Here they are," said Bremner, moving about actively in his preparations, as if he enjoyed such work uncommonly.
By this time the men had assembled round the pair, and almost forgot the storm in the interest of the moment.
"Hold him, two of you," said Bremner, when his victim was seated submissively on a cask.
"You don't need to hold me," said Forsyth, in a gentle tone.
"Don't we!" said Bremner. "Here, Dove, Ned, grip his arms, and some of you stand by to catch his legs; but you needn't touch them unless he kicks. Ruby, you're a strong fellow; hold his head."
The men obeyed. At that moment Forsyth would have parted with his dearest hopes in life to have escaped, and the toothache, strange to say, left him entirely; but he was a plucky fellow at bottom; having agreed to have it done, he would not draw back.
Bremner introduced the pincers slowly, being anxious to get a good hold of the tooth. Forsyth uttered a groan in anticipation! Alarmed lest he should struggle too soon, Bremner made a sudden grasp and caught the tooth. A wrench followed; a yell was the result, and the pincers slipped! This was fortunate, for he had caught the wrong tooth.
"Now be aisy, boy," said Ned O'Connor, whose sympathies were easily roused.
"Once more," said Bremner, as the unhappy man opened his mouth. "Be still, and it will be all the sooner over."
Again Bremner inserted the instrument, and fortunately caught the right tooth. He gave a terrible tug, that produced its corresponding howl; but the tooth held on. Again! again! again! and the beacon house resounded with the deadly yells of the unhappy man, who struggled violently, despite the strength of those who held him.
"Och! poor sowl!" ejaculated O'Connor.
Bremner threw all his strength into a final wrench, which tore away the pincers and left the tooth as firm as ever!
Forsyth leaped up and dashed his comrades right and left.
"That'll do," he roared, and darted up the ladder into the apartment above, through which he ascended to the barrack-room, and flung himself on his bed. At the same time a wave burst on the beacon with such force that every man there, except Forsyth, thought it would be carried away. The wave not only sprang up against the house, but the spray, scarcely less solid than the wave, went quite over it, and sent down showers of water on the men below.
Little cared Forsyth for that. He lay almost stunned on his couch, quite regardless of the storm. To his surprise, however, the toothache did not return. Nay, to make a long story short, it never again returned to that tooth till the end of his days!
The storm now blew its fiercest, and the men sat in silence in the kitchen listening to the turmoil, and to the thundering blows given by the sea to their wooden house. Suddenly the beacon received a shock so awful, and so thoroughly different from any that it had previously received, that the men sprang to their feet in consternation.
Ruby and the smith were looking out at the doorway at the time, and both instinctively grasped the woodwork near them, expecting every instant that the whole structure would be carried away; but it stood fast. They speculated a good deal on the force of the blow they had received, but no one hit on the true cause; and it was not until some days later that they discovered that a huge rock of fully a ton weight had been washed against the beams that night.
While they were gazing at the wild storm, a wave broke up the mortar-gallery altogether, and sent its remaining contents into the sea. All disappeared in a moment; nothing was left save the powerful beams to which the platform had been nailed.
There was a small boat attached to the beacon. It hung from two davits, on a level with the kitchen, about thirty feet above the rock. This had got filled by the sprays, and the weight of water proving too much for the tackling, it gave way at the bow shortly after the destruction of the mortar-gallery, and the boat hung suspended by the stern-tackle. Here it swung for a few minutes, and then was carried away by a sea. The same sea sent an eddy of foam round towards the door and drenched the kitchen, so that the door had to be shut, and as the fire had gone out, the men had to sit and await their fate by the light of a little oil-lamp.
They sat in silence, for the noise was now so great that it was difficult to hear voices, unless when they were raised to a high pitch.
Thus passed that terrible night; and the looks of the men, the solemn glances, the closed eyes, the silently moving lips, showed that their thoughts were busy reviewing bygone days and deeds; perchance in making good resolutions for the future—"if spared!"
Morning brought a change. The rush of the sea was indeed still tremendous, but the force of the gale was broken and the danger was past.
CHAPTER XXIV
A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS
Time rolled on, and the lighthouse at length began to grow.
It did not rise slowly, as does an ordinary building. The courses of masonry having been formed and fitted on shore during the winter, had only to be removed from the work-yard at Arbroath to the rock, where they were laid, mortared, wedged, and trenailed, as fast as they could be landed.
Thus, foot by foot it grew, and soon began to tower above its foundation.
From the foundation upwards for thirty feet it was built solid. From this point rose the spiral staircase leading to the rooms above. We cannot afford space to trace its erection step by step, neither is it desirable that we should do so. But it is proper to mention, that there were, as might be supposed, leading points in the process—eras, as it were, in the building operations.
The first of these, of course, was the laying of the foundation stone, which was done ceremoniously, with all the honours. The next point was the occasion when the tower showed itself for the first time above water at full tide. This was a great event. It was proof positive that the sea had been conquered; for many a time before that event happened had the sea done its best to level the whole erection with the rock.
Three cheers announced and celebrated the fact, and a "glass" all round stamped it on the memories of the men.
Another noteworthy point was the connexion—the marriage, if the simile may be allowed—of the tower and the beacon. This occurred when the former rose to a few feet above high-water mark, and was effected by means of a rope-bridge, which was dignified by the sailors with the name of "Jacob's ladder".
Heretofore the beacon and lighthouse had stood in close relation to each other. They were thenceforward united by a stronger tie; and it is worthy of record that their attachment lasted until the destruction of the beacon after the work was done. Jacob's ladder was fastened a little below the doorway of the beacon. Its other end rested on, and rose with, the wall of the tower. At first it sloped downward from beacon to tower; gradually it became horizontal; then it sloped upward. When this happened it was removed, and replaced by a regular wooden bridge, which extended from the doorway of the one structure to that of the other.
Along this way the men could pass to and fro at all tides, and during any time of the day or night.
This was a matter of great importance, as the men were no longer so dependent on tides as they had been, and could often work as long as their strength held out.
Although the work was regular, and, as some might imagine, rather monotonous, there were not wanting accidents and incidents to enliven the routine of daily duty. The landing of the boats in rough weather with stones, &c., was a never-failing source of anxiety, alarm, and occasionally amusement. Strangers sometimes visited the rock, too, but these visits were few and far between.
Accidents were much less frequent, however, than might have been expected in a work of the kind. It was quite an event, something to talk about for days afterwards, when poor John Bonnyman, one of the masons, lost a finger. The balance crane was the cause of this accident. We may remark, in passing, that this balance crane was a very peculiar and clever contrivance, which deserves a little notice.
It may not have occurred to readers who are unacquainted with mechanics that the raising of ponderous stones to a great height is not an easy matter. As long as the lighthouse was low, cranes were easily raised on the rock, but when it became too high for the cranes to reach their heads up to the top of the tower, what was to be done? Block-tackles could not be fastened to the skies! Scaffolding in such a situation would not have survived a moderate gale.
In these circumstances Mr. Stevenson constructed a balance crane, which was fixed in the centre of the tower, and so arranged that it could be raised along with the rising works. This crane resembled a cross in form. At one arm was hung a movable weight, which could be run out to its extremity, or fixed at any part of it. The other arm was the one by means of which the stones were hoisted. When a stone had to be raised; its weight was ascertained, and the movable weight was so fixed as exactly to counterbalance it. By this simple contrivance all the cumbrous and troublesome machinery of long guys and bracing-chains extending from the crane to the rock below were avoided.
Well, Bonnyman was attending to the working of the crane, and directing the lowering of a stone into its place, when he inadvertently laid his left hand on a part of the machinery where it was brought into contact with the chain, which passed over his forefinger, and cut it so nearly off that it was left hanging by a mere shred of skin. The poor man was at once sent off in a fast rowing boat to Arbroath, where the finger was removed and properly dressed.[1]
[Footnote 1: It is right to state that this man afterwards obtained a lightkeeper's situation from the Board of Commissioners of Northern Lights, who seem to hare taken a kindly interest in all their servants, especially those of them who had suffered in the service.]
A much more serious accident occurred at another time, however, which resulted in the death of one of the seamen belonging to the Smeaton.
It happened thus. The Smeaton had been sent from Arbroath with a cargo of stones one morning, and reached the rock about half-past six o'clock A.M. The mate and one of the men, James Scott, a youth of eighteen years of age, got into the sloop's boat to make fast the hawser to the floating buoy of her moorings.
The tides at the time were very strong, and the mooring-chain when sweeping the ground had caught hold of a rock or piece of wreck, by which the chain was so shortened, that when the tide flowed the buoy got almost under water, and little more than the ring appeared at the surface. When the mate and Scott were in the act of making the hawser fast to the ring, the chain got suddenly disentangled at the bottom, and the large buoy, measuring about seven feet in length by three in diameter in the middle, vaulted upwards with such force that it upset the boat, which instantly filled with water. The mate with great difficulty succeeded in getting hold of the gunwale, but Scott seemed to have been stunned by the buoy, for he lay motionless for a few minutes on the water, apparently unable to make any exertion to save himself, for he did not attempt to lay hold of the oars or thwarts which floated near him.
A boat was at once sent to the rescue, and the mate was picked up, but Scott sank before it reached the spot.
This poor lad was a great favourite in the service, and for a time his melancholy end cast a gloom over the little community at the Bell Rock. The circumstances of the case were also peculiarly distressing in reference to the boy's mother, for her husband had been for three years past confined in a French prison, and her son had been the chief support of the family. In order in some measure to make up to the poor woman for the loss of the monthly aliment regularly allowed her by her lost son, it was suggested that a younger brother of the deceased might be taken into the service. This appeared to be a rather delicate proposition, but it was left to the landing-master to arrange according to circumstances. Such was the resignation, and at the same time the spirit of the poor woman, that she readily accepted the proposal, and in a few days the younger Scott was actually afloat in the place of his brother. On this distressing case being represented to the Board, the Commissioners granted an annuity of £5 to the lad's mother.
The painter who represents only the sunny side of nature portrays a one-sided, and therefore a false view of things, for, as everyone knows, nature is not all sunshine. So, if an author makes his pen-and-ink pictures represent only the amusing and picturesque view of things, he does injustice to his subject.
We have no pleasure, good reader, in saddening you by accounts of "fatal accidents", but we have sought to convey to you a correct impression of things, and scenes, and incidents at the building of the Bell Rock Lighthouse, as they actually were, and looked, and occurred. Although there was much, very much, of risk, exposure, danger, and trial connected with the erection of that building, there was, in the good providence of God, very little of severe accident or death. Yet that little must be told,—at least touched upon,—else will our picture remain incomplete as well as untrue.
Now, do not imagine, with a shudder, that these remarks are the prelude to something that will harrow up your feelings. Not so. They are merely the apology, if apology be needed, for the introduction of another "accident".
Well, then. One morning the artificers landed on the rock at a quarter-past six, and as all hands were required for a piece of special work that day, they breakfasted on the beacon, instead of returning to the tender, and spent the day on the rock.
The special work referred to was the raising of the crane from the eighth to the ninth course—an operation which required all the strength that could be mustered for working the guy-tackles. This, be it remarked, was before the balance crane, already described, had been set up; and as the top of the crane stood at the time about thirty-five feet above the rock, it became much more unmanageable than heretofore.
At the proper hour all hands were called, and detailed to their several posts on the tower, and about the rock. In order to give additional purchase or power in tightening the tackle, one of the blocks of stone was suspended at the end of the movable beam of the crane, which, by adding greatly to the weight, tended to slacken the guys or supporting-ropes in the direction to which the beam with the stone was pointed, and thereby enabled the men more easily to brace them one after another.
While the beam was thus loaded, and in the act of swinging round from one guy to another, a great strain was suddenly brought upon the opposite tackle, with the end of which the men had very improperly neglected to take a turn round some stationary object, which would have given them the complete command of the tackle.
Owing to this simple omission, the crane, with the large stone at the end of the beam, got a preponderancy to one side, and, the tackle alluded to having rent, it fell upon the building with a terrible crash.
The men fled right and left to get out of its way; but one of them, Michael Wishart, a mason, stumbled over an uncut trenail and rolled on his back, and the ponderous crane fell upon him. Fortunately it fell so that his body lay between the great shaft and the movable beam, and thus he escaped with his life, but his feet were entangled with the wheel-work, and severely injured.
Wishart was a robust and spirited young fellow, and bore his sufferings with wonderful firmness while he was being removed. He was laid upon one of the narrow frame-beds of the beacon, and despatched in a boat to the tender. On seeing the boat approach with the poor man stretched on a bed covered with blankets, and his face overspread with that deadly pallor which is the usual consequence of excessive bleeding, the seamen's looks betrayed the presence of those well-known but indescribable sensations which one experiences when brought suddenly into contact with something horrible. Relief was at once experienced, however, when Wishart's voice was heard feebly accosting those who first stepped into the boat.
He was immediately sent on shore, where the best surgical advice was obtained, and he began to recover steadily, though slowly. Meanwhile, having been one of the principal masons, Robert Selkirk was appointed to his vacant post.
And now let us wind up this chapter of accidents with an account of the manner in which a party of strangers, to use a slang but expressive phrase, came to grief during a visit to the Bell Rock.
One morning, a trim little vessel was seen by the workmen making for the rock at low tide. From its build and size, Ruby at once judged it to be a pleasure yacht. Perchance some delicate shades in the seamanship, displayed in managing the little vessel, had influenced the sailor in forming his opinion. Be this as it may, the vessel brought up under the lee of the rock and cast anchor.
It turned out to be a party of gentlemen from Leith, who had run down the firth to see the works. The weather was fine, and the sea calm, but these yachters had yet to learn that fine weather and a calm sea do not necessarily imply easy or safe landing at the Bell Rock! They did not know that the swell which had succeeded a recent gale was heavier than it appeared to be at a distance; and, worst of all, they did not know, or they did not care to remember, that "there is a time for all things", and that the time for landing at the Bell Rock is limited.
Seeing that the place was covered with workmen, the strangers lowered their little boat and rowed towards them.
"They're mad," said Logan, who, with a group of the men, watched the motions of their would-be visitors.
"No," observed Joe Dumsby; "they are brave, but hignorant."
"Faix, they won't be ignorant long!" cried Ned O'Connor, as the little boat approached the rock, propelled by two active young rowers in Guernsey shirts, white trousers, and straw hats. "You're stout, lads, both of ye, an' purty good hands at the oar, for gintlemen; but av ye wos as strong as Samson it would puzzle ye to stem these breakers, so ye better go back."
The yachters did not hear the advice, and they would not have taken it if they had heard it. They rowed straight up towards the landing-place, and, so far, showed themselves expert selectors of the right channel; but they soon came within the influence of the seas, which burst on the rock and sent up jets of spray to leeward.
These jets had seemed very pretty and harmless when viewed from the deck of the yacht, but they were found on a nearer approach to be quite able, and, we might almost add, not unwilling, to toss up the boat like a ball, and throw it and its occupants head over heels into the air.
But the rowers, like most men of their class, were not easily cowed. They watched their opportunity—allowed the waves to meet and rush on, and then pulled into the midst of the foam, in the hope of crossing to the shelter of the rock before the approach of the next wave.
Heedless of a warning cry from Ned O'Connor, whose anxiety began to make him very uneasy, the amateur sailors strained every nerve to pull through, while their companion who sat at the helm in the stern of the boat seemed to urge them on to redoubled exertions. Of course their efforts were in vain. The next billow caught the boat on its foaming crest, and raised it high in the air. For one moment the wave rose between the boat and the men on the rock, and hid her from view, causing Ned to exclaim, with a genuine groan, "'Arrah! they's gone!"
But they were not; the boat's head had been carefully kept to the sea, and, although she had been swept back a considerable way, and nearly half-filled with water, she was still afloat.
The chief engineer now hailed the gentlemen, and advised them to return and remain on board their vessel until the state of the tide would permit him to send a proper boat for them.
In the meantime, however, a large boat from the floating light, pretty deeply laden with lime, cement, and sand, approached, when the strangers, with a view to avoid giving trouble, took their passage in her to the rock. The accession of three passengers to a boat, already in a lumbered state, put her completely out of trim, and, as it unluckily happened, the man who steered her on this occasion was not in the habit of attending the rock, and was not sufficiently aware of the run of the sea at the entrance of the eastern creek.
Instead, therefore, of keeping close to the small rock called Johnny Gray, he gave it, as Ruby expressed it, "a wide berth". A heavy sea struck the boat, drove her to leeward, and, the oars getting entangled among the rocks and seaweed, she became unmanageable. The next sea threw her on a ledge, and, instantly leaving her, she canted seaward upon her gunwale, throwing her crew and part of her cargo into the water.
All this was the work of a few seconds. The men had scarce time to realize their danger ere they found themselves down under the water; and when they rose gasping to the surface, it was to behold the next wave towering over them, ready to fall on their heads. When it fell it scattered crew, cargo, and boat in all directions.
Some clung to the gunwale of the boat, others to the seaweed, and some to the thwarts and oars which floated about, and which quickly carried them out of the creek to a considerable distance from the spot where the accident happened.
The instant the boat was overturned, Ruby darted towards one of the rock boats which lay near to the spot where the party of workmen who manned it had landed that morning. Wilson, the landing-master, was at his side in a moment.
"Shove off, lad, and jump in!" cried Wilson.
There was no need to shout for the crew of the boat. The men were already springing into her as she floated off. In a few minutes all the men in the water were rescued, with the exception of one of the strangers, named Strachan.
This gentleman had been swept out to a small insulated rock, where he clung to the seaweed with great resolution, although each returning sea laid him completely under water, and hid him for a second or two from the spectators on the rock. In this situation he remained for ten or twelve minutes; and those who know anything of the force of large waves will understand how severely his strength and courage must have been tried during that time.
When the boat reached the rock the most difficult part was still to perform, as it required the greatest nicety of management to guide her in a rolling sea, so as to prevent her from being carried forcibly against the man whom they sought to save.
"Take the steering-oar, Ruby; you are the best hand at this," said
Wilson.
Ruby seized the oar, and, notwithstanding the breach of the seas and the narrowness of the passage, steered the boat close to the rock at the proper moment.
"Starboard, noo, stiddy!" shouted John Watt, who leant suddenly over the bow of the boat and seized poor Strachan by the hair. In another moment he was pulled inboard with the aid of Selkirk's stout arms, and the boat was backed out of danger.
"Now, a cheer, boys!" cried Ruby.
The men did not require urging to this. It burst from them with tremendous energy, and was echoed back by their comrades on the rock, in the midst of whose wild hurrah, Ned O'Connor's voice was distinctly heard to swell from a cheer into a yell of triumph!
The little rock on which this incident occurred was called Strachan's Ledge, and it is known by that name at the present day.
CHAPTER XXV
THE BELL ROCK IN A FOG—NARROW ESCAPE OF THE SMEATON
Change of scene is necessary to the healthful working of the human mind; at least, so it is said. Acting upon the assumption that the saying is true, we will do our best in this chapter for the human minds that condescend to peruse these pages, by leaping over a space of time, and by changing at least the character of the scene, if not the locality.
We present the Bell Rock under a new aspect, that of a dense fog and a dead calm.
This is by no means an unusual aspect of things at the Bell Rock, but as we have hitherto dwelt chiefly on storms, it may be regarded as new to the reader.
It was a June morning. There had been few breezes and no storms for some weeks past, so that the usual swell of the ocean had gone down, and there were actually no breakers on the rock at low water, and no ruffling of the surface at all at high tide. The tide had about two hours before overflowed the rock, and driven the men into the beacon house, where, having breakfasted, they were at the time enjoying themselves with pipes and small talk.
The lighthouse had grown considerably by this time. Its unfinished top was more than eighty feet above the foundation; but the fog was so dense that only the lower part of the column could be seen from the beacon, the summit being lost, as it were, in the clouds.
Nevertheless that summit, high though it was, did not yet project beyond the reach of the sea. A proof of this had been given in a very striking manner, some weeks before the period about which we now write, to our friend George Forsyth.
George was a studious man, and fond of reading the Bible critically. He was proof against laughter and ridicule, and was wont sometimes to urge the men into discussions. One of his favourite arguments was somewhat as follows—
"Boys," he was wont to say, "you laugh at me for readin' the Bible carefully. You would not laugh at a schoolboy for reading his books carefully, would you? Yet the learnin' of the way of salvation is of far more consequence to me than book learnin' is to a schoolboy. An astronomer is never laughed at for readin' his books o' geometry an' suchlike day an' night—even to the injury of his health—but what is an astronomer's business to him compared with the concerns of my soul to me? Ministers tell me there are certain things I must know and believe if I would be saved—such as the death and resurrection of our Saviour Jesus Christ; and they also point out that the Bible speaks of certain Christians, who did well in refusin' to receive the Gospel at the hands of the apostles, without first enquirin' into these things, to see if they were true. Now, lads, if these things that so many millions believe in, and that you all profess to believe in, are lies, then you may well laugh at me for enquirin' into them; but if they be true, why, I think the devils themselves must be laughing at you for not enquirin' into them!"
Of course, Forsyth found among such a number of intelligent men, some who could argue with him, as well as some who could laugh at him. He also found one or two who sympathized openly, while there were a few who agreed in their hearts, although they did not speak.
Well, it was this tendency to study on the part of Forsyth, that led him to cross the wooden bridge between the beacon and the lighthouse during his leisure hours, and sit reading at the top of the spiral stair, near one of the windows of the lowest room.
Forsyth was sitting at his usual window one afternoon at the end of a storm. It was a comfortless place, for neither sashes nor glass had at that time been put in, and the wind howled up and down the shaft dreadfully. The man was robust, however, and did not mind that.
The height of the building was at that time fully eighty feet. While he was reading there a tremendous breaker struck the lighthouse with such force that it trembled distinctly. Forsyth started up, for he had never felt this before, and fancied the structure was about to fall. For a moment or two he remained paralysed, for he heard the most terrible and inexplicable sounds going on overhead. In fact, the wave that shook the building had sent a huge volume of spray right over the top, part of which fell into the lighthouse, and what poor Forsyth heard was about a ton of water coming down through story after story, carrying lime, mortar, buckets, trowels, and a host of other things, violently along with it.
To plunge down the spiral stair, almost headforemost, was the work of a few seconds. Forsyth accompanied the descent with a yell of terror, which reached the ears of his comrades in the beacon, and brought them to the door, just in time to see their comrade's long legs carry him across the bridge in two bounds. Almost at the same instant the water and rubbish burst out of the doorway of the lighthouse, and flooded the bridge.
But let us return from this digression, or rather, this series of digressions, to the point where we branched off: the aspect of the beacon in the fog, and the calm of that still morning in June.
Some of the men inside were playing draughts, others were finishing their breakfast; one was playing "Auld Lang Syne", with many extempore flourishes and trills, on a flute, which was very much out of tune. A few were smoking, of course (where exists the band of Britons who can get on without that?), and several were sitting astride on the cross-beams below, bobbing—not exactly for whales, but for any monster of the deep that chose to turn up.
The men fishing, and the beacon itself, loomed large and mysterious in the half-luminous fog. Perhaps this was the reason that the sea-gulls flew so near them, and gave forth an occasional and very melancholy cry, as if of complaint at the changed appearance of things.
"There's naethin' to be got the day," said John Watt, rather peevishly, as he pulled up his line and found the bait gone.
Baits are always found gone when lines are pulled up! This would seem to be an angling law of nature. At all events, it would seem to have been a very aggravating law of nature on the present occasion, for John Watt frowned and growled to himself as he put on another bait.
"There's a bite!" exclaimed Joe Dumsby, with a look of doubt, at the same time feeling his line.
"Poo'd in then," said Watt ironically.
"No, 'e's hoff," observed Joe.
"Hm! he never was on," muttered Watt.
"What are you two growling at?" said Ruby, who sat on one of the beams at the other side.
"At our luck, Ruby," said Joe. "Ha! was that a nibble?" ("Naethin' o' the kind," from Watt.) "It was! as I live it's large; an 'addock, I think."
"A naddock!" sneered Watt; "mair like a bit o' tangle than——eh! losh me! it is a fish——"
"Well done, Joe!" cried Bremner, from the doorway above, as a large rock-cod was drawn to the surface of the water.
"Stay, it's too large to pull up with the line. I'll run down and gaff it," cried Ruby, fastening his own line to the beam, and descending to the water by the usual ladder, on one of the main beams. "Now, draw him this way—gently, not too roughly—take time. Ah! that was a miss—he's off; no! Again; now then——"
Another moment, and a goodly cod of about ten pounds weight was wriggling on the iron hook which Ruby handed up to Dumsby, who mounted with his prize in triumph to the kitchen.
From that moment the fish began to "take".
While the men were thus busily engaged, a boat was rowing about in the fog, vainly endeavouring to find the rock.
It was the boat of two fast friends, Jock Swankie and Davy Spink.
These worthies were in a rather exhausted condition, having been rowing almost incessantly from daybreak.
"I tell 'ee what it is," said Swankie; "I'll be hanged if I poo another stroke."
He threw his oar into the boat, and looked sulky.
"It's my belief," said his companion, "that we ought to be near aboot
Denmark be this time."
"Denmark or Rooshia, it's a' ane to me," rejoined Swankie; "I'll hae a smoke."
So saying, he pulled out his pipe and tobacco box, and began to cut the tobacco. Davy did the same.
Suddenly both men paused, for they heard a sound. Each looked enquiringly at the other, and then both gazed into the thick fog.
"Is that a ship?" said Davy Spink.
They seized their oars hastily.
"The beacon, as I'm a leevin' sinner!" exclaimed Swankie.
If Spink had not backed his oar at that moment, there is some probability that Swankie would have been a dead, instead of a living, sinner in a few minutes, for they had almost run upon the north-east end of the Bell Rock, and distinctly heard the sound of voices on the beacon. A shout settled the question at once, for it was replied to by a loud holloa from Ruby.
In a short time the boat was close to the beacon, and the water was so very calm that day, that they were able to venture to hand the packet of letters with which they had come off into the beacon, even although the tide was full.
"Letters," said Swankie, as he reached out his hand with the packet.
"Hurrah!" cried the men, who were all assembled on the mortar-gallery, looking down at the fishermen, excepting Ruby, Watt, and Dumsby, who were still on the cross-beams below.
"Mind the boat; keep her aff," said Swankie, stretching out his hand with the packet to the utmost, while Dumsby descended the ladder and held out his hand to receive it.
"Take care," cried the men in chorus, for news from shore was always a very exciting episode in their career, and the idea of the packet being lost filled them with sudden alarm.
The shout and the anxiety together caused the very result that was dreaded. The packet fell into the sea and sank, amid a volley of yells.
It went down slowly. Before it had descended a fathom, Ruby's head cleft the water, and in a moment he returned to the surface with the packet in his hand amid a wild cheer of joy; but this was turned into a cry of alarm, as Ruby was carried away by the tide, despite his utmost efforts to regain the beacon.
The boat was at once pushed off, but so strong was the current there, that Ruby was carried past the rock, and a hundred yards away to sea, before the boat overtook him.
The moment he was pulled into her he shook himself, and then tore off the outer covering of the packet in order to save the letters from being wetted. He had the great satisfaction of finding them almost uninjured. He had the greater satisfaction, thereafter, of feeling that he had done a deed which induced every man in the beacon that night to thank him half a dozen times over; and he had the greatest possible satisfaction in finding that among the rest he had saved two letters addressed to himself, one from Minnie Gray, and the other from his uncle.
The scene in the beacon when the contents of the packet were delivered was interesting. Those who had letters devoured them, and in many cases read them (unwittingly) half-aloud. Those who had none read the newspapers, and those who had neither papers nor letters listened.
Ruby's letter ran as follows (we say his letter, because the other letter was regarded, comparatively, as nothing):—
"ARBROATH, &c.
"DARLING RUBY,—I have just time to tell you that we have made a discovery which will surprise you. Let me detail it to you circumstantially. Uncle Ogilvy and I were walking on the pier a few days ago, when we overheard a conversation between two sailors, who did not see that we were approaching. We would not have stopped to listen, but the words we heard arrested our attention, so——O what a pity! there, Big Swankie has come for our letters. Is it not strange that he should be the man to take them off? I meant to have given you such an account of it, especially a description of the case. They won't wait. Come ashore as soon as you can, dearest Ruby."
The letter broke off here abruptly. It was evident that the writer had been obliged to close it abruptly, for she had forgotten to sign her name.
"'A description of the case'; what case?" muttered Ruby in vexation. "O Minnie, Minnie, in your anxiety to go into details you have omitted to give me the barest outline. Well, well, darling, I'll just take the will for the deed, but I wish you had——"
Here Ruby ceased to mutter, for Captain Ogilvy's letter suddenly occurred to his mind. Opening it hastily, he read as follows:—
"DEAR NEFFY,—I never was much of a hand at spellin', an' I'm not rightly sure o' that word, howsever, it reads all square, so ittle do. If I had been the inventer o' writin' I'd have had signs for a lot o' words. Just think how much better it would ha' bin to have put a regular [Square] like that instead o' writin' s-q-u-a-r-e. Then round would have bin far better O, like that. An' crooked thus ~~~~~; see how significant an' suggestive, if I may say so; no humbug—all fair an' above-board, as the pirate said, when he ran up the black flag to the peak.
"But avast speckillatin' (shiver my timbers! but that last was a pen-splitter), that's not what I sat down to write about. My object in takin' up the pen, neffy, is two-fold,
'Double, double, toil an' trouble',
as Macbeath said,—if it wasn't Hamlet.
"We want you to come home for a day or two, if you can git leave, lad, about this strange affair. Minnie said she was goin' to give you a full, true, and partikler account of it, so it's of no use my goin' over the same course. There's that blackguard Swankie come for the letters. Ha! it makes me chuckle. No time for more———"
This letter also concluded abruptly, and without a signature.
"There's a pretty kettle o' fish!" exclaimed Ruby aloud.
"So 'tis, lad; so 'tis," said Bremner, who at that moment had placed a superb pot of codlings on the fire; "though why ye should say it so positively when nobody's denyin' it, is more nor I can tell."
Ruby laughed, and retired to the mortar-gallery to work at the forge and ponder. He always found that he pondered best while employed in hammering, especially if his feelings were ruffled.
Seizing a mass of metal, he laid it on the anvil, and gave it five or six heavy blows to straighten it a little, before thrusting it into the fire.
Strange to say, these few blows of the hammer were the means, in all probability, of saving the sloop Smeaton from being wrecked on the Bell Rock!
That vessel had been away with Mr. Stevenson at Leith, and was returning, when she was overtaken by the calm and the fog. At the moment that Ruby began to hammer, the Smeaton was within a stone's cast of the beacon, running gently before a light air which had sprung up.
No one on board had the least idea that the tide had swept them so near the rock, and the ringing of the anvil was the first warning they got of their danger.
The lookout on board instantly sang out, "Starboard har-r-r-d! beacon ahead!" and Ruby looked up in surprise, just as the Smeaton emerged like a phantom-ship out of the fog. Her sails fluttered as she came up to the wind, and the crew were seen hurrying to and fro in much alarm.
Mr. Stevenson himself stood on the quarter-deck of the little vessel, and waved his hand to assure those on the beacon that they had sheered off in time, and were safe.
This incident tended to strengthen the engineer in his opinion that the two large bells which were being cast for the lighthouse, to be rung by the machinery of the revolving light, would be of great utility in foggy weather.
While the Smeaton was turning away, as if with a graceful bow to the men on the rock, Ruby shouted:
"There are letters here for you, sir."
The mate of the vessel called out at once, "Send them off in the shore-boat; we'll lay-to."
No time was to be lost, for if the Smeaton should get involved in the fog it might be very difficult to find her; so Ruby at once ran for the letters, and, hailing the shore-boat which lay quite close at hand, jumped into it and pushed off.
They boarded the Smeaton without difficulty and delivered the letters.
Instead of returning to the beacon, however, Ruby was ordered to hold himself in readiness to go to Arbroath in the shore-boat with a letter from Mr. Stevenson to the superintendent of the workyard.
"You can go up and see your friends in the town, if you choose," said the engineer, "but be sure to return by tomorrow's forenoon tide. We cannot dispense with your services longer than a few hours, my lad, so I shall expect you to make no unnecessary delay."
"You may depend upon me, sir," said Ruby, touching his cap, as he turned away and leaped into the boat.
A light breeze was now blowing, so that the sails could be used. In less than a quarter of an hour sloop and beacon were lost in the fog, and Ruby steered for the harbour of Arbroath, overjoyed at this unexpected and happy turn of events, which gave him an opportunity of solving the mystery of the letters, and of once more seeing the sweet face of Minnie Gray.
But an incident occurred which delayed these desirable ends, and utterly changed the current of Ruby's fortunes for a time.