A STORM, AND A DISMAL STATE OF THINGS ON BOARD THE _PHAROS_
From what has been said at the close of the last chapter, it will not
surprise the reader to be told that the storm which blew during that
night had no further effect on Ruby Brand than to toss his hair
about, and cause a ruddier glow than usual to deepen the tone of his
bronzed countenance.
It was otherwise with many of his hapless comrades, a few of whom had
also received letters that day, but whose pleasure was marred to some
extent by the qualms within.
Being Saturday, a glass of rum was served out in the evening,
according to custom, and the men proceeded to hold what is known by
the name of "Saturday night at sea".
This being a night that was usually much enjoyed on board, owing to
the home memories that were recalled, and the familiar songs that
were sung; owing, also, to the limited supply of grog, which might
indeed cheer, but could not by any possibility inebriate, the men
endeavoured to shake off their fatigue, and to forget, if possible,
the rolling of the vessel.
The first effort was not difficult, but the second was not easy. At
first, however, the gale was not severe, so they fought against
circumstances bravely for a time.
"Come, lads," cried the smith, in a species of serio-comic
desperation, when they had all assembled below, "let's drink to
sweethearts and wives."
"Hear, hear! Bless their hearts! Sweethearts and wives!" responded
the men. "Hip, hip!"
The cheer that followed was a genuine one.
"Now for a song, boys," cried one of the men, "and I think the last
arrivals are bound to sing first."
"Hear, hear! Ruby, lad, you're in for it," said the smith, who sat
near his assistant.
"What shall I sing?" enquired Ruby.
"Oh! let me see," said Joe Dumsby, assuming the air of one who
endeavoured to recall something. "Could you come Beet'oven's symphony
on B flat?"
"Ah! howld yer tongue, Joe," cried O'Connor, "sure the young man can
only sing on the sharp kays; ain't he always sharpin' the tools, not
to speak of his appetite?"
"You've a blunt way of speaking yourself, friend," said Dumsby, in a
tone of reproof.
"Hallo! stop your jokes," cried the smith; "if you treat us to any
more o' that sort o' thing we'll have ye dipped over the side, and
hung up to dry at the end o' the mainyard. Fire away, Ruby, my
tulip!"
"Ay, that's hit," said John Watt. "Gie us the girl ye left behind
ye."
Ruby flushed suddenly, and turned towards the speaker with a look of
surprise.
"What's wrang, freend? Hae ye never heard o' that sang?" enquired
Watt.
"O yes, I forgot," said Ruby, recovering himself in some confusion.
"I know the song--I--I was thinking of something--of----"
"The girl ye left behind ye, av coorse," put in O'Connor, with a
wink.
"Come, strike up!" cried the men.
Ruby at once obeyed, and sang the desired song with a sweet, full
voice, that had the effect of moistening some of the eyes present.
The song was received enthusiastically. "Your health and song, lad,"
said Robert Selkirk, the principal builder, who came down the ladder
and joined them at that moment.
"Thank you, now it's my call," said Ruby. "I call upon Ned O'Connor
for a song."
"Or a speech," cried Forsyth.
"A spaitch is it?" said O'Connor, with a look of deep modesty. "Sure,
I never made a spaitch in me life, except when I axed Mrs. O'Connor
to marry me, an' I never finished that spaitch, for I only got the
length of 'Och! darlint', when she cut me short in the middle with
'Sure, you may have me, Ned, and welcome!'"
"Shame, shame!" said Dove, "to say that of your wife."
"Shame to yersilf," cried O'Connor indignantly. "Ain't I payin' the
good woman a compliment, when I say that she had pity on me
bashfulness, and came to me help when I was in difficulty?"
"Quite right, O'Connor; but let's have a song if you won't speak."
"Would ye thank a cracked tay-kittle for a song?" said Ned.
"Certainly not," replied Peter Logan, who was apt to take things too
literally.
"Then don't ax _me_ for wan," said the Irishman, "but I'll do this
for ye, messmates: I'll read ye the last letter I got from the
mistress, just to show ye that her price is beyond all calkerlation."
A round of applause followed this offer, as Ned drew forth a
much-soiled letter from the breast pocket of his coat, and carefully
unfolding it, spread it on his knee.
"It begins," said O'Connor, in a slightly hesitating tone, "with some
expressions of a--a--raither endearin' character, that perhaps I may
as well pass."
"No, no," shouted the men, "let's have them all. Out with them,
Paddy!"
"Well, well, av ye _will_ have them, here they be.
"'GALWAY.
"'My own purty darlin' as has bin my most luved sin' the day we wos
marrit, you'll be grieved to larn that the pig's gone to its long
home,'"
Here O'Connor paused to make some parenthetical remarks, with which,
indeed, he interlarded the whole letter.
"The pig, you must know, lads, was an old sow as belonged to me
wife's gran'-mother, an' besides bein' a sort o' pet o' the family,
was an uncommon profitable crature. But to purceed. She goes on to
say,--
"'We waked her' (that's the pig, boys) 'yisterday, and buried her
this mornin'. Big Rory, the baist, was for aitin' her, but I wouldn't
hear of it; so she's at rest, an' so is old Molly Mallone. She wint
away just two minutes be the clock before the pig, and wos burried
the day afther. There's no more news as I knows of in the parish,
except that your old flame Mary got married to Teddy O'Rook, an'
they've been fightin' tooth an' nail ever since, as I towld ye they
would long ago. No man could live wid that woman. But the
schoolmaster, good man, has let me off the cow. Ye see, darlin', I
towld him ye wos buildin' a palace in the say, to put ships in afther
they wos wrecked on the coast of Ameriky, so ye couldn't be expected
to send home much money at prisint. An' he just said, 'Well, well,
Kathleen, you may just kaip the cow, and pay me whin ye can'. So put
that off yer mind, my swait Ned.
"'I'm sorry to hear the Faries rowls so bad, though what the Faries
mains is more nor I can tell.' (I spelled the word quite krect, lads,
but my poor mistress hain't got the best of eyesight.) 'Let me know
in yer nixt, an' be sure to tell me if Long Forsyth has got the
bitter o' say-sickness. I'm koorius about this, bekaise I've got a
receipt for that same that's infallerable, as his Riverence says.
Tell him, with my luv, to mix a spoonful o' pepper, an' two o' salt,
an' wan o' mustard, an' a glass o' whisky in a taycup, with a
sprinklin' o' ginger; fill it up with goat's milk, or ass's, av ye
can't git goat's; hait it in a pan, an' drink it as hot as he
can--hotter, if possible. I niver tried it meself, but they say it's
a suverin' remidy; and if it don't do no good, it's not likely to do
much harm, bein' but a waik mixture. Me own belaif is, that the
milk's a mistake, but I suppose the doctors know best.
"'Now, swaitest of men, I must stop, for Neddy's just come in howlin'
like a born Turk for his tay; so no more at present from, yours till
deth,
"'KATHLEEN O'CONNOR.'"
"Has she any sisters?" enquired Joe Dumsby eagerly, as Ned folded the
letter and replaced it in his pocket.
"Six of 'em," replied Ned; "every one purtier and better nor
another."
"Is it a long way to Galway?" continued Joe.
"Not long; but it's a coorious thing that Englishmen never come back
from them parts whin they wance ventur' into them."
Joe was about to retort when the men called for another song.
"Come, Jamie Dove, let's have 'Rule, Britannia'."
Dove was by this time quite yellow in the face, and felt more
inclined to go to bed than to sing; but he braced himself up,
resolved to struggle manfully against the demon that oppressed him.
It was in vain! Poor Dove had just reached that point in the chorus
where Britons stoutly affirm that they "never, never, never shall be
slaves", when a tremendous roll of the vessel caused him to spring
from the locker, on which he sat, and rush to his berth.
There were several of the others whose self-restraint was demolished
by this example; these likewise fled, amid the laughter of their
companions, who broke up the meeting and went on deck.
The prospect of things there proved, beyond all doubt, that Britons
never did, and never will, rule the waves.
The storm, which had been brewing for some time past, was gathering
fresh strength every moment, and it became abundantly evident that
the floating light would have her anchors and cables tested pretty
severely before the gale was over.
About eight o'clock in the evening the wind shifted to
east-south-east; and at ten it became what seamen term a hard gale,
rendering it necessary to veer out about fifty additional fathoms of
the hempen cable. The gale still increasing, the ship rolled and
laboured excessively, and at midnight eighty fathoms more were veered
out, while the sea continued to strike the vessel with a degree of
force that no one had before experienced.
That night there was little rest on board the _Pharos_. Everyone who
has been "at sea" knows what it is to lie in one's berth on a stormy
night, with the planks of the deck only a few inches from one's nose,
and the water swashing past the little port that _always_ leaks; the
seas striking against the ship; the heavy sprays falling on the
decks; and the constant rattle and row of blocks, spars, and cordage
overhead. But all this was as nothing compared with the state of
things on board the floating light, for that vessel could not rise to
the seas with the comparatively free motions of a ship, sailing
either with or against the gale. She tugged and strained at her
cable, as if with the fixed determination of breaking it, and she
offered all the opposition of a fixed body to the seas.
Daylight, though ardently longed for, brought no relief. The gale
continued with unabated violence. The sea struck so hard upon the
vessel's bows that it rose in great quantities, or, as Ruby expressed
it, in "green seas", which completely swept the deck as far aft as
the quarter-deck, and not unfrequently went completely over the stern
of the ship.
Those "green seas" fell at last so heavily on the skylights that all
the glass was driven in, and the water poured down into the cabins,
producing dire consternation in the minds of those below, who thought
that the vessel was sinking.
"I'm drowned intirely," roared poor Ned O'Connor, as the first of
those seas burst in and poured straight down on his hammock, which
happened to be just beneath the skylight.
Ned sprang out on the deck, missed his footing, and was hurled with
the next roll of the ship into the arms of the steward, who was
passing through the place at the time.
Before any comments could be made the dead-lights were put on, and
the cabins were involved in almost absolute darkness.
"Och! let me in beside ye," pleaded Ned with the occupant of the
nearest berth.
"Awa' wi' ye! Na, na," cried John Watt, pushing the unfortunate man
away. "Cheinge yer wat claes first, an' I'll maybe let ye in, if ye
can find me again i' the dark."
While the Irishman was groping about in search of his chest, one of
the officers of the ship passed him on his way to the companion
ladder, intending to go on deck. Ruby Brand, feeling uncomfortable
below, leaped out of his hammock and followed him. They had both got
about halfway up the ladder when a tremendous sea struck the ship,
causing it to tremble from stem to stern. At the same moment someone
above opened the hatch, and putting his head down, shouted for the
officer, who happened to be just ascending.
"Ay, ay," replied the individual in question.
Just as he spoke, another heavy sea fell on the deck, and, rushing
aft like a river that has burst its banks, hurled the seaman into the
arms of the officer, who fell back upon Ruby, and all three came down
with tons of water into the cabin.
The scene that followed would have been ludicrous, had it not been
serious. The still rising sea caused the vessel to roll with
excessive violence, and the large quantity of water that had burst in
swept the men, who had jumped out of their beds, and all movable
things, from side to side in indescribable confusion. As the water
dashed up into the lower tier of beds, it was found necessary to lift
one of the scuttles in the floor, and let it flow into the limbers of
the ship.
Fortunately no one was hurt, and Ruby succeeded in gaining the deck
before the hatch was reclosed and fastened down upon the scene of
discomfort and misery below.
This state of things continued the whole day. The seas followed in
rapid succession, and each, as it struck the vessel, caused her to
shake all over. At each blow from a wave the rolling and pitching
ceased for a few seconds, giving the impression that the ship had
broken adrift, and was running with the wind, or in the act of
sinking; but when another sea came, she ranged up against it with
great force. This latter effect at last became the regular intimation
to the anxious men below that they were still riding safely at
anchor.
No fires could be lighted, therefore nothing could be cooked, so that
the men were fain to eat hard biscuits--those of them at least who
were able to eat at all--and lie in their wet blankets all day.
At ten in the morning the wind had shifted to north-east, and blew,
if possible, harder than before, accompanied by a much heavier swell
of the sea; it was therefore judged advisable to pay out more cable,
in order to lessen the danger of its giving way.
During the course of the gale nearly the whole length of the hempen
cable, of 120 fathoms, was veered out, besides the chain-moorings,
and, for its preservation, the cable was carefully "served", or
wattled, with pieces of canvas round the windlass, and with leather
well greased in the hawse-hole, where the chafing was most violent.
As may readily be imagined, the gentleman on whom rested nearly all
the responsibility connected with the work at the Bell Rock, passed
an anxious and sleepless time in his darkened berth. During the
morning he had made an attempt to reach the deck, but had been
checked by the same sea that produced the disasters above described.
About two o'clock in the afternoon great alarm was felt in
consequence of a heavy sea that struck the ship, almost filling the
waist, and pouring down into the berths below, through every chink
and crevice of the hatches and skylights. From the motion being
suddenly checked or deadened, and from the flowing in of the water
above, every individual on board thought that the ship was
foundering--at least all the landsmen were fully impressed with that
idea.
Mr. Stevenson could not remain below any longer. As soon as the ship
again began to range up to the sea, he made another effort to get on
deck. Before going, however, he went through the various apartments,
in order to ascertain the state of things below.
Groping his way in darkness from his own cabin, he came to that of
the officers of the ship. Here all was quiet, as well as dark. He
next entered the galley and other compartments occupied by the
artificers; here also all was dark, but not quiet, for several of the
men were engaged in prayer, or repeating psalms in a full tone of
voice, while others were protesting that if they should be fortunate
enough to get once more ashore, no one should ever see them afloat
again; but so loud was the creaking of the bulk-heads, the dashing of
water, and the whistling noise of the wind, that it was hardly
possible to distinguish words or voices.
The master of the vessel accompanied Mr. Stevenson, and, in one or
two instances, anxious and repeated enquiries were made by the
workmen as to the state of things on deck, to all of which he
returned one characteristic answer--"It can't blow long in this way,
lads; we _must_ have better weather soon."
The next compartment in succession, moving forward, was that allotted
to the seamen of the ship. Here there was a characteristic difference
in the scene. Having reached the middle of the darksome berth without
the inmates being aware of the intrusion, the anxious engineer was
somewhat reassured and comforted to find that, although they talked
of bad weather and cross accidents of the sea, yet the conversation
was carried on in that tone and manner which bespoke ease and
composure of mind.
"Well, lads," said Mr. Stevenson, accosting the men, "what think you
of this state of things? Will the good ship weather it?"
"Nae fear o' her, sir," replied one confidently, "she's light and
new; it'll tak' a heavy sea to sink her."
"Ay," observed another, "and she's got little hold o' the water, good
ground-tackle, and no tophamper; she'll weather anything, sir."
Having satisfied himself that all was right below, Mr. Stevenson
returned aft and went on deck, where a sublime and awful sight
awaited him. The waves appeared to be what we hear sometimes termed
"mountains high". In reality they were perhaps about thirty feet of
unbroken water in height, their foaming crests being swept and torn
by the furious gale. All beyond the immediate neighbourhood of the
ship was black and chaotic.
Upon deck everything movable was out of sight, having either been
stowed away below previous to the gale, or washed overboard. Some
parts of the quarter bulwarks were damaged by the breach of the sea,
and one of the boats was broken, and half-full of water.
There was only one solitary individual on deck, placed there to watch
and give the alarm if the cable should give way, and this man was
Ruby Brand, who, having become tired of having nothing to do, had
gone on deck, as we have seen, and volunteered his services as
watchman.
Ruby had no greatcoat on, no overall of any kind, but was simply
dressed in his ordinary jacket and trousers. He had thrust his cap
into his pocket in order to prevent it being blown away, and his
brown locks were streaming in the wind. He stood just aft the
foremast, to which he had lashed himself with a gasket or small rope
round his waist, to prevent his falling on the deck or being washed
overboard. He was as thoroughly wet as if he had been drawn through
the sea, and this was one reason why he was so lightly clad, that he
might wet as few clothes as possible, and have a dry change when he
went below.
There appeared to be a smile on his lips as he faced the angry gale
and gazed steadily out upon the wild ocean. He seemed to be enjoying
the sight of the grand elemental strife that was going on around him.
Perchance he was thinking of someone not very far away--with golden
hair!
Mr. Stevenson, coupling this smile on Ruby's face with the remarks of
the other seamen, felt that things were not so bad as they appeared
to unaccustomed eyes, nevertheless he deemed it right to advise with
the master and officers as to the probable result, in the event of
the ship drifting from her moorings.
"It is my opinion," said the master, on his being questioned as to
this, "that we have every chance of riding out the gale, which cannot
continue many hours longer with the same fury; and even if she should
part from her anchor, the storm-sails have been laid ready to hand,
and can be bent in a very short time. The direction of the wind being
nor'-east, we could sail up the Forth to Leith Roads; but if this
should appear doubtful, after passing the May we can steer for
Tyningham Sands, on the western side of Dunbar, and there run the
ship ashore. From the flatness of her bottom and the strength of her
build, I should think there would be no danger in beaching her even
in a very heavy sea."
This was so far satisfactory, and for some time things continued in
pretty much the state we have just described, but soon after there
was a sudden cessation of the straining motion of the ship which
surprised everyone. In another moment Ruby shouted "All hands a-hoy!
ship's adrift!"
The consternation that followed may be conceived but not described.
The windlass was instantly manned, and the men soon gave out that
there was no strain on the cable. The mizzen-sail, which was
occasionally bent for the purpose of making the ship ride easily, was
at once set; the other sails were hoisted as quickly as possible, and
they bore away about a mile to the south-westward, where, at a spot
that was deemed suitable, the best-bower anchor was let go in twenty
fathoms water.
Happily the storm had begun to abate before this accident happened.
Had it occurred during the height of the gale, the result might have
been most disastrous to the undertaking at the Bell Rock.
Having made all fast, an attempt was made to kindle the galley fire
and cook some food.
"Wot are we to 'ave, steward?" enquired Joe Dumsby, in a feeble
voice.
"Plumduff, my boy, so cheer up," replied the steward, who was busy
with the charming ingredients of a suet pudding, which was the only
dish to be attempted, owing to the ease with which it could be both
cooked and served up.
Accordingly, the suet pudding was made; the men began to cat; the
gale began to "take off", as seaman express it; and, Although things
were still very far removed from a state of comfort, they began to be
more endurable; health began to return to the sick, and hope to those
who had previously given way to despair.