The Lifeboat by Robert Michael Ballantyne (whitelam books TXT) 📕

weary now, and would fain go, if the Lord will. Now, it's my opinion that I've just two weeks to live--'

"`Jeph!' exclaimed Guy.

"`Don't interrupt me, lad. I've got _two weeks to live_, so I want you to go and arrange about my funeral. Get a coffin made--I used to be six feet when I was young, but I dessay I'm shorter now--and get the undertaker to cast up beforehand wot it'll all come to, and pay him, and bring me the receipts. Will ye do this, lad?'

"`I will, if you wish it, but--'

"`If I didn't wish it I wouldn't ask it.'

"`Well, Jeph,' said Guy, earnestly, `I _will_ do it.'

"`Thank'ee, lad, thank 'ee. I know'd ye would, so I brought the money with me. Here it is--forty pounds all told; you'll pay for the things, and bring me the receipts, and _keep the rest and use it in the service of God_. I know I can trust you, lad, so that's enough. All I want is to prevent my small savin's goin' to the winds, or to those as don't need 'em; _you_ understand how to give it to those as do.'"

"Is that all?" said Rodney Nick, impatiently.

"No that's not all," replied his companion, "though if it _was_ all, it's a rather coorious fact, for which ye might thank me for takin' the trouble to tell you. But you're thankless by nature. It seems to me that nother you nor me's likely to trouble Guy Foster to look arter _our_ spare cash in that way! But that ain't the end o' my story yet."

"What! you didn't rob 'em? eh! you didn't pitch into the `Puppy,' and ease him o' the shiners?"

Rodney Nick said this with a sneer, for he was well aware that his boastful companion would not have risked a single-handed encounter with Guy on any consideration.

"No, I didn't; it warn't worth the trouble," said Orrick, "but--you shall hear. Arter the old man had said his say, Guy asked him if that was all, for if it was, he didn't see no occasion to make no secret about it."

"`No,' said the old man, `that's not all. I want you to take charge of a packet, and give it to Bax after I'm gone. No one must break the seal but Bax. Poor Bax, I'd thought to have seen him once again before I went. I'll leave the old house to him; it ain't worth much, but you can look arter it for him, or for Tommy Bogey, if Bax don't want it. Many a happy evening we've spent in it together. I wanted to give you the parcel here--here out on the dark Sandhills, where no one but God hears us. It's wonderful what a place the town is for eavesdroppin'! so I made you come out here. You must promise me never to open the packet unless you find that Bax is dead; _then_ you may open it, and do as you think fit. You promise me this?'

"`I do,' said Guy, as the old man pulled a small packet, wrapped in brown paper, from his breast pocket, and put it into his hands. Then, they rose and went away together."

"Well?" said Rodney Nick.

"Well!" echoed Long Orrick, "wot then?"

"What next? what d'ye want to do?" inquired Rodney.

"Do," cried Orrick, "I mean to get hold o' that packet if I can, by fair means or by foul, _that's_ wot I mean to do, and I mean that you shall help me!"

The reader may imagine what were the feelings of the poor old man as he sat in the dark corner of the cave listening to this circumstantial relation of his most secret affairs. When he heard Long Orrick's last words, and felt how utterly powerless he was in his weakness to counteract him in his designs, he could not prevent the escape of a deep groan.

The effect on the two men was electrical. They sprang up, filled with superstitious horror, and fled precipitately from the cave.

Old Jeph staggered out after them, and made for the cottage of his friend Coleman. The latter met him near the threshold.

"Why, Jeph, is this you? I've bin searchin' for ye more than an hour, and come to the conclusion ye must ha' gone home; but why, you're ill, Jeph!"

"Ay, I'm ill, come, help me home."

"Nay, not this night, you shall stop with me; the missus'll give you a cup o' tea as will do yer old heart good."

"No, I must go home now," said Jeph, in a tone so decided that his friend was staggered.

"You can't walk it, you know, in a stormy night like this."

"I _will_ walk it," said Jeph.

"Come, then, if you're bent on it, you'd better go in your own lugger; it's here just now, agoin' to put off in ten minutes or so. Nothin' ever stops Bluenose, blow high, blow low. W'en he wants to go off to sea, he _goes_ off, right or wrong. But you'll take a glass o' grog first."

Old Jeph would not do this, so he was led down to the beach by Coleman, where they found the boat being launched.

"Good-bye, old man," said Coleman, helping him over the side.

"_Good-bye,--farewell_," said Jeph earnestly. "I came here to-day a-purpose to say farewell; shake hands, God bless you."

The coast-guard-man was surprised by the warmth of his friend's manner, as well as by his words; but before he could ask him what he meant, the boat was run down the beach and out to sea. An hour later old Jeph was carefully put to bed in his own cottage, by his friend Captain Bluenose.


CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.


THE STORM AND THE WRECK.

Guy Foster, clad in a sou'-wester hat and oilskin coat, stood at the end of the pier of Ramsgate Harbour, with his sweet wife, Lucy, clinging to his arm, and a sturdy boy of about four years old, holding on with one hand to the skirts of his coat, and with the other grasping the sleeve of his silver-haired grandsire, Mr Burton.

It was night, and a bitter gale was blowing from the north-east, accompanied by occasional showers, of sleet. Crowds of seamen and others stood on the pier eagerly watching the lifeboat, which was being got ready to put off to sea.

"It is too cold for you, darling," said Guy, as he felt Lucy's arm tremble.

"Oh no! I should like to stay," said Lucy, anxiously. Just then a tremendous wave burst on the massive stone pier, and a shower of spray fell upon the crowd. Lucy and her companions received a copious share of it.

"You are wet through, dear, and so is Charlie," said Guy, remonstratively.

"Well, I will go home, but you must come with us, papa. Guy wants to remain, I know."

The missionary gave his daughter his arm, and led her away, while Guy, pushing through the crowd, soon stood beside the lifeboat, the crew of which, already encased in their cork life-belts, were hastily taking their places.

"There goes another rocket," cried one of those on the look-out; "it's from the North-s'n'-Head light."

"Look alive, lads," cried the coxswain of the boat, more to relieve his feelings than to hurry the men, who were already doing their best.

The shrill note of a steam-whistle was heard at this moment, its piercing sound rising high above the shriek of the gale and the roaring of the sea. It was a signal from the steam-tug appointed to attend on the lifeboat, and told that steam was up and all ready to put to sea.

Put to sea on such a night! with the waves bursting in thunder on the shore, the foam seething like milk beneath, the wind shrieking like ten thousand fiends above, and the great billows lifting up their heads, as they came rolling in from the darkness of Erebus that lay incumbent on the raging sea beyond.

Ay, a landsman might have said "madness" with reason. Even a seaman might have said that without much apparent impropriety. But the boatmen of Ramsgate held a different opinion! The signal gun had been fired, the rocket had gone up, a wreck was known to be on the fatal Goodwin Sands, and they were as eager to face the storm as if encountering danger and facing death were pleasant pastime.

As the oars were about to be shipped, one of the crew stumbled, and struck his head so violently against the bollard, that he fell stunned into the bottom of the boat. Guy saw the accident as he stood on the edge of the pier. A sudden impulse seized him. At one bound he passed from the pier to the boat, which was already some half-dozen feet away, and took the seat and oar of the injured man. In the confusion and darkness, the others thought he was one of the supernumerary boatmen, and took no further notice of him. The boat was shoved back, the life-jacket was transferred to Guy, and the boatman was put ashore.

A few strokes brought the boat alongside the steam-tug.

"Heave the warp! make fast! all right, steam a-head!"

The whistle shrieked again, the warp tautened, and tug and lifeboat made for the mouth of the harbour. As they passed out an inspiring cheer was given by the crowd, and a rocket streamed up from the pier-head to signal the lightship that assistance was on the way.

The lifeboat which thus gallantly put off to the rescue in a storm so wild that no ordinary boat could have faced it for a moment without being swamped, was a celebrated one which had recently been invented and placed at this station--where it still lies, and may be recognised by its white sides and peculiar build.

Its history is interesting. In the year 1851 the Duke of Northumberland, then president of the Lifeboat Institution, offered a prize of 100 pounds for the best model of a lifeboat. The result was that 280 models and plans were sent to Somerset House for examination. The prize was awarded to Mr James Beeching, boat-builder at Great Yarmouth, who was ordered to construct a boat, after the pattern of his model, 36 feet long, with 12 oars.

The boat was built, and was found to be the most perfect of its kind that had ever been launched. It was the first self-righting boat ever constructed.

The three great points to be attained in the construction of a lifeboat are: buoyancy, the power of righting itself if upset, and the power of emptying itself if filled with water. Up to this date the lifeboats of the kingdom were possessed of only the first quality. They could not be sunk; that was all. Of course that was a great deal, but it was far from sufficient. Mr Beeching's boat united all three qualities.

Its self-righting principle was effected by means of two raised air-cases, one at the stem, the other at the stern, and a heavy metal keel. When overturned, the boat attempted, as it were, to rest on its two elevated cases, but these, being buoyant, resisted this effort, and turned