village of Gunnerstone, at least, if some dozen ricketty huts and a
tumble-down jetty deserve the appellation. Isolated and cut off from
anything like familiar intercourse with the rest of the world, its
inhabitants led a wild, precarious existence, and some ugly stories were
told of their predilection for plunder and wrecking. Many vessels had
been known to go upon the Gunnerstone reef in comparatively calm weather,
when all hands might have been saved with little difficulty, but by some
unaccountable mishap or other none were ever known to survive, and by
the time the Coastguard men arrived they were astonished to find how
quickly the ship herself had gone to pieces. Nature had made Gunnerstone
almost inaccessible from the sea, save to the natives of the place, to
whom alone a certain narrow passage was known through which they could
navigate their boats in safety up to the jetty. From the very edge of the
beach to some half mile out to sea stretched a long reef of sunken rocks,
which the blue jackets on board the revenue cutter were wont to call the
real Gunnerstone fishing nets. Many and fatal had been the wrecks in
this particular locality, and Homeward and Outward bound always wished
themselves well past it. It became obvious that the establishment of a
lighthouse here was absolutely necessary, and after the usual amount of
official circumlocution, and the preparation of a great many surveys
and plans, things at length took a business-like turn, and the building
of a lighthouse was commenced on a large rock at the extremity of the
reef, which rose abruptly out of the water as if specially intended by
nature to assist in the work of humanity. The construction proceeded but
slowly, what with the caprices of the weather and the opposition offered
by the inhabitants of Gunnerstone, who regarded the innovation much in
the same way as a burglar would the establishment of a huge gas-lamp just
in front of a house he contemplates robbing. It was many months before
the revolving beacon sent its dazzling rays flashing out over the sea
to warn passers by of their propinquity to the ill-omened reef. When
thoroughly finished, the lighthouse presented an appearance of strength
and solidity that did infinite credit to the architect who had planned,
and the contractor who had built it. The interior was arranged so as to
be as roomy as possible, in order to accommodate the two keepers and the
boy who had charge of it; and the lower part was divided into a sitting
and sleeping-room. Outside, a couple of substantial outbuildings had
been erected, which in the summertime were used as residences; while
all round the upper surface of the rock huge blocks of granite had been
raised one on the other, making a wall of tremendous thickness, which
shielded the outbuildings, and left a considerable space protected,
which, with marvellous ingenuity, had been turned into a garden, though I
fear its productive powers were not of a very high order. Down one side
of the rock was cut a rough staircase, by means of which the keepers
were enabled to get into their boat, whenever they had occasion to take
a trip to the shore. Their life was a very uneventful, and yet withal, a
very stirring one; for, in winter time, when the storm was at work, the
waves came dashing up against their house in wild confusion and noise as
of thunder, racing one with the other as if to see which would send its
flecks of foam nearest the lighthouse lantern.
On the 24th of December, 18—, about five o’clock in the afternoon, three
people were standing in the little yard at Gunnerstone Lighthouse,
looking out towards the sea. Above them the bright glare shot forth into
the darkness from the lantern, and disclosed the white crests on the
waves as they came rolling in grandly from mid ocean.
“It will blow hard afore morning, Bill,” said old Seth Lawrence, wiping
from his cheek a great drop of salt spray as cold as an icicle, “the
wind’s been a chopping and shifting about the last eight and forty hours,
but he seems to have come to anchor in the right quarter at last, and
he’s going to give us a taste of his quality, or I’m a lubber. It aint
very cheerful for Christmas folks, specially them’s as at sea. Hallo,
that’s a damper,” he added, as one wave more daring than its fellows ran
up the side of the rock and sent a deluge of salt water hissing over the
granite wall into the yard.
“I tell you what it is, Uncle Seth,” interrupted the younger member of
the two he had addressed, who had come in for his share of wetting, “I’m
not going to stand out here to get soaked to the skin. I have a regard
for my constitution, if you haven’t, so allow me to wish you a very
good evening.” The speaker at once suited the action to the word, and
disappeared through the door into the lighthouse, and his example was
speedily followed by his two companions. The exchange from the cold and
wet outside to the warmth and comfort within was in every way agreeable,
and in a little while tea was ready, and the party sat down fully
prepared to enjoy it. While they are so engaged just a word or two about
them.
Seth Lawrence was a fine, muscular man, who had seen plenty of rough
service in his time, but appeared none the worse for the buffeting.
He was the very “_beau ideal_” of an Englishman, cool, resolute, and
indomitable, and in every way suited for the post in which we find him.
Neither chick nor child had Seth, but his nephew Charlie was to him as a
son, and the lad in his turn looked upon him in the light of a father.
Gunnerstone Reef was scarcely the spot on which to spend Christmas Day as
a matter of preference, but with these two, who had no ties of kindred or
relationship on shore, it was just as good as any other. Not so was it
with Bill Marston, he was anything but satisfied with the arrangements
that compelled him to eat his plum pudding in the lighthouse, and had
been making himself miserable for some time past about the hardness of
his lot. But all the sulking in the world could not alter the state of
affairs, and so he himself began to think, as he sat down to tea on the
evening when we first make his acquaintance. He was short and somewhat
squat in figure, and by the side of Seth presented very much the same
appearance as does a steam-tug in the company of a screw frigate. But
though Bill Marston was short in stature, he was an awkward customer to
get to close quarters with, as a certain cheeky jack tar, who came with
the revenue cutter to the lighthouse on one occasion, had good cause to
remember. He was a singularly good hand with a rifle, and when the sea
was calm, and no craft were in the way, would amuse himself practising.
He had lately been giving Charlie lessons in shooting, and his pupil
progressed with a rapidity that excited his hearty admiration. Just a
word or two of that young gentleman, and then “_revenons à nos moutons_.”
Charlie Fairfield was an orphan; his mother, Seth’s sister, had died when
he was quite a baby, never having quite recovered from the shock her
husband’s being lost at sea in a storm had occasioned her. With her last
breath she bequeathed her blue-eyed baby boy to Seth, and he, with tears
coursing down his brown cheeks, swore “that he’d stick to the kid through
foul and fair weather, and as long as he’d a shilling in the locker the
“young un” should have half.” And, as I have said before, no oath was
ever more religiously kept. Charlie was put out to school and received
a good sound commercial education, for which Seth found the money, and,
at length, when he thought that he had had enough of his books he made
a strong representation to his employers, and persuaded them to give
Charlie a berth at the lighthouse, where we now find him. Story tellers
have a dreadful habit of always making their favourite character very
handsome, in fact, an admirable Crichton of the most approved type; and I
am afraid that if I attempt to sketch a portrait of mine I shall lay the
paint on too thick and spoil the effect. Therefore I leave the task to
the imagination of my hearers, merely adding that Charlie was brave and
true as steel, and loved Seth with his whole heart.
Tea was over and cleared away, and Seth had been upstairs to see that
the lights were all right, and was now taking it easy in a comfortable
arm-chair.
“Look here, Bill,” he said, performing that process which is known as
washing the hands with imaginary soap, “as it’s Christmas Eve, we’ll
treat ourselves to a drop of grog, and make ourselves cosy.”
“All right, mate,” answered Bill, evidently quite ready to enjoy himself
after the prescription suggested; “here’s the bacca jar, and presently,
if Charlie don’t mind, we’ll get him to spell out a bit of reading.”
“So we will, so we will, mate,” echoed Seth. “Fetch out the groceries,
lad, and then I’m blowed if we shan’t be as square and ship-shape this
here festive season as any of your land lubbers.”
Charlie bustled about, got out the rum and all the other necessary
etceteras, and then made himself excessively comfortable on one of
the lockers with the book, from which he was to hold forth for the
delectation of the company. It was the ever-green “_Pickwick Papers_,”
and soon the roar of the wind and storm outside was almost lost in the
shouts of laughter that Sam Weller’s eccentricities and witticisms
excited.
Charlie had been reading uninterruptedly for about half-an-hour, when
Seth suddenly jumped up from his chair, exclaiming, “I could swear I
heard some one moving in the yard outside.”
“Lor, mate, you must be a dreaming,” answered Bill; “we’re not likely to
be troubled with visitors, let alone on such a night as this; but, as I’m
nearest the door, I’ll just take a look out.”
Bill Marston rose from his seat and did as he said. The wind came driving
into the room, rude, bitter, and searching, threatening to put out their
lamp.
“Bless your heart,” continued he, shutting the door quickly, “there
arn’t nobody, it was only fancy;” and with that the two resumed their
seats and the reading continued.
But presently Bill Marston in his turn cried to Charlie to stop, and,
putting his finger on his lips, crept once again to the door, whispering
as he did so:—
“Seth, you’re right, mate, there’s some mischief up, and we’ve got
company on the rock that we don’t know about yet.”
Seth Lawrence was up in a moment like a lion.
“Hold, Bill, a moment,” he cried, “don’t open the door till we’ve put the
light out, and we’d best take a six-shooter a-piece, for we don’t quite
know how many friends we may have to receive.”
“Ten to one it’s some of those thieving scoundrels from Gunnerstone,
come to see if they can catch us asleep in order to play tricks with the
lights, but they’ll find we’re up to their little games.”
Seth and Bill hastily pulled on their rough pea-jackets, invested their
heads in their sou-westers, and, having looked at their revolvers to see
that they were properly loaded, put out the lamp and opened the door. As
they did so a dark object slid away from before it and was lost in the
gloom.
“That cove’s been listening through the key-hole,” whispered Bill to his
companion.
“Well, he didn’t hear much good of himself,” replied Seth; and then he
added in a louder tone, “Now then, you skulks, come out and let’s see
what you’re made of. I’ve got a nice taste of cold lead for each of you.”
“Two can play at that game, Seth Lawrence,” answered a deep voice from
out of the darkness, “look to yourself.”
There was a flash, a report, and Bill Marston was standing by himself.
“You murdering dogs,” he cried, firing in the direction whence the voice
had come, “good luck send this through one of your ugly heads.”
This wish seemed to have been fulfilled, for there was a yell of some one
in pain. Meanwhile Charlie had run out at the first sound of fire-arms,
and found his uncle lying on the ground. Seth whispered hoarsely to Bill
when he fell:—
“Get back into the lighthouse, lad, their game is to douse the lights,
and get some ship ashore in this storm; leave me here, they can’t do
worse with me. Get thee back, get thee back, or there will be more lives
lost before the morning.”
But Bill was not to be thus defeated, he would not go and leave his mate
alone, but remained resolutely by him, prepared to fall by his side if
necessary.
“Charlie, lad, go you inside,” he said hurriedly to the boy, “take you
care of the lights, stick to them to the last, and die rather than give
in.”
To hear was to obey; Charlie ran inside the lighthouse, closed the door,
and turned the key. Not a minute too soon, for a moment after a strange
hand was laid upon the latch, and a rough voice called for admission. He
was startled for a moment, and his heart thumped against his side; but
then he thought of his Uncle Seth, and how he would have behaved under
like circumstances, while Bill Marston’s words rang in his ears: “Stick
to them to the last, and die rather than give in.” In an instant fear was
forgotten, and he was prepared to fight to the last, come what might.
This he knew, that he had to contend with enemies who would show him no
mercy. They were bent on extinguishing the lights, and they would not
stop at murder if it were necessary to secure the successful prosecution
of their nefarious enterprise.
It was for Charlie to defend them as long as life and strength were
his! His eyes turned to the clock; it was only eight. What an age till
daybreak!
To thoroughly barricade and fasten the door was his first consideration.
It was well and strongly built of oak, strengthened here and there
with iron ribs, and secured by three bolts and a huge bar that passed
immediately across the centre. All these were duly pushed into their
places by Charlie, regardless of the hammering and knocking that was
going on outside. This done, he hurried up-stairs to see that the lights
were burning all right; wick, oil, and reflectors, were all in perfect
order, and might in the emergency be left to themselves. They would do
their duty till morning if only the wreckers’ fingers could be kept at a
respectful distance. Satisfied as to these particulars, Charlie hurried
downstairs again to defend the door. How thankful did he now feel to Bill
for the lessons he had given him in shooting! There was another revolver
lying at the bottom of the locker, he took it up, loaded it carefully,
and then prepared himself for the siege.
The wind still howled and whistled, while the thunder of the waves upon
the rock was almost deafening, still Charlie was just able to catch the
sound of voices outside during the intervals of cessation from knocking
on the part of his besiegers. “Blow up,” and “pistol,” he distinctly
heard, and then a hoarse cry from some one, evidently intended for him.
“If you don’t open the door we’ll blow it up.”
“Blow away, my hearties,” shouted he in reply, “and take care how you
play with gunpowder, for it’s dangerous.”
A sound very much like a laugh followed this: and then the same voice
that had addressed him before screamed out:—
“If you’ll give in, young ’un, we won’t hurt you. It’s no use your
fighting against odds; we’ve cobbled your mates, and we shall have to do
the same for you if you keep us out here much longer.”
To this Charlie vouchsafed no answer, and the battering at the door was
resumed. The threat to blow him up was evidently an empty one, as nothing
of the sort was attempted, but presently there was a loud report, and a
bullet came crashing through the woodwork, passing disagreeably near to
the lad’s head. Through the opening that had thus been made, five other
bullets followed one another in close succession, evidently fired not so
much with an intention of hitting as of alarming him. Charlie crept on
his hands and knees up to the door, and, when the discharge had ended,
quietly raised himself up, and, placing the muzzle of his revolver in
the aperture, pulled the trigger. There was a groan, a smothered curse,
and a heavy fall, and immediately after the hammering was resumed more
savagely than ever. Charlie reloaded the empty chamber of his revolver,
and drew himself a little on one side. Just then his eye noticed that the
top bolt was giving way. At the same moment the sound as of blows dealt
by an axe upon the door made itself audible, and warned him that, with an
instrument such as that, his assailants would soon be able to cut their
way through to him.
How slowly the hours, or, more properly speaking, minutes, dragged on.
The hands of the clock seemed glued upon its face. The atmosphere of the
room was stifling. “God help me,” murmured Charlie to himself: “the door
wont stand much longer, and then there’s no help for it. They’d soon do
for me. Oh! if I only had Uncle Seth or Bill Marston with me.” Alas!
Charlie, you might as well have wanted the whole battalion of guards at
your back; they whom you called were lying out in the storm and rain,
sore stricken, and motionless!
By this time the wreckers were evidently infuriated at the resistance
they had met with, and redoubled their efforts upon the door, which
slowly but surely was giving way. The axe was doing its work only too
well, and already a huge piece of the wooden framework had fallen in.
The barrier was now nearly broken down that protected him, and in a
moment more the enemy would be upon him. In those few seconds that ensued
the boy’s lips moved rapidly. With the shadow of death almost upon him,
he had yet time to remember Him whose omnipotent arm could snatch him
from out the jaws of death. Like the Puritan soldier of old, Charlie
paused in the conflict to whisper a prayer. Then, resolute and undaunted,
he prepared to meet the fate that he felt must inevitably fall upon him.
He had not to wait long; there was a crash, and then a rush of dark forms
through the doorway; he had but time to aim his revolver and pull the
trigger, then some heavy body fell against him and brought him to the
ground. The darkness had saved him, for the wreckers did not wait to look
for him, but hurried upward to the light room to extinguish the lights.
Charlie did not remain long where he was, but aroused himself, and
found that there was a human body lying on the top of him. It was with
difficulty he managed to push it off, and then he crept stealthily out
into the yard. Upstairs, the seekers were evidently at their work of
spoliation, the sound of crashing glass, mingled with shouts, might be
heard amid the rushings of the wind. As he found himself outside, a deep
“_boom, boom_,” from the direction of the sea, startled him. It was clear
that there was some vessel in difficulties.
Little hope for her now. The Gunnerstone lights were dead, and in vain
might those on board of her look eagerly through the mist and scud for
the guiding beacon. Charlie groped his way across the yard, and as he did
so stumbled over a prostrate form; he bent down by it, and passed his
hand over the face. He knew then that it was his Uncle Seth. He knelt by
his side and whispered—
“Are you better, Uncle?”
A feeble voice murmured in reply—
“Good lad, good lad!” and then it ceased, as if from exhaustion.
Still “_boom, boom_,” went the guns, each report sounding nearer and
nearer than the last. Charlie knew, as certainly as if he had seen it
with his eyes, that the labouring ship was driving straight on for the
reef.
By this time the wreckers had accomplished their work of destruction, and
now they came hurrying out of the lighthouse and made for the landing
stairs, which were situated on the more sheltered side of the rock.
Charlie crouched into a corner of one of the outhouses, was gnashing his
teeth at being unable to communicate its danger to the ill-fated ship.
Suddenly he was startled by a ruddy glare from the direction of the
shore, shooting up towards the skies, and in a few seconds a bright
flame burnt there steadily. Some one had improvised a beacon on the
cliffs above Gunnerstone. Charlie was gazing intently on this welcome
apparition, when he heard a loud exclamation of rage. The wreckers found
that their boat was gone, and that they were caught in a trap. No lock,
or bolt, or bar, could hold them in closer imprisonment than did the
green waves, rolling ceaselessly round the rock. Retribution had come at
last, and not a bit too soon!
It was dangerous work for Charlie to be thus shut up in the midst of his
enemies, but I am bound to say that, instead of being in the least put
out, he rubbed his hands together with pleasure to think that villainy
had thus met its reward. And they, like cravens and cowards as they were,
seemed utterly defeated by the blow.
It was a strange beginning for a Christmas Day, thought Charlie, as,
cowering under the rocks, worn out and exhausted with the events of the
night, he saw the daylight rising out of the sea, and thanked God for his
preservation. Likely enough, could the wreckers have seen him, they would
have disposed of him, in order to preclude any possibility of his turning
up hereafter at some disagreeable moment. But he was hidden from their
view, and most of them believed that he was “knocked on the head,” as one
of their number elegantly expressed it.
But now the dawn had come, and these midnight marauders and murderers
looked one another in the face—some pale, others haggard, but all seemed
impressed with the danger of their position. And thus the morning of this
Christmas Day broke upon the rock whereon stood Gunnerstone Lighthouse.
The storm had gone to rest now, and the glorious sun already made a
golden pathway over the waters, slumbering peacefully after their riot
and revelry. Its brightness fell on the granite sides of the lighthouse,
and glanced back on to a pale face lying still and motionless, as stony
in look as the walls themselves, while it lit up a white sail that was
disappearing on the horizon. Brave, honest, noble Seth Lawrence knew not
that the day was up and that the world was already stirring to celebrate
its great festival, its feast of feasts. A messenger had come to him,
whose summons none could disobey, and he fled away with him on the wings
of the wind, to stand in the presence of the Master who had sent for him.
And the good ship the “Black Dragoon,” with its living freight, bound for
the west, passed on its way; but there were many, indeed most of those on
board of her, offering up a thanksgiving for their preservation, when the
world awoke from its slumbers. On, on, brave vessel, into the open sea,
towards the new country; the sacrifice that has gained thee thy safety
would not have been grudged by the victim; for, like a true English
heart, unselfish to the end, he would have gladly bartered his life to
save a fellow-man.
I must now venture to assert my privilege as chronicler, and dispose
of certain important events in a somewhat summary manner. The wreckers
were captured immediately, upon the scene of their crime, by the revenue
cutter, which had come round on the information given by Bill Marston,
who had launched the lighthouse boat, and with great difficulty made his
way in it to the shore, when he was supposed to be lying safe and quiet
with a bullet through his head. He had first taken the precaution to cut
the painter with which the wreckers had secured the big galley that had
brought them, and thus shut off from them the only means of escape. His
first care on landing had been to make his way to a farmhouse on the
cliffs, where he obtained the assistance that enabled him to light the
beacon that warned the “Black Dragoon” of her danger just in time. It
was all due to his indomitable pluck and energy that the machinations of
these banditti of the sea had been defeated, and the emigrant ship saved
from destruction.
It was some time before Charlie recovered from the very severe struggle
to which he had been subjected, but youth and a strong constitution
gained the victory, and he was well enough to appear at the assizes,
where the “Great Wrecking Case at Gunnerstone” excited an immense
amount of attention. He gave his evidence with much modesty, and in a
way that called forth the hearty commendation of the learned judge who
presided. The two ringleaders of the wreckers perished on the scaffold,
and the rest were sent to expiate their crime by various terms of penal
servitude, and thus Seth Lawrence’s death was avenged.
The owners of the “Black Dragoon” presented Bill Marston with a gold
watch and £100, while Charlie was rewarded with a silver one and £30,
whereat the two recipients were highly delighted.
A turn of the pen, and behold another Christmas Eve has come round. Bill
and Charlie are sitting in the room in the lighthouse, but a stranger is
in their company, a jovial, genial fellow, but not Seth Lawrence. There
was a big salt tear rolling down Bill Marston’s cheek, forced out by the
tide of recollection that was flooding on him.
“Aye, lad,” he murmured, in a strangely choky tone, “he was made of the
right stuff, he was. Let’s hope to do our duty as he did.”
And the lad’s sobbing voice said, “_Amen_.”
OUR CHRISTMAS DINNER AT DR. LICKEMWELL’S.
_By ROBERT HOPE MONCRIEFF, Author of “Oudendale,” “Horace Hazelwood,”
“The Lycée Boys,” &c., &c._
When I was a boy—dear me, what a long time ago it seems!—I was a boarder
at Upton House, Dr. Lickemwell’s school. It was a good school, and Dr.
Lickemwell was a very good sort of man, and we were on the whole very
happy there. I didn’t think so then, but I think so now, and I dare say
you boys will think as kindly of your old schools and masters when you
come to be men. You don’t believe what your parents tell you, that your
school days will be the happiest time of your life, but it is true all
the same, as you will find out some day.
We were a very decent set of fellows at Dr. Lickemwell’s. None of your
prim young gentlemen, who always have clean collars on, and go out
walking two by two, like the picture of the beasts going into Noah’s
ark. And none of your young swells that I see now-a-days swaggering to
school with canes and kid gloves. No; we were nearly all real, honest
school-boys, fond of play, and not very fond of lessons, but obliged to
do them all the same; occasionally given to idleness and mischief, but
not at all above taking our canings, as a matter of course, when we were
found out.