Change of scene is necessary to the healthful working of the human mind;
at least, so it is said. Acting upon the assumption that the saying is
true, we will do our best in this chapter for the human minds that
condescend to peruse these pages, by leaping over a space of time, and
by changing at least the character of the scene, if not the locality.
We present the Bell Rock under a new aspect, that of a dense fog and a
dead calm.
This is by no means an unusual aspect of things at the Bell Rock, but as
we have hitherto dwelt chiefly on storms it may be regarded as new to
the reader.
It was a June morning. There had been few breezes and no storms for
some weeks past, so that the usual swell of the ocean had gone down, and
there were actually no breakers on the rock at low water, and no
ruffling of the surface at all at high tide. The tide had, about two
hours before, overflowed the rock and driven the men into the beacon
house, where, having breakfasted, they were at the time enjoying
themselves with pipes and small talk.
The lighthouse had grown considerably by this time. Its unfinished top
was more than eighty feet above the foundation; but the fog was so dense
that only the lower part of the column could be seen from the beacon,
the summit being lost, as it were, in the clouds.
Nevertheless that summit, high though it was, did not yet project beyond
the reach of the sea. A proof of this had been given in a very striking
manner, some weeks before the period about which we now write, to our
friend George Forsyth.
George was a studious man, and fond of reading the Bible critically. He
was proof against laughter and ridicule, and was wont sometimes to urge
the men into discussions. One of his favourite arguments was somewhat
as follows--
"Boys," he was wont to say, "you laugh at me for readin' the Bible
carefully. You would not laugh at a schoolboy for reading his books
carefully, would you? Yet the learnin' of the way of salvation is of
far more consequence to me than book learnin' is to a schoolboy. An
astronomer is never laughed at for readin' his books o' geometry an'
suchlike day an' night--even to the injury of his health--but what is an
astronomer's business to _him_ compared with the concerns of my soul to
_me_? Ministers tell me there are certain things I must know and
believe if I would be saved--such as the death and resurrection of our
Saviour Jesus Christ; and they also point out that the Bible speaks of
certain Christians, who did well in refusin' to receive the Gospel at
the hands of the apostles, without first enquirin' into these things, to
see if they were true. Now, lads, _if_ these things that so many
millions believe in, and that _you_ all profess to believe in, are lies,
then you may well laugh at me for enquirin' into them; but if they be
true, why, I think the devils themselves must be laughing at _you_ for
_not_ enquirin' into them!"
Of course, Forsyth found among such a number of intelligent men, some
who could argue with him, as well as some who could laugh at him. He
also found one or two who sympathised openly, while there were a few who
agreed in their hearts, although they did not speak.
Well, it was this tendency to study on the part of Forsyth, that led him
to cross the wooden bridge between the beacon and the lighthouse during
his leisure hours, and sit reading at the top of the spiral stair, near
one of the windows of the lowest room.
Forsyth was sitting at his usual window one afternoon at the end of a
storm. It was a comfortless place, for neither sashes nor glass had at
that time been put in, and the wind howled up and down the shaft
dreadfully. The man was robust, however, and did not mind that.
The height of the building was at that time fully eighty feet. While he
was reading there a tremendous breaker struck the lighthouse with such
force that it trembled distinctly. Forsyth started up, for he had never
felt this before, and fancied the structure was about to fall. For a
moment or two he remained paralysed, for he heard the most terrible and
inexplicable sounds going on overhead. In fact, the wave that shook the
building had sent a huge volume of spray right over the top, part of
which fell into the lighthouse, and what poor Forsyth heard was about a
ton of water coming down through storey after storey, carrying lime,
mortar, buckets, trowels, and a host of other things, violently along
with it.
To plunge down the spiral stair, almost headforemost, was the work of a
few seconds. Forsyth accompanied the descent with a yell of terror,
which reached the ears of his comrades in the beacon, and brought them
to the door, just in time to see their comrade's long legs carry him
across the bridge in two bounds. Almost at the same instant the water
and rubbish burst out of the doorway of the lighthouse, and flooded the
bridge.
But let us return from this digression, or rather, this series of
digressions, to the point where we branched off: the aspect of the
beacon in the fog, and the calm of that still morning in June.
Some of the men inside were playing draughts, others were finishing
their breakfast; one was playing "Auld Lang Syne", with many extempore
flourishes and trills, on a flute, which was very much out of tune. A
few were smoking, of course (where exists the band of Britons who can
get on without that!) and several were sitting astride on the
cross-beams below, bobbing--not exactly for whales, but for any monster
of the deep that chose to turn up.
The men fishing, and the beacon itself, loomed large and mysterious in
the half-luminous fog. Perhaps this was the reason that the sea-gulls
flew so near them, and gave forth an occasional and very melancholy cry,
as if of complaint at the changed appearance of things.
"There's naethin' to be got the day," said John Watt, rather peevishly,
as he pulled up his line and found the bait gone.
Baits are _always_ found gone when lines are pulled up! This would seem
to be an angling law of nature. At all events, it would seem to have
been a very aggravating law of nature on the present occasion, for John
Watt frowned and growled to himself as he put on another bait.
"There's a bite!" exclaimed Joe Dumsby, with a look of doubt, at the
same time feeling his line.
"Poo'd in then," said Watt ironically.
"No, 'e's hoff," observed Joe.
"Hm! he never was on," muttered Watt.
"What are you two growling at?" said Ruby, who sat on one of the beams
at the other side.
"At our luck, Ruby," said Joe. "Ha! was that a nibble?" ("Naethin' o'
the kind," from Watt.) "It was! as I live it's large; an 'addock, I
think."
"A naddock!" sneered Watt; "mair like a bit o' tangle than--eh! losh me!
it _is_ a fish--"
"Well done, Joe!" cried Bremner, from the doorway above, as a large
rock-cod was drawn to the surface of the water.
"Stay, it's too large to pull up with the line. I'll run down and gaff
it," cried Ruby, fastening his own line to the beam, and descending to
the water by the usual ladder, on one of the main beams. "Now, draw him
this way--gently, not too roughly--take time. Ah! that was a miss--he's
off; no! Again; now then--"
Another moment, and a goodly cod of about ten pounds weight was
wriggling on the iron hook which Ruby handed up to Dumsby, who mounted
with his prize in triumph to the kitchen.