The Lighthouse by R. M. Ballantyne (ereader android .txt) 📕

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, lad," 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' character, 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 burried 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; hait 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 quarter-deck, 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