While this scene was enacting in the cottage, I was hasting up from the
beach, where the lifeboat men had rendered good service that night.
As the honorary agent for the Shipwrecked Mariners' Society, I had been
summoned by a special messenger as soon as it was known that vessels
were on the rocks off the entrance to our harbour. I was accompanied by
my niece, Lizzie Gordon, who always joined me on such occasions,
carrying with her a basket in which were a flask of brandy, another of
port wine, a bottle of smelling salts, and several small articles which
she fancied might be of use in cases of emergency. We had called at the
Sailors' Home in passing, to see that they were astir there, and ready
to receive shipwrecked people. We afterwards remained on the beach,
under the lee of a boathouse, while the lifeboat men saved the crews of
the wrecked vessels.
The work was nobly done! John Furby, the coxswain, with a sturdy crew
of volunteers--twelve in all--were ready for action, with cork
life-belts and oilskin coats on, when the team of four stout horses came
tearing along the sands dragging the lifeboat after them, assisted and
cheered on by a large crowd of men and boys. No unnecessary delay
occurred. Opposite the first wreck, the carriage was wheeled round, so
that the bow of the boat pointed to the sea. The crew sprang into their
seats, and, shipping the oars, sat ready and resolute.
Immense breakers thundered on the beach, and rushed inland in fields of
gurgling foam that looked like phosphoric light in the darkness. Into
this the carriage was thrust as far as it could be with safety by many
strong and willing hands. Then the men in the surf seized the launching
lines, by means of which the boat could be propelled off its carriage.
A peculiar adaptation of the mechanism enabled them, by _pulling
backward_, to force the boat _forward_. For a moment they stood
inactive as a towering wave rolled in like a great black scroll coming
out of the blacker background, where the sound of the raging storm could
be heard, but where nothing could be seen, save the pale red light which
proved that the wreck still held together.
The sea flew up, almost overwhelming the carriage. John Furby, standing
at his post by the steering oar, with the light of the small boat-lamp
shining up into his rugged face, gave the word in a clear, strong voice.
"Hurrah!" shouted the men on shore, as they ran up the beach with the
ends of the launching ropes.
The boat sprang into the surf, the crew bent to their oars with all
their might, and kept pace with the rush of the retreating billow, while
the sea drew them out as if it were hungry to swallow them.
The lifeboat met the next breaker end-on; the men, pulling vigorously,
cleft it, and, passing beyond, gained the deep water and disappeared
from view.
The minutes that followed appeared like hours, but our patience was not
long tried. The boat soon re-appeared, coming in on the crest of a
towering wave, with six saved seamen in her. As she struck the beach
she was seized by the crowd on shore, and dragged out of danger by main
force.
Thus far all was well. But there was stern work still to be done.
Having ascertained that the vessel was a collier, and that none of her
crew were lost, I sent the six men with an escort to the Sailors' Home,
and followed the lifeboat, which was already on its way to the second
wreck, not more than five hundred yards from the first.
Here they were equally successful, three men and a boy being rescued
from the vessel, which also proved to be a small collier. Then the boat
was conveyed to the third wreck, which turned out to be a brig, and was
nearly a mile removed from the harbour, just opposite the fishing
village of Cove.
The crew of the lifeboat being now much exhausted, were obliged to give
up their oars and life-belts to fresh men, who volunteered for the
service in scores. Nothing, however, would persuade John Furby to
resign his position, although he was nearly worn out with fatigue and
exposure.
Once more the lifeboat dashed into the sea, and once again returned with
a crew of rescued men, who were immediately led up to the nearest hut,
which chanced to be that of Stephen Gaff. One of the saved men, being
insensible, was carried up and laid in Stephen's bed, as I have already
described.
There was still some uncertainty as to whether all those on board the
wreck had been rescued, so the boat put off again, but soon returned,
having found no one. As she struck the shore a larger wave than usual
overwhelmed her, and washed the coxswain overboard. A loud cry burst
from those who witnessed this, and one or two daring fellows, running
into the surf up to their waists, nearly perished in their brave but
vain efforts to grasp the drowning man.
Furby did not struggle. He had been rendered insensible by the shock,
and although several ropes were thrown to him, and one actually fell
over him, he could make no effort to save himself, as the waves rolled
him inshore and sucked him back again.
At this moment the sound of horses' hoofs was heard on the sands, and my
young friend Kenneth Stuart dashed past us, at full gallop, into the
sea!
Kenneth was a splendid and a fearless rider. He kept the finest horses
in the neighbourhood. On this occasion he was mounted on a large strong
chestnut, which he had trained to gallop into a foaming surf.
Checking his pace suddenly, when about knee-deep in the foam, he took up
such a position that the next billow would wash the drowning man within
his reach.
The wave came on. When about a hundred yards from the spot where the
young horseman stood, it fell with a prolonged roar, and the foam came
sweeping in like a white wall, with the dark form of Furby tossing in
the midst. The sea rushed furiously upon horse and rider, and the
terrified horse, rearing almost perpendicular, wheeled round towards the
land. At the same instant the coxswain was hurled against them.
Kenneth seized the mane of his steed with one hand, and grasping Furby
with the other, held on. The noble charger, swept irresistibly
landward, made frantic efforts to regain his footing, and partially
succeeded before the full force of the retreating water bore back upon
him.
For one moment he stood quivering with the strength of his effort.
Kenneth was very strong, else he had never maintained his grasp on the
collar of the coxswain.
A moment more, and the horse made a plunge forward; then a dozen hands
caught him by bridle and saddle-girth, and almost dragged the trio out
of the sea, while a loud cheer greeted their deliverance.
I ordered four stout men to carry the coxswain to Gaff's cottage,
remaining behind for a few minutes in order to congratulate my young
friend on his escape and success, as well as to see that no other wrecks
had occurred in the neighbourhood. Having satisfied myself as best I
could on this latter point, I was about to proceed to the cottage when
Kenneth came forward, leading his good horse by the bridle, and offered
his disengaged arm to my niece.
Lizzie thanked him and declined, observing that, after his gallant and
successful rescue of Furby, he must himself stand in need of assistance,
or something to that effect. I cannot say what his reply was, but I
observed that she immediately afterwards took the proffered arm, and we
all walked up to the hut together.
On reaching it we met Kenneth's groom coming out, he having failed, as
has been shown, to make any impression on the Russians with his Turkish!
I found the place completely filled with men and women, the latter being
in a state of great excitement.
"Here's the agent! make way, lads! here comes Cap'n Bingley," several
voices exclaimed as I entered.
Going to the bed and seeing how matters stood with poor Furby, who had
been placed on his back, I ordered the people to leave the hut, and had
the half-drowned man turned instantly on his face. The other
half-drowned man, having recovered, was lying on a blanket before the
fire.
"Clear the room, lads," said I firmly, "the man wants fresh air; open
the window, and take these wrecked men up to the Home in town.
Everything is prepared for them there, hot coffee and beds, and a hearty
welcome. Away with you, now; carry those who can't walk."
With the assistance of Kenneth and his man the hut was soon cleared,
only a few being allowed to remain to aid me in my efforts to recover
the coxswain.
"You see," said I, as I rolled Furby gently and continuously from his
face to his side, in order to produce what I may term artificial
breathing, "it is not good to lay a half-drowned man on his back,
because his tongue will fall into his throat, and prevent the very thing
we want to bring about, namely, respiration. Go to the foot of the bed,
Kenneth, put your hands under the blankets, and chafe his legs with hot
flannel. Hold the smelling salts to his nose, Lizzie. That's it, now.
Mrs Gaff, put more hot bottles about him; see, he begins to breathe
already."
As I spoke the mysterious vital spark in the man began to revive, and
ere long the quivering eyelids and short fitful gasps indicated that
"Uncle John," as the coxswain of the lifeboat was styled by the
household, had recovered. We gave him a teaspoonful or two of hot
coffee when he was able to swallow, and then prepared to take our leave.
I observed, while I was busy with Furby, that my niece took Mrs Gaff
aside, and appeared to be talking to her very earnestly. Lizzie was a
lovely girl. She was tall and slightly formed, with rich brown hair and
a dark clear complexion that might have been almost styled Spanish, but
for the roses which bloomed on her cheeks. I could not help admiring
the strong contrast between her and the fair face and portly figure of
worthy Mrs Gaff, who listened to what she said with an air of deep
respect.
Little Tottie had taken Lizzie's hand in both of hers, and was looking
up in her face, and the boy Billy was gazing at her with open-mouthed
admiration. I observed, too, that Kenneth Stuart was gazing at her with
such rapt attention that I had to address him several times before he
heard me!
This I was not surprised at, for I remember to this day the feelings of
pleasure with which I beheld my pretty niece, when, having lost her
father and mother, poor dear! she came to find a home under my roof, and
it was natural she should inspire admiration in a young man like
Kenneth.
My family and the Stuarts had become acquainted only a few weeks before
the events of which I am now writing, and this was the first time that
the young people had met. They were not altogether unknown to each
other, however, for Lizzie had heard of Kenneth from the fishermen, who
used to speak with interest of his horsemanship and his daring feats in
rescuing drowning people from the sea during the storms that so
frequently visited our coast, and Kenneth had heard of Lizzie, also from
the fishermen, amongst whom she was a frequent visitor, especially when
sickness entered their cots, or when the storm made their wives widows,
and their little ones fatherless.
I had set my heart on seeing these two married. My dear wife, for the
first time in her life I believe, thoroughly agreed with me in this
wish. I mention the fact with unalloyed pleasure, as being what I may
term a sunny memory, a bright spot, in a life of subdued though true
happiness. We neither of us suspected at that time what bitter
opposition to our wishes we were to receive from Kenneth's father, who,
although in many respects a good man, was very stern--unpleasantly
stern.
Having done all that could be done for the wrecked people, Lizzie and I
returned to our residence in Wreckumoft at about four in the morning.
Kenneth insisted on walking with us, sending his man home with his
horse, which Lizzie patted on the neck, and called a noble creature. It
was quite evident that Kenneth wished that he himself was his own horse
on that occasion--so evident that Lizzie blushed, and taking my arm
hurriedly urged me to go home as it was "very late."
"Very early would be more correct, my dear," said I, "for it is past
four. You must be tired, Lizzie; it is wrong in me to allow you to
subject yourself to such storms. Give her your arm, Kenneth."
"If Miss Gordon will accept of it," said the youth approaching her
promptly, "I shall be--"
"No, thank you," said Lizzie, interrupting him and clinging closer to
me; "I am not in the least tired, and your assistance is quite
sufficient, uncle."
I must confess to being surprised at this, for it was quite evident to
me that Kenneth admired Lizzie, and I was pretty certain--so was my dear
wife--that Lizzie admired Kenneth, although of course she never gave us
the slightest hint to that effect, and it seemed to me such a good and
reasonable opportunity for--well, well, I need not bore you, reader,
with my wild ideas, so peculiarly adapted it would seem for the
twentieth century--suffice it to say, that I _was_ surprised. But if
truth must be told, I have always lived in a state of surprise in regard
to the thoughts and actions of women, and on this particular night I was
doomed to the unpleasant surprise of being received with a sharp rebuke
from Mrs Bingley, who roundly asserted that she would stand this sort
of thing no longer. That she had no notion of being disturbed at such
unearthly hours by the noisy advent of a disagreeably damp and cold
husband, and that if I intended to continue to be an agent of the
Shipwrecked Mariners' Society, she would insist upon a separate
maintenance!
I was comforted, however, by finding a good fire and a hot cup of coffee
in the parlour for myself and Lizzie, provided by our invaluable
housekeeper, Susan Barepoles, a girl who was worthy of a better name,
being an active, good-looking, cheerful lass. She was the daughter of
the skipper of one of our coal sloops, named Haco Barepoles, a man of
excellent disposition, but gifted with such a superabundance of animal
spirits, courage, and recklessness, that he was known in the port of
Wreckumoft as Mad Haco.
Much exhausted by one of the hardest nights of toil and exposure I ever
spent, I retired to my room and sought and found repose.