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, lads" 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' charackter, 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 buried 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; bait 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
quarterdeck, 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 bulkheads, 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 top-hamper; 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 eat; 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.