There were four rooms and a lantern in Rudyerd's lighthouse. The second
room was that which was used most by John Potter and his mate Isaac
Dorkin: it was the kitchen, dining room, and parlour, all in one.
Immediately below it was the store-room, and just above it the
dormitory.
The general tenor of the life suited John exactly: he was a
quiet-spirited, meditative, religious man; and, although quite willing
to face difficulties, dangers, and troubles like a man, when required to
do so, he did not see it to be his duty to thrust himself unnecessarily
into these circumstances. There were plenty of men, he was wont to say,
who loved bustle and excitement, and there were plenty of situations of
that sort for them to fill; for his part, he loved peace and quiet; the
Eddystone lighthouse offered both, and why should he not take advantage
of the opportunity, especially when, by so doing, he would secure a
pretty good and regular income for his wife and family.
John gave vent to an opinion which contained deeper truths than, at that
time, he thought of. God has given to men their varied powers and
inclinations, in order that they may use these powers and follow these
inclinations. Working rightly, man is a perfect machine: it is only
"the fall" which has twisted all things awry. There is no sin in
feeling an intense desire for violent physical action, or in gratifying
that desire when we can do so in accordance with the revealed will of
God; but there is sin in gratifying it in a wrong way; in committing
burglary for instance, or in prize-fighting, or in helping others to
fight in a cause with which we have no right to interfere. Again, it is
not wrong to desire peace and quiet, and to wish for mental and
spiritual and physical repose; but it is decidedly wrong to stand by
with your hands in your pockets when an innocent or helpless one is
being assaulted by ruffians; to sit quiet and do nothing when your
neighbour's house is on fire; to shirk an unpleasant duty and leave some
one else to do it; or to lie a-bed when you should be up and at work.
_All_ our powers were given to be used: our inclinations were intended
to impel us in _certain_ directions, and God's will and glory were meant
to be our guide and aim. So the Scripture teaches, we think, in the
parable of the talents, and in the words, "_Whatsoever_ thy hand findeth
to do, do it with thy might;" and, "Whether, therefore, ye eat, or
drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God."
Our great fault lies in not consulting God's plan of arrangement. How
often do we find that, in adopting certain lines of action, men consult
only the pecuniary or social advantage; ignoring powers, or want of
powers, and violating inclinations; and this even among professing
Christians; while, among the unbelieving, God's will and glory are not
thought of at all. And yet we wonder that so many well-laid plans
miscarry, that so many promising young men and women "come to grief!"
Forgetting that "the right man (or woman) in the right place" is an
essential element in thorough success.
But, to return to John Potter. His conscience was easy as to his duty
in becoming a lightkeeper, and the lighthouse was all that he could
wish, or had hoped for. There was no disturbance from without, for the
thick walls and solid foundation defied winds or waves to trouble him;
save only in the matter of smoke, which often had a strong tendency to
traverse the chimney in the wrong direction, but that was not worth
mentioning! John found, however, that _sin_ in the person of his mate
marred his peace and destroyed his equanimity.
Isaac Dorkin did not find the life so much to his taste as he had
expected. He became more grumpy than ever, and quarrelled with his
friend on the slightest provocation; insomuch that at last John found it
to be his wisest plan to let him alone. Sometimes, in consequence of
this pacific resolve, the two men would spend a whole month without
uttering a word to each other; the one in the sulks, the other waiting
until he should come out of them.
Their duties were light, but regular. During the day they found a
sufficiency of quiet occupation in cooking their food, cleaning the
lighting apparatus--which consisted of a framework full of tallow
candles,--and in keeping the building clean and orderly. At night they
kept watch, each four hours at a time, while the other slept. While
watching, John read his Bible and several books which had been given to
him by Mr Rudyerd; or, in fine weather, paced round and round the
gallery, just outside the lantern, in profound meditation. Dorkin also,
during his watches, meditated much; he likewise grumbled a good deal,
and smoked continuously. He was not a bad fellow at bottom, however,
and sometimes he and Potter got on very amicably. At such seasons John
tried to draw his mate into religious talk, but without success. Thus,
from day to day and year to year, these two men stuck to their post,
until eleven years had passed away.
One day, about the end of that period, John Potter, who, having attained
to the age of fifty-two, was getting somewhat grey, though still in full
strength and vigour, sat at his chimney corner beside his buxom and
still blooming wife. His fireside was a better one than in days of
yore,--thanks to Tommy, who had become a flourishing engineer: Mrs
Potter's costume was likewise much better in condition and quality than
it used to be; thanks, again, to Tommy, who was a grateful and loving
son.
"Well, Martha, I've had a pleasant month ashore, lass: I wish that I
hadn't to go off on relief to-morrow."
"Why not leave it altogether, then, John? You've no occasion to
continue a light-keeper now that you've laid by so much, and Tommy is so
well off and able to help us, an' willin' too--God bless him!"
"Amen to that, Martha. I have just bin thinkin' over the matter, and
I've made up my mind that this is to be my last trip off to the Rock. I
spoke to the superintendent last week, and it's all settled. Who d'ye
think is to take my place?"
"I never could guess nothink, John: who?"
"Teddy Maroon: no less."
"What? an' 'im a' older man than yourself?"
"Ah, but it ain't the same Teddy. It's his eldest son, named after
himself; an' so like what his father was when I last saw him, that I
don't think I'd be able to tell which was which."
"Well, John, I'm glad to 'ear it; an' be sure that ye git 'ome, next
relief before the thirty-first of October, for that's Tommy's wedding
day, an' you know we fixed it a purpose to suit your time of being at
'ome. A sweet pair they'll make. Nora was born to be a lady: nobody
would think but she is one, with 'er pretty winsome ways; and Tommy, who
was twenty-five 'is very last birthday, is one of the 'andsomest men in
Plymouth. I've a settled conviction, John, that he'll live to be a
great man."
"You once had a settled conviction that he would come to a bad end,"
said Potter, with an arch smile.
"Go along with you, John!" retorted Mrs Potter.
"I'm just going," said John, rising and kissing his wife as he put on
his hat; "and you may depend on it that I'll not miss dancing at our
Tommy's wedding, if I can help it."
That night saw John Potter at his old post again--snuffing the candles
on the Eddystone, and chatting with his old mate Dorkin beside the
kitchen fire. One evening towards the end of October, John Potter and
Isaac, having "lighted up," sat down to a game of draughts. It was
blowing hard outside, and heavy breakers were bursting on the rock and
sending thin spray as high as the lantern, but all was peace and comfort
inside; even Isaac's grumpy spirit was calmer than usual.
"You seem dull to-night, mate," observed John, as they re-arranged the
pieces for another game.
"I don't feel very well," said Dorkin, passing his hand over his brow
languidly.
"You'd better turn in, then; an' I'll take half of your watch as well as
my own."
"Thank 'ee kindly," said Dorkin in a subdued voice: "I'll take yer
advice. Perhaps," he added slowly, "you'll read me a bit out o' _the
Book_."
This was the first time that Isaac had expressed a desire to touch on
religious subjects, or to hear the Bible read; and John, you may be
sure, was only too glad to comply. After his mate had lain down, he
read a small portion; but, observing that he seemed very restless, he
closed the Bible and contented himself with quoting the following words
of our Lord Jesus: "Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy
laden, and I will give you rest;" and, "The blood of Jesus Christ God's
Son, cleanseth us from all sin." Then in a sentence or two he prayed
fervently that the Holy Spirit might apply these words.
John had a suspicion that his mate was on the verge of a serious
illness, and he was not wrong. Next day, Dorkin was stricken with a
raging fever, and John Potter had not only to nurse him day and night,
but to give constant attention to the lantern as well. Fortunately, the
day after that the relief boat would be out, so he consoled himself with
that thought; but the gale, which had been blowing for some days,
increased that night until it blew a perfect hurricane. The sea round
the Eddystone became a tremendous whirlpool of foam, and all hope of
communication with the shore was cut off. Of course the unfortunate
lighthouse-keeper hung out a signal of distress, although he knew full
well that it could not be replied to.
Meanwhile a wedding party assembled in Plymouth. The bride was blooming
and young; the bridegroom--strong and happy; but there was a shade upon
his brow as he approached a stout elderly female, and said, sadly, "I
can't tell you, mother, how grieved I am that father is not with us
to-day. I would be quite willing to put it off, and so would Nora, for
a few days, but there is no appearance of the storm abating; and,
indeed, if even it stopped this moment, I don't think the relief-boat
could get off in less than a week."
"I know it, Tommy." (It seemed ridiculous to call a strapping,
curly-haired, bewhiskered, six-foot man "Tommy"!) "I know it, Tommy; but
it ain't of no use puttin' of it off. I've always 'ad a settled
conviction that anythink as is put off is as good as given up
altogether. No, no, my son; go on with the weddin'."
So the wedding went on, and Nora Vining, a dark-haired Plymouth maiden,
became Mrs Thomas Potter; and the breakfast was eaten, and the healths
were drunk, and the speeches made, and Mrs Potter, senior, wept
profusely (for joy) nearly all the time, into a white cotton
handkerchief, which was so large and strong that some of the guests
entertained the belief to the end of their lives that the worthy woman
had had it manufactured for her own special use on that great occasion.
Meanwhile the father, whose absence was regretted so much, and whose
heart would have rejoiced so much to have been there, remained in his
lonely dwelling, out among the mad whirlpools in the wildest past of the
raging sea. All day, and every day, his signal of distress streamed
horizontally in the furious gale, and fishermen stood on the shore and
wondered what was wrong, and wished so earnestly that the gale would go
down; but no one, not even the boldest among them all, imagined for a
moment that a boat could venture to leave the shore, much less encounter
the seething billows on the Eddystone. As each night drew on, one by
one the lights glimmered out above the rock, until the bright beams of
the fully illuminated lantern poured like a flood through the murky air,
and then men went home to their firesides, relieved to know that,
whatever might be wrong, the keepers were at all events able to attend
to their important duties.
Day after day Isaac Dorkin grew worse: he soon became delirious, and,
strong though he was, John Potter was scarcely able to hold him down in
bed. When the delirium first came on, John chanced to be in the lantern
just commencing to light up. When he was about to apply the light, he
heard a noise behind him, and, turning hastily round, beheld the flushed
face and blazing eyes of his mate rising through the trap door that
communicated with the rooms below. Leaving his work, John hastened to
his friend, and with some difficulty persuaded him to return to his bed;
but no sooner had he got him into it and covered him up, than a new
paroxysm came on, and the sick man arose in the strength of his agony
and hurled his friend to the other side of the apartment. John sprang
up, and grappled with him while he was rushing towards the door. It was
an awful struggle that ensued. Both were large and powerful men; the
one strong in a resolute purpose to meet boldly a desperate case, the
other mad with fever. They swayed to and fro, and fell on and smashed
the homely furniture of the place; sometimes the one and sometimes the
other prevailing, while both gasped for breath and panted vehemently;
suddenly Dorkin sank down exhausted. He appeared to collapse, and John
lifted him with difficulty again into his bed; but in a few seconds he
attempted to renew the struggle, while the whole building was filled
with his terrific cries.
While this was going on, the shades of night had been falling fast, and
John Potter remembered that none of the candles had been lit, and that
in a few minutes more the rock would be a source of greater danger to
shipping than if no lighthouse had been there, because vessels would be
making for the light from all quarters of the world, in the full faith
of its being kept up! Filled with horror at the thought that perhaps
even at that moment vessels might be hurrying on to their doom, he
seized a piece of rope that lay at hand, and managed to wind it so
firmly round his mate as to render him helpless. Bounding back to the
lantern, he quickly lighted it up, but did not feel his heart relieved
until he had gazed out at the snowy billows below, and made sure that no
vessel was in view. Then he took a long draught of water, wiped his
brow, and returned to his friend.
Two days after that Isaac Dorkin died. And now John Potter found
himself in a more horrible situation than before. The storm continued:
no sooner did one gale abate than another broke out, so as to render
approach to the rock impossible; while, day after day, and night after
night, the keeper had to pass the dead body of his mate several times in
attending to the duties of the lantern. And still the signal of
distress continued to fly from the lighthouse, and still the people on
shore continued to wonder what was wrong, to long for moderate weather,
and to feel relief when they saw the faithful light beam forth each
evening at sunset.
At last the corpse began to decay, and John felt that it was necessary
to get rid of it, but he dared not venture to throw it into the sea. It
was well known that Dorkin had been a quarrelsome man, and he feared
that if he could not produce the body when the relief came, he might be
deemed a _murderer_. He therefore let it lie until it became so
overpoweringly offensive that the whole building, from foundation to
cupola, was filled with the horrible stench. The feelings of the
solitary man can neither be conceived nor described. Well was it for
John that he had the Word of God in his hand, and the grace of God in
his heart during that awful period.
For nearly a month his agony lasted. At last the weather moderated.
The boat came off; the "relief" was effected; and poor Dorkin's body,
which was in such a condition that it could not be carried on shore, was
thrown into the sea. Then John Potter returned home, and left the
lighthouse service for ever.
From that time forward it has been the custom to station not fewer than
three men at a time on all out-lying lighthouses of the kingdom.
Note. Reader, we have not drawn here on our imagination. This story is
founded on unquestionable fact.