The Lighthouse by R. M. Ballantyne (e book reader online .TXT) 📕

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.