Robert Michael Ballantyne
The Lifeboat
The boat was then relaunched, and after a careful search, and another sharp struggle with the angry sea, returned with six saved men and a woman, besides several apparently dead bodies, which were instantly removed to a neighbouring cottage, to be treated according to the rules laid down by the Royal Humane Society for the recovery of those who are apparently drowned.2
After the back of the ship was broken, and the wreck overwhelmed, the rocket apparatus of course became useless, as the mast to which the ropes were attached broke off close to the deck, and the ropes themselves became so entangled with the wreck as to be unmanageable; but before this catastrophe occurred good service had been done, for no fewer than sixty of the passengers of the ill-fated “Trident” had been saved by this means alone. The lifeboat had been the means of saving one hundred and twenty lives; and fifteen men, who succeeded in swimming to the beach, were rescued with the utmost difficulty by the people on shore.
Among these last was the captain, who, with that heroic self-devotion which seems to be a common characteristic of British seamen, had made up his mind to be the last man to quit the ship. This intention was frustrated by the breaking up of the vessel. In the confusion he was swept beyond the reach of the lifeboat, and gained the beach he scarce knew how. Here he was launched on the shingle by a billow, and washed high up on the beach. He grasped the loose pebbles with the energy of despair, but the cataract of white water that rushed back as the wave retired, swept him with irresistible force into the sea. Again this happened and as he dug his fingers into the moving gravel, and felt how hopeless was his case, a cry of anguish burst from him.
The cry was heard by Guy Foster, who, with a rope round his waist, had been for the last half-hour engaged in rescuing men and women from the fatal grasp of these retiring waves.
“This way, lads, fetch the lantern, look alive!” he shouted, and sprang towards the part of the shore whence the cry had proceeded, followed by a crowd of seamen who had assisted him by holding the rope.
Guy was much exhausted. Six times already had he plunged into the boiling surf and been dragged out with a fellow-creature in his arms. He had removed the loop of the rope for a few minutes, and now held it in his hand as he ran along the beach looking anxiously at the surf.
Once again the captain was hurled on the beach, but in so exhausted a condition that he could make no effort to save himself. He rolled so near to Guy’s feet that the latter dropped the rope in his haste as he leaped towards the drowning man. He caught him round the waist just as the broken billow began to rush back. For one moment Guy stood firm, but as the retiring water gathered force his limbs quivered, the gravel rolled from beneath his feet, and he was swept off his legs!
Before he was engulfed in the surf, and almost before the cry of alarm had burst from his companions on the beach, a boy flung the loop of the rope over his shoulders, plunged headlong into the sea, and, catching Guy round the neck with both arms, held to him like a vice. It was Tommy Bogey! The men hauled gently on the rope at first, fearing to tear the little fellow from his grasp, but they need not have been so careful. Tommy’s grip was an uncommonly firm one. In half a minute the three were pulled beyond the reach of the waves—the captain still breathing, Guy able to walk, though much exhausted, and Tommy Bogey none the worse for his heroic and successful exertions.
This was the last incident worthy of note that occurred. Of the two hundred and fifty souls who had rejoiced that night in the prospect of a safe and speedy termination to their long voyage, fifty-five were drowned and one hundred and ninety-five were saved. Of these last the fifteen men who swam ashore would have been the sole survivors, in all human probability, if there had been no lifeboat or rocket apparatus on the coast.
For the service thus rendered, each man who risked his life that night in the lifeboat received 2 pounds from the Royal Lifeboat Institution. Others who had assisted in saving life on the beach received rewards proportioned to their services, and Bax, Guy, and Tommy Bogey were each awarded the gold medal of the Society for the distinguished gallantry displayed, and the great risks voluntarily encountered by them on this occasion. It was suggested that Denham, Crumps, and Company should give something to the men of the lifeboat in acknowledgment of their services, but Denham, Crumps, and Company did not act on the suggestion!
Chapter Fourteen.
The Morning after the Storm
On the fifth morning that succeeded the breaking of the storm, described in the last chapter, the sun rose in gorgeous splendour and shone upon a sea that was clear and burnished like a sheet of glass. The wind had ceased suddenly, and a perfect calm prevailed; but although no breath of air ruffled the surface of the deep, the long swell rose and fell as if the breast of ocean were still throbbing from its recent agitation.
All along the east coast of England this swell met the shore in a succession of slow-rolling waves, which curled majestically over, and appeared almost to pause for a moment ere they fell, with deep solemn roar, in a magnificent burst of foam.
Everywhere the effects of the storm were painfully evident. Wrecks could be counted by the dozen from some of the bold headlands that commanded an extensive view of the shore. The work of destruction was not yet over. The services of our lifeboats could not yet be dispensed with although the fury of the winds had ceased.
It is a mistake to suppose that when a gale has ceased, all danger to man and destruction to his property is over. We are apt to attribute too much influence to the winds. Undoubtedly they are the origin of the evil that befalls us in storms, but they are not the immediate cause of the wholesale destruction that takes place annually among the shipping of the kingdom. It is the mighty hydraulic force of the sea,—the tremendous lifting power of the waves, that does it all.
Although the storm was over and the wind had gone down, the swell of the ocean had not yet ceased to act. On many a headland, and in many a rocky bay, brigs, schooners, barques, and ships of large size and stout frame, were that day lifted and battered, rent, torn, riven, and split by the sea as if they had been toys; their great timbers snapped like pipe-stems, and their iron bars and copper bolts twisted and gnarled as if they had been made of wire.
The hardy men of Deal were still out in those powerful boats, that seem to be capable of bidding defiance to most storms, saving property to the nation, and earning—hardly earning—salvage for themselves. The lifeboats, too, were out,—in some cases saving life, in others, saving property when there were no lives in danger.
How inadequate are our conceptions of these things when formed from a written account of one or two incidents, even although these be graphically described! How difficult it is to realise the actual scenes that are presented all along the coast during and immediately after each great storm that visits our shores.
If we could, by the exercise of supernatural power, gaze down at these shores as from a bird’s-eye point of view, and take them in, with all their stirring incidents, at one glance; if we could see the wrecks, large and small—colliers with their four or five hands; emigrant ships with their hundreds of passengers—beating and grinding furiously on rocks that appear to rise out of and sink into a sea of foam; if we could witness our lifeboats, with their noble-hearted crews, creeping out of every nook and bay in the very teeth of what seems to be inevitable destruction; if we could witness the hundred deeds of individual daring done by men with bronzed faces and rough garments, who carry their lives habitually in their hands, and think nothing of it; if we could behold the flash of the rockets, and hear the crack of the mortars and the boom of minute guns from John o’ Groat’s to the Land’s End, at the dead and dark hours of night, when dwellers in our inland districts are abed, all ignorant, it may be, or thoughtless, in regard to these things; above all, if we could hear the shrieks of the perishing, the sobs and thanksgivings of the rescued, and the wild cheers of the rescuers; and hear and see all this at one single glance, so that our hearts might be more filled than they are at present with a sense of the terrible dangers of our shores, and the heroism of our men of the coast, it is probable that our prayers for those who “go down to the sea in ships” would be more frequent and fervent, and our respect for those who risk life and limb to save the shipwrecked would be deeper. It is also probable that we might think it worth our while to contribute more largely than we do to the support of that noble Institution whose work it is to place lifeboats where they are wanted on our coasts, and to recognise, reward, and chronicle the deeds of those who distinguish themselves in the great work of saving human life.
Let us put a question to you, good reader. If France, or any other first-rate Power, were to begin the practice of making a sudden descent on us about once a month, on an average, all the year round, slaying some hundreds of our fishermen and seamen each time; occasionally cutting off some of our first-class emigrant ships, and killing all on board—men, women, and children,—thus filling the land with repeated wails of sorrow, with widows and with fatherless children: What would you do?
What!—do you say that you “would fortify every island on the coast, plant Martello towers on every flat beach, crown every height with cannon, and station iron-clads in every harbour and bay, so that the entire coast should bristle with artillery?” That sounds well, but what guarantee have we that you really would act thus if France were to become so outrageous?
“Common sense might assure me of it,” you reply.
So it might, and so it would, if we had not evidence to the contrary in the fact that our country is thus assailed month after month—year after year—by a more inveterate enemy than France ever was or will be, and yet how little is done to defend ourselves against his attacks, compared with what might be, with what ought to be, done!
This enemy is the storm; but, like France, he is not our natural enemy. We have only chosen in time past to allow him to become so. The storm has been wisely and beneficently ordained by God to purify the world’s atmosphere, and to convey health and happiness to every land under heaven. If we will not take the obvious and quite possible precautions that are requisite to secure ourselves from his violence, have we not ourselves to blame?
There are far too few harbours of refuge on our exposed coasts; the consequence is that our fishing-boats are caught by the storm and wrecked, and not unfrequently as many as a hundred lives are lost in a few hours: Who is to blame? A large vessel goes on the rocks because there is no lighthouse there to give warning of danger; a post has been neglected and the enemy has crept in: Who neglected that post? After the ship has got on the rocks, it is made known to the horrified passengers that there are no ship’s lifeboats aboard, neither are there any life-belts: Whose blame is that? Still there seems hope, for the shore is not far off, and anxious people line it; but no ordinary boat can live in such a sea. There is no rocket apparatus on this part of the coast; no mortar apparatus by which a line might be sent on board: Why not? The nearest lifeboat station is fifteen miles off: Whose fault is that? Is the storm our enemy here? Is not selfish, calculating, miserly man his own enemy in this case? So the ship goes to pieces, and the result is that the loss of this single vessel makes 60 widows and 150 fatherless children in one night! not to speak of thousands of pounds’ worth of property lost to the nation.
If you doubt this, reader, consult the pages of the Lifeboat Journal, in which you will find facts, related in a grave, succinct, unimpassioned way, that ought to make your hair stand on end!
Thoughts strongly resembling those recorded in the last few pages filled the mind and the heart of Bax, as he stood on that calm bright morning on the sea-shore. It was a somewhat lonely spot at the foot of tall cliffs, not far from which the shattered hull of a small brig lay jammed between two rocks. Tommy Bogey stood beside him, and both man and boy gazed long and silently at the wrack which lined the shore. Every nook, every crevice and creek at the foot of the cliff was filled choke full of broken planks and spars, all smashed up into pieces so small that, with the exception of the stump of a main-mast and the heel of a bowsprit, there was not a morsel that exceeded three feet in length, and all laid side by side in such regular order by the swashing of the sea in and out of the narrower creeks, that it seemed as if they had been piled there by the hand of man.
They gazed silently, because they had just come upon a sight which filled their hearts with sadness. Close beside a large rock lay the form of an old white-haired man with his head resting on a mass of sea-weed, as if he were asleep. Beside him lay a little girl, whose head rested on the old man’s breast, while her long golden hair lay in wild confusion over his face. The countenances of both were deadly pale, and their lips blue. It required no doctor’s skill to tell that both were dead.
“Ah’s me! Tommy, ’tis a sad sight,” said Bax.
Tommy made no reply for a few seconds, but after an ineffectual effort to command himself, he burst into tears.
“If we had only been here last night,” he sobbed at length, “we might have saved them.”
“So we might, so we might, Tommy; who knows? Some one should have been here anyhow. It seems to me that things ain’t well managed in these days. They haven’t half enough of appliances to save life, that’s a fact.”
Bax said this somewhat sternly.
“Whose fault is it, Bax?” said Tommy, looking up in his friend’s face.
“Ha, Tommy,” replied the other with a smile, “it don’t become the like o’ you or me to say who’s to blame. You’re too young to understand the outs and ins o’ such matters, and I’m too ignorant.”
The boy smiled incredulously. The idea of Bax being “ignorant” was too gross and absurd to be entertained for a moment, even although stated by himself.
“Well, but,” urged Tommy stoutly, “if things are wrong, it’s clear that they ain’t right, and surely I’ve a right to say so.”
“True, lad, true,” returned Bax, with an approving nod; “that’s just the point which I’d like you and me to stick to: when we see things to be wrong don’t let’s shirk sayin’ so as flat as we can; but don’t let us go, like too many shallow-pates, and say that we know who’s wrong and why they’re wrong, and offer to put them all right on the shortest notice. Mayhap” (here Bax spoke in a soft meditative tone, as if he had forgotten his young friend, and were only thinking aloud) “mayhap we may come to understand the matter one of these days, and have a better right to speak out—who knows?”
“That I’m certain of!” cried Tommy, in a tone and with an air that made Bax smile despite the sad sight before him.
“Come, lad,” he said, with sudden energy, “we must get ’em removed. Away! and fetch a couple of men. I’ll arrange them.”
Tommy was off in a moment, and Bax proceeded with gentle care to arrange the dress and limbs of the old man and the child. Two men soon arrived, and assisted to carry them away. Who they were no one knew and few cared. They were only two of the many who are thus cast annually, and by no means unavoidably, on our stormy shores.
Do not misunderstand us, good reader. Compared with what is done by other lands in this matter, Britain does her duty well; but, compared with what is required by God at the hands of those who call themselves Christians, we still fall far short of our duty, both as a nation and as individuals.
Chapter Fifteen.
Relates to Love, Cross Purposes and Mistakes, etcetera
Storms may rage, orphans and widows may weep, but the world must not pause in its regular routine of business and of pleasure. This is natural and right. It was not intended that men should walk perpetually in sackcloth and ashes because of the sorrows that surround them. But equally true is it that they were never meant to shut their eyes and ears to those woes, and dance and sing through life heedlessly, as far too many do until some thunderbolt falls on their own hearts, and brings the truth home.
The command is twofold: “Weep with those that weep, and rejoice with those that do rejoice.”
Come then, reader, let us visit good Mrs Foster, and rejoice with her as she sits at her tea-table contemplating her gallant son with a mother’s pride. She has some reason to be proud of him. Guy has just received the gold medal awarded him by the Lifeboat Institution. Bax and Tommy have also received their medals, and all three are taking tea with the widow on the occasion. Lucy Burton and Amy Russell are there too, but both of these young ladies are naturally much more taken up with Tommy’s medal than with those of Guy or of Bax!
And well they may be, for never a breast, large or small, was more worthy of the decoration it supported.
“My brave boy,” said the widow, referring to Tommy, and taking him by the arm as he sat beside her, but looking, irresistibly, at her son, “it was a noble deed. If I had the giving of medals I would have made yours twice the size, with a diamond in the middle of it.”
“What a capital idea!” said Lucy, with a silvery laugh, that obliged her to display a double row of brilliant little teeth.
“A coral ring set with pearls would be finer, don’t you think?” said Guy, gravely.
Tommy grinned and said that that was a toothy remark!
Lucy blushed, and said laughingly, that she thought Mrs Foster’s idea better, whereupon the widow waxed vainglorious, and tried to suggest some improvements.
Guy, fearing that he had been presumptuous in paying this sly compliment, anxiously sought to make amends by directing most of his conversation to Amy.
Bax, who was unusually quiet that evening, was thus left to make himself agreeable to Lucy. But he found it hard work, poor fellow. It was quite evident that he was ill at ease.
On most occasions, although habitually grave, Bax was hearty, and had always plenty to say without being obtrusive in his conversation. Moreover, his manners were good, and his deportment unconstrained and easy. But when he visited the widow’s cottage he became awkward and diffident, and seemed to feel great difficulty in carrying on conversation. During the short time he had been at Deal since the wreck of the “Nancy,” he had been up at the cottage every day on one errand or another, and generally met the young ladies either in the house or in the garden.
Could it be that Bax was in love? There was no doubt whatever of the fact in his own mind; but, strange to say, no one else suspected it. His character was grave, simple, and straightforward. He did not assume any of those peculiar airs by which young men make donkeys of themselves when in this condition! He feared, too, that it might be interfering with the hopes of his friend Guy, whose affections, he had latterly been led to suspect, lay in the same direction with his own. This made him very circumspect and modest in his behaviour. Had he been quite sure of the state of Guy’s heart he would have retired at once, for it never occurred to him for a moment to imagine that the girl whom Guy loved might not love Guy, and might, possibly, love himself.
Be this as it may, Bax resolved to watch his friend that night closely, and act according to the indications given. Little did poor Guy know what a momentous hour that was in the life of his friend, and the importance of the part he was then performing.
Bax rose to go sooner than usual.
“You are very kind, ma’am,” he said, in reply to Mrs Foster’s remonstrances; “I have to visit an old friend to-night, and as it is probable I may never see him again, I trust you’ll excuse my going so early.”
Mrs Foster was obliged to acquiesce. Bax shook hands hurriedly, but very earnestly, with each of the party, and quitted the cottage in company with Guy.
“Come, Guy, let us walk over the sandhills.”
“A strange walk on so dark a night; don’t you think it would be more cheerful on the beach?”
“So it would, so it would,” said Bax, somewhat hastily, “but I want to be alone with you, and we’re likely to meet some of our chums on the beach. Besides, I want to have a quiet talk, and to tell ye something.—You’re in love, Guy.”
Bax said this so abruptly that his friend started, and for a few seconds was silent. Then, with a laugh, he replied—
“Well, Bax, you’ve a blunt way of broaching a subject, but, now that you put the thing to me, I feel inclined to believe that I am. You’re a sharper fellow than I gave you credit for, to have found me out so soon.”
“It needs but little sharpness to guess that when two young folk are thrown much together and find each other agreeable, they’re likely to fall in love.”
Bax’s voice sank to its deepest tones; he felt that his hopes had now received their deathblow, and in spite of himself he faltered. With a mighty effort he crushed down the feeling, and continued in a tone of forced gaiety—
“Come, I’m rejoiced at your good luck, my boy; she’s one of a thousand, Guy.”
“So she is,” said Guy, “but I’m not so sure of my good luck as you seem to be; for I have not yet ventured to speak to her on the subject of love.”
“No?” exclaimed Bax in surprise, “that’s strange.”
“Why so?” said Guy.
“Because you’ve had lots of time and opportunity, lad.”
“True,” said Guy, “I have had enough of both, but some folk are not so bold and prompt as others in this curious matter of love.”
“Ah, very true,” observed Bax, “some men do take more time than others, and yet it seems to me that there has been time enough for a sharp fellow like you to have settled that question. However, I’ve no doubt myself of the fact that she loves you, Guy, and I do call that uncommon good luck.”
“Well, it may seem a vain thing to say, but I do fancy that she likes me a bit,” said the other, in a half jocular tone.
The two friends refrained from mentioning the name of the fair one. The heart and mind of each was filled with one object, but each felt a strange disinclination to mention her name.
“But it seems to me,” continued Guy, “that instead of wanting to tell me something, as you said, when you brought me out for a walk in this dreary waste of furze and sand at such a time of night, your real object was to pump me!”
“Not so,” replied Bax, in a tone so deep and sad as to surprise his friend; “I brought you here because the lonely place accords with my feelings to-night. I have made up my mind to go to Australia.”
Guy stopped abruptly. “You jest, Bax,” said he.
“I am in earnest,” replied the other, “and since I have forced myself into your confidence, I think it but fair to give you mine. The cause of my going is love! Yes, Guy, I too am in love, but alas! my love is not returned; it is hopeless.”
“Say not so,” began Guy, earnestly; but his companion went on without noticing the interruption.
“The case is a peculiar one,” said he. “I have known the sweet girl long enough to know that she does not love me, and that she does love another man. Moreover, I love that man too. He is my friend; so, the long and the short of it is, I’m going to up-anchor, away to the gold-fields, and leave the coast clear to him.”
“This must not be, Bax; you may be wrong in supposing your case hopeless. May I ask her name?”
“Forgive me, Guy, I must not mention it,” said Bax.
It is not necessary to weary the reader with the variety of arguments with which Guy plied his friend in order to turn him from his purpose, as they wandered slowly over the sandhills together. He was unsuccessful in his efforts to arouse hope in the bosom of his friend, or to induce him to suspend his determination for a time. Nor was he more fortunate in attempting to make Bax say who was the friend—for whom he was about to make so great a sacrifice,—little suspecting that it was himself!
“Now,” said Bax, after having firmly resisted his companion’s utmost efforts, “I want you to leave me here alone. I may seem to you to be obstinate and ungracious to-night” (he stopped and seized Guy’s hand), “but, believe me, I am not so. My heart is terribly down, and you know I’m a rough matter-of-fact fellow, not given to be sentimental, so I can’t speak to you as I would wish on this subject; but wherever I may go in this world, I will never cease to pray for God’s blessing on you and yours, Guy.”
“I like to hear you say that, Bax,” returned the other; “it will rejoice my heart to think that love for me will be the means of taking you often to the throne of God.”
“You’re a good fellow, Guy; perhaps what you have often said to me has not been thrown away as much as you suppose. Come, now, instead of you having to urge the subject on me, I’ll ask you to give me a text. Supposing that you and I were parting to-night for the last time, and that I were going off to Australia to-morrow, what would you say to me in the way of advice and encouragement?”
Guy paused thoughtfully for a moment, and then said, “Delight thyself in the Lord, trust also in Him, and He will give thee the desires of thine heart.”
“Thank ’ee, lad, I’ll not forget the words,” said Bax, wringing his friend’s hand.
“Perhaps I’ll think of another and more suitable text when the time for parting really comes,” said Guy, sadly. “Good-night, Bax; mind you come up to the cottage to-morrow, and let me know your plans.”
“I shall be busy to-morrow, but I’ll write,” said Bax, as his friend left him. “Ay,” he added, “there goes a real Christian, and a true-hearted friend. Ah’s me! I’ll never see him more!”
Bax wandered slowly and without aim over the dark waste for some time. Almost unintentionally he followed the path that led past the Checkers of the Hope. A solitary light burned in one of the lower windows of the old inn, but no sound of revelry issued from its doors. Leaving it behind him, Bax soon found himself standing within a few yards of the tombstone of the ill-fated Mary whose name he bore.
“Poor thing, ’twas a sad fate!” he murmured, as he contemplated the grave of the murdered girl, who had been a cousin of his own grandfather. “Poor Mary, you’re at rest now, which is more than I am.”
For some minutes Bax stood gazing dreamily at the grave which was barely visible in the faint light afforded by a few stars that shone through the cloudy sky. Suddenly he started, and every fibre of his strong frame was shaken with horror as he beheld the surface of the grave move, and saw, or fancied he saw, a dim figure raise itself partially from the earth.
Bax was no coward in any sense of that word. Many brave men there are who, although quite fearless in regard to danger and death, are the most arrant cowards in the matter of superstition, and could be made to flee before a mere fancy. But our hero was not one of these. His mind was strong, like his body, and well balanced. He stood his ground and prepared to face the matter out. He would indeed have been more than human if such an unexpected sight, in such circumstances, had failed to horrify him, but the effect of the shock soon passed away.
“Who comes here to disturb me?” said a weak voice that evidently belonged to this ghost.
“Hallo! Jeph, is that you?” exclaimed Bax, springing forward and gazing into the old man’s face.
“Ay, it’s me, and I’m sorry you’ve found me out, for I like to be let alone in my grief.”
“Why, Jeph, you don’t need to be testy with your friend. I’ll quit ye this moment if you bid me; but I think you might find a warmer and more fitting bed for your old bones than poor Mary Bax’s grave. Come, let me help you up.”
Bax said this so kindly, that old Jeph’s temporary anger at having been discovered passed away.
“Well, well,” said he, “the only two people who have found me out are the two I like best, so it don’t much matter.”
“Indeed,” exclaimed the young man in surprise, “who is number two, Jeph?”
“Tommy Bogey. He found me here on the night when Long Orrick was chased by Supple Jim.”
“Strange, he never told me about it,” said Bax.
“’Cause I told him to hold his tongue,” replied Jeph, “and Tommy’s a good fellow and knows how to shut his mouth w’en a friend asks him to—as I now ask you, Bax, for I don’t want people know that I come here every night.”
“What! do you come here every night?” cried Bax in surprise.
“Ay, every night, fair weather and foul; I’ve been used to both for a long time now, and I’m too tough to be easily damaged.”
“But why do you this, Jeph? You are not mad! If you were, I could understand it.”
“No matter, no matter,” said the old man, turning to gaze at the tombstone before quitting the place. “Some people are fond of having secrets. I’ve got one, and I like to keep it.”
“Well, I won’t try to pump it out of you, my old friend. Moreover, I haven’t got too much time to spare. I meant to go straight to your house to-night, Jeph, to tell you that I’m off to Australia to-morrow by peep o’ day.”
“Australia!” exclaimed Jeph, with a perplexed look in his old face.
“Ay, the blue peter’s at the mast-head and the anchor tripped.”
Here Bax related to his old comrade what he had previously told to Guy. At first Jeph shook his head, but when the young sailor spoke of love being the cause of his sudden departure, he made him sit down on the grave, and listened earnestly.
“So, so, Bax,” he said, when the latter had concluded, “you’re quite sure she’s fond o’ the other feller, are ye?”
“Quite. I had it from his own lips. At least he told me he’s fond of her, and I could see with my own eyes she’s fond of him.”
