We turn now to a very different scene--the pier and harbour of Ramsgate.
The storm-fiend is abroad. Thick clouds of a dark leaden hue drive
athwart a sky of dingy grey, ever varying their edges, and rolling out
limbs and branches in random fashion, as if they were fleeing before the
wind in abject terror. The wind, however, is chiefly in the sky as yet.
Down below there are only fitful puffs now and then, telling of
something else in store. The sea is black, with sufficient swell on it
to cause a few crested waves here and there to gleam intensely white by
contrast. It is early in the day, nevertheless there is a peculiar
darkness in the atmosphere which suggests the approach of night.
Numerous vessels in the offing are making with all speed for Ramsgate
harbour, which is truly and deservedly named a "harbour of refuge," for
already some two dozen ships of considerable size, and a large fleet of
small craft, have sought and found shelter on a coast which in certain
conditions of the wind is fraught with danger. About the stores near
the piers, Trinity men are busy with buoys, anchors, and cables;
elsewhere labourers are toiling, idlers are loafing, and lifeboat--men
are lounging about, leaning on the parapets, looking wistfully out to
sea, with and without telescopes, from the sheer force of habit, and
commenting on the weather. The broad, bronzed, storm-battered coxswain
of the celebrated Ramsgate lifeboat, who seems to possess the power of
feeding and growing strong on hardship and exposure, is walking about at
the end of the east pier, contemplating the horizon in the direction of
the Goodwin Sands with the serious air of a man who expects ere long to
be called into action.
The harbour-master--who is, and certainly had need be, a man of brain as
well as muscle and energy, to keep the conflicting elements around him
in order--moves about actively, making preparation for the expected
gale.
Early on the morning of the day referred to, Nora Jones threaded her way
among the stalls of the marketplace under the town-hall, as if she were
in search of some one. Not succeeding in her search, she walked briskly
along one of the main thoroughfares of the town, and diverged into a
narrow street, which appeared to have retired modestly into a corner in
order to escape observation. At the farther end of this little street,
she knocked at the door of a house, the cleanly appearance of which
attested the fact that its owner was well-doing and orderly.
Nora knocked gently; she did everything gently!
"Is Mrs Moy at home?" she asked, as a very bright little girl's head
appeared.
No sooner was Nora's voice heard than the door was flung wide open, and
the little girl exclaimed, "Yes, she's at 'ome, and daddy too." She
followed up this assurance with a laugh of glee, and, seizing the
visitor's hand, dragged her into the house by main force.
"Hallo, Nora, 'ow are 'ee, gal?" cried a deep bass voice from the
neighbourhood of the floor, where its owner appeared to be smothered
with children, for he was not to be seen.
Nora looked down and beheld the legs and boots of a big man, but his
body and head were invisible, being completely covered and held down by
four daughters and five sons, one of the former being a baby, and one of
the latter an infant.
Dick Moy, who was enjoying his month on shore, rose as a man might rise
from a long dive, flung out his great right arm, scattered the children
like flecks of foam, and sat up with a beaming countenance, holding the
infant tenderly in his left arm. The baby had been cast under the
table, where it lay, helpless apparently, and howling. It had passed
the most tender period of life, and had entered on that stage when
knocks, cuts, yells, and bruises are the order of the day.
"Glad to see you, Nora," said the man of the floating light, extending
his huge hand, which the girl grasped and shook warmly. "You'll excuse
me not bein' more purlite. I'm oppressed with child'n, as you see. It
seems to me as if I'd gone an' got spliced to that there 'ooman in the
story-book wot lived in the shoe, an' had so many child'n she didn't
know wot to do. If so, she knows wot to do now. She's only got to hand
'em over to poor Dick Moy, an' leave him to suffer the consickences.--
Ah, 'ere she comes."
Dick rose as he spoke, and handed a chair to Nora at the moment that his
better, but lesser, half entered.
It must not be supposed that Dick said all this without interruption.
On the contrary, he bawled it out in the voice of a bo's'n's mate, while
the four daughters and five sons, including the baby and the infant,
crawled up his legs and clung to his pockets, and enacted Babel on a
small scale.
Mrs Moy was a very pretty, tidy, cheerful little woman, of the fat,
fair, and forty description, save that she was nearer thirty-five than
forty. It was clear at a glance that she and Dick had been made for
each other, and that, had either married anybody else, each would have
done irreparable damage to the other.
"Sit down, Nora. I'm so glad to see you. Come to breakfast, I hope?
we're just going to have it."
Mrs Moy said this as if she really meant it, and would be terribly
disappointed if she met with a refusal. Nora tried to speak, but Babel
was too much for her.
"Silence!" burst from Dick, as if a small cannon had gone off in the
room.
Babel was hushed.
"Mum's the word for _three minutes_," said Dick, pointing to a huge
Yankee clock which stood on the chimney-piece, with a model frigate in a
glass case, and a painted sea and sky on one side of it, and a model
light-vessel in a glass case, and a painted sea and sky on the other.
There was profound wisdom in this arrangement. If Dick had ordered
silence for an indefinite space of time, there would have been
discontent, approximating to despair, in Babel's bosom, and, therefore,
strong temptation to rebellion. But three minutes embraced a fixed and
known period of time. The result was a desperate effort at restraint,
mingled with gleeful anticipation. The elder children who could read
the clock stared eagerly at the Yankee time-piece; the younger ones who
couldn't read the clock, but who knew that the others could, stared
intently at their seniors, and awaited the signal. With the exception
of hard breathing, the silence was complete; the baby being spell-bound
by example, and the feeble remarks of the infant--which had been
transferred to the arms of the eldest girl--making no impression worth
speaking of.
"You are very kind," said Nora, "I'll stay for breakfast with pleasure.
Grandmother won't be up for an hour yet, and father's not at home just
now."
"Werry good," said Dick, taking a short black pipe out of his
coat-pocket, "that's all right. And 'ow do 'ee like Ramsgate, Nora, now
you've had a fair trial of it?"
"I think I like it better than Yarmouth; but perhaps that is because we
live in a more airy and cheerful street. I would not have troubled you
so early, Mr Moy"--("'Tain't no trouble at all, Nora; werry much the
reverse")--"but that I am anxious to hear how you got on with poor
Billy--"
At this point Babel burst forth with redoubled fury. Dick was attacked
and carried by storm; the short black pipe was seized, and an old hat
was clapped on his head and thrust down over his eyes! He gave in at
once, and submitted with resignation. He struck his colours, so to
speak, without firing a shot, and for full five minutes breasted the
billows of a sea of children manfully, while smart Mrs Moy spread the
breakfast-table as quietly as if nothing were going on, and Nora sat and
smiled at them.
Suddenly Dick rose for the second time from his dive, flung off the
foam, tossed aside the baby, rescued the infant from impending
destruction, and thundered "Silence! mum's the word for three minutes
more."
"That's six, daddy!" cried the eldest boy, whose spirit of opposition
was growing so strong that he could not help indulging it, even against
his own interests.
"No," said Dick sternly.
"It was three minutes last time," urged the boy; "an' you said three
minutes _more_ this time; three minutes more than three minutes is six
minutes, ain't it?"
"Three minutes," repeated Dick, holding up a warning finger.
Babel ceased; the nine pair of eyes (excepting those of the infant)
became fixed, and Nora proceeded--
"I wanted to hear how you got on with Billy. Did they take him in at
once? and what sort of place is the Grotto? You see I am naturally
anxious to know, because it was a terrible thing to send a poor boy away
from his only friend among strangers at such an age, and just after
recovering from a bad illness; but you know I could not do otherwise.
It would have been his ruin to have--"
She paused.
"To have stopped where he was, I s'pose you would say?" observed Dick.
"Well, I ain't sure o' that, Nora. It's quite true that the bad company
he'd 'ave seen would 'ave bin against 'im; but to 'ave you for his
guardian hangel might 'ave counteracted that. It would 'ave bin like
the soda to the hacid, a fizz at first and all square arterwards.
Hows'ever, that don't signify now, cos he's all right. I tuk him to the
Grotto, the werry first thing arter I'd bin to the Trinity 'Ouse, and
seed him cast anchor there all right, and--"
Again Babel burst forth, and riot reigned supreme for five minutes more.
At the end of that time silence was proclaimed as before.
"Now then," said Dick, "breakfast bein' ready, place the chairs."
The three elder children obeyed this order. Each member of this
peculiar household had been "told off," as Dick expressed it, to a
special duty, which was performed with all the precision of discipline
characteristic of a man-of-war.
"That's all right; now go in and win," said Dick. There was no occasion
to appeal to the Yankee clock now. Tongues and throats as well as teeth
and jaws were too fully occupied. Babel succumbed for full quarter of
an hour, during which period Dick Moy related to Nora the circumstances
connected with a recent visit to London, whither he had been summoned as
a witness in a criminal trial, and to which, at Nora's earnest entreaty,
and with the boy's unwilling consent, he had conveyed Billy Towler. We
say unwilling, because Billy, during his long period of convalescence,
had been so won by the kindness of Nora, that the last thing in the
world he would have consented to bear was separation from her; but, on
thinking over it, he was met by this insurmountable difficulty--that the
last thing in the world he would consent to do was to disobey her!
Between these two influences he went unwillingly to London--for the sake
of his education, as Nora said to him--for the sake of being freed from
the evil influence of her father's example, as poor Nora was compelled
to admit to herself.
"The Grotto," said Dick, speaking as well as he could through an immense
mouthful of bacon and bread, "is an institootion which I 'ave reason for
to believe desarves well of its country. It is an institootion sitooate
in Paddington Street, Marylebone, where homeless child'n, as would
otherwise come to the gallows, is took in an' saved--saved not only from
sin an' misery themselves, but saved from inflictin' the same on
society. I do assure _you_," said Dick, striking the table with his
fist in his enthusiasm, so that the crockery jumped, and some of the
children almost choked by reason of their food going down what they
styled their "wrong throats"--"I do assure _you_, that it would 'ave
done yer 'art good to 'ave seed 'm, as I did the day I went there, so
clean and comf'r'able and 'appy--no mistake about that. Their 'appiness
was genoo_ine_. Wot made it come 'ome to me was, that I seed there a
little boy as I 'appened to know was one o' the dirtiest, wickedest,
sharpest little willains in London--a mere spider to look at, but with
mischief enough to fill a six-fut man to bu'stin'--an' there 'ee was,
clean an' jolly, larnin' his lessons like a good un--an' no sham
neither, cos 'e'd got a good spice o' the mischief left, as was pretty
clear from the way 'ee gave a sly pinch or pull o' the hair now an'
again to the boys next him, an' drawed monkey-faces on his slate. But
that spider, I wos told, could do figurin' like one o'clock, an' could
spell like Johnson's Dictionairy.
"Well," continued Dick, after a few moments' devotion to a bowl of
coffee, "I 'anded Billy Towler over to the superintendent, tellin' 'im
'ee wos a 'omeless boy as 'adn't got no parients nor relations, an wos
werry much in need o' bein' looked arter. So 'ee took 'im in, an' I
bade him good-bye."
Dick Moy then went on to tell how that the superintendent of the Grotto
showed him all over the place, and told him numerous anecdotes regarding
the boys who had been trained there; that one had gone into the army and
become a sergeant, and had written many long interesting letters to the
institution, which he still loved as being his early and only "home;"
that another had become an artilleryman; another a man-of-war's man; and
another a city missionary, who commended the blessed gospel of Jesus
Christ to those very outcasts from among whom he had himself been
plucked. The superintendent also explained to his rugged but much
interested and intelligent visitor that they had a flourishing Ragged
School in connection with the institution; also a Sunday-school and a
"Band of Hope"--which latter had been thought particularly necessary,
because they found that many of the neglected young creatures that came
to them had already been tempted and taught by their parents and by
publicans to drink, so that the foundation of that dreadful craving
disease had been laid, and those desires had begun to grow which, if not
checked, would certainly end in swift and awful destruction. One
blessed result of this was that the children had not only themselves
joined, but had in some instances induced their drunken parents to
attend the weekly addresses.
All this, and a great deal more, was related by Dick Moy with the wonted
enthusiasm and energy of his big nature, and with much gesticulation of
his tremendous fist--to the evident anxiety of Nora, who, like an
economical housewife as she was, had a feeling of tenderness for the
crockery, even although it was not her own. Dick wound up by saying
that if _he_ was a rich man, "'ee'd give some of 'is superfloous cash to
that there Grotto, he would."
"Perhaps you wouldn't," said Nora. "I've heard one rich man say that
the applications made to him for money were so numerous that he was
quite annoyed, and felt as if he was goin' to become bankrupt!"
"Nora," said Dick, smiting the table emphatically, "I'm not a rich man
myself, an' wot's more, I never 'xpect to be, so I can't be said to 'ave
no personal notions at all, d'ye see, about wot they feels; but I've
also heerd a rich man give 'is opinion on that pint, and I've no manner
of doubt that _my_ rich man is as good as your'n--better for the matter
of that; anyway he knowed wot was wot. Well, says 'ee to me, w'en I
went an' begged parding for axin' 'im for a subscription to this 'ere
werry Grotto--which, by the way, is supported by woluntary
contribootions--'ee says, `Dick Moy,' says 'ee, `you've no occasion for
to ax my parding,' says 'ee. `'Ere's 'ow it is. I've got _so_ much
cash to spare out of my hincome. Werry good; I goes an' writes down a
list of all the charities. First of all comes the church--which ain't a
charity, by the way, but a debt owin' to the Lord--an' the missionary
societies, an the Lifeboat Institootion, an' the Shipwrecked Mariners'
Society, and such like, which are the great _National_ institootions of
the country that _every_ Christian ought to give a helpin' 'and to.
Then there's the poor among one's own relations and friends; then the
hospitals an' various charities o' the city or town in which one dwells,
and the poor of the same. Well, arter that's all down,' says 'ee, `I
consider w'ich o' them ere desarves an' _needs_ most support from me;
an' so I claps down somethin' to each, an' adds it all up, an' wot is
left over I holds ready for chance applicants. If their causes are good
I give to 'em heartily; if not, I bow 'em politely out o' the 'ouse.
That's w'ere it is,' says 'ee. `An' do you know, Dick Moy,' says 'ee,
`the first time I tried that plan, and put down wot I thought a fair
liberal sum to each, I wos amazed--I wos stunned for to find that the
total wos so small and left so werry much of my spare cash yet to be
disposed of, so I went over it all again, and had to double and treble
the amount to be given to each. Ah, Dick,' says _my_ rich man, `if
people who don't keep cashbooks would only mark down wot they _think_
they can afford to give away in a year, an' wot they _do_ give away,
they would be surprised. It's not always unwillingness to give that's
the evil. Often it's ignorance o' what is actooally given--no account
bein' kep'.'
"`Wot d'ye think, Dick,' _my_ rich man goes on to say, `there are some
churches in this country which are dependent on the people for support,
an' the contents o' the plates at the doors o' these churches on Sundays
is used partly for cleanin' and lightin' of 'em; partly for payin' their
precentors, and partly for repairs to the buildins, and partly for
helpin' out the small incomes of their ministers; an' wot d'ye think
most o' the people--not many but _most_ of 'em--gives a week, Dick, for
such important purposes?'
"`I don' know, sir,' says I.
"`One penny, Dick,' says 'ee, `which comes exactly to four shillins and
fourpence a year,' says 'ee. `An' they ain't paupers; Dick! If they
wos paupers, it wouldn't be a big sum for 'em to give out o' any
pocket-money they might chance to git from their pauper friends, but
they're well-dressed people, Dick, and they seems to be well off! Four
an' fourpence a year! think o' that--not to mention the deduction w'en
they goes for a month or two to the country each summer. Four an'
fourpence a year, Dick! Some of 'em even goes so low as a halfpenny,
which makes two an' twopence a year--7 pounds, 11 shillings, 8 pence in
a seventy-year _lifetime_, Dick, supposin' their liberality began to
flow the day they wos born!'
"At this _my_ rich man fell to laughing till I thought 'ee'd a busted
hisself; but he pulled up sudden, an' axed me all about the Grotto, and
said it was a first-rate institootion, an' gave me a ten-pun' note on
the spot. Now, Nora, _my_ rich man is a friend o' yours--Mr Durant, of
Yarmouth, who came to Ramsgate a short time ago for to spend the autumn,
an' I got introdooced to him through knowin' Jim Welton, who got aboord
of one of his ships through knowin' young Mr Stanley Hall, d'ye see?
That's where it is."
After this somewhat lengthened speech, Dick Moy swallowed a slop-bowlful
of coffee at a draught--he always used a slop-bowl--and applied himself
with renewed zest to a Norfolk dumpling, in the making of which delicacy
his wife had no equal.
"I believe that Mr Durant is a kind good man," said Nora, feeding the
infant with a crust dipped in milk, "and I am quite sure that he has got
the sweetest daughter that ever a man was blessed with--Miss Katie; you
know her, I suppose?"
"'Aven't seed 'er yet," was Dick's curt reply.
"She's a dear creature," continued Nora--still doing her best to choke
the infant--"she found out where I lived while she was in search of a
sick boy in Yarmouth, who, she said, was the brother of a poor ragged
boy named Billy Towler, she had once met with. Of course I had to tell
her that Billy had been deceiving her and had no brother. Oh! you
should have seen her kind face, Dick, when I told her this. I do think
that up to that time she had lived under the belief that a young boy
with a good-looking face and an honest look could not be a deceiver."
"Poor thing," said Dick, with a sad shake of the head, as if pitying her
ignorance.
"Yes," continued Nora--still attempting to choke the infant--"she could
not say a word at that time, but went away with her eyes full of tears.
I saw her often afterwards, and tried to convince her there might be
some good in Billy after all, but she was not easily encouraged, for her
belief in appearances had got a shake that she seemed to find it
difficult to get over. That was when Billy was lying ill in hospital.
I have not seen much of her since then, she and her father having been
away in London."
"H'm, I'm raither inclined to jine her in thinkin' that no good'll come
o' that young scamp. He's too sharp by half," said Dick with a frown.
"Depend upon it, Nora, w'en a boy 'as gone a great length in wickedness
there's no chance o' reclaimin' him."
"Dick," exclaimed Nora, with sudden energy, "depend upon it that
_that's_ not true, for it does not correspond with the Bible, which says
that our Lord came not to call the righteous but _sinners_ to
repentance."
"There's truth in _that_, anyhow," replied Dick, gazing thoughtfully
into Nora's countenance, as if the truth had come home to him for the
first time. What his further observations on the point might have been
we know not, as at that moment the door opened and one of his mates
entered, saying that he had come to go down with him to the buoy-store,
as the superintendent had given orders that he and Moy should overhaul
the old North Goodwin buoy, and give her a fresh coat of paint. Dick
therefore rose, wiped his mouth, kissed the entire family, beginning
with the infant and ending with "the missis," after which he shook hands
with Nora and went out.
The storm which had for some time past been brewing, had fairly brewed
itself up at last, and the wild sea was covered with foam. Although
only an early autumn storm, it was, like many a thing out of season, not
the less violent on that account. It was one of the few autumn storms
that might have been transferred to winter with perfect propriety. It
performed its work of devastation as effectively as though it had come
forth at its proper season. On land chimney stacks and trees were
levelled. At sea vessels great and small were dismasted and destroyed,
and the east coast of the kingdom was strewn with wreckage and dead
bodies. Full many a noble ship went down that night! Wealth that might
have supported all the charities in London for a twelvemonth was sent to
the bottom of the sea that night and lost for ever. Lives that had
scarce begun and lives that were all but done, were cut abruptly short,
leaving broken hearts and darkened lives in many a home, not only on the
sea-coast but inland, where the sound of the great sea's roar is never
heard. Deeds of daring were done that night,--by men of the lifeboat
service and the coast-guard,--which seemed almost beyond the might of
human skill and courage--resulting in lives saved from that same great
sea--lives young and lives old--the salvation of which caused many a
heart in the land, from that night forward, to bless God and sing for
joy.
But of all the wide-spread and far-reaching turmoil; the wreck and
rescue, the rending and relieving of hearts, the desperate daring, and
dread disasters of that night we shall say nothing at all, save in
regard to that which occurred on and in the neighbourhood of the Goodwin
Sands.