The Floating Light of the Goodwin Sands by R. M. Ballantyne (the reading list .txt) 📖

windlass, above which towered the gong, and around which twined the two enormous chain cables. Only one of these, however, was in use—that, with a single mushroom-anchor, being sufficient to hold the ship securely against tide and tempest.

In reference to this we may remark in passing that the cable of a floating light is frequently renewed, and that the chafing of the links at the hawse-hole is distributed by the occasional paying out or hauling in of a few yards of chain—a process which is styled “easing the nip.”

“Horroo! me hearty, ye’re as clain as a lady’s watch,” exclaimed a man of rugged form but pleasant countenance, as he issued from the small doorway of the lantern-house with a bundle of waste in one hand and an oil-can in the other.

This was one of the lamplighters of the light-ship—Jerry MacGowl—a man whose whole soul was, so to speak, in that lantern. It was his duty to clip and trim the wicks, and fill the lamps, and polish the reflectors and brasses, and oil the joints and wheels (for this was a revolving—in other words a flashing light), and clean the glasses and windows. As there were nine lights to attend to, and get ready for nightly service, it may be easily understood that the lamplighter’s duty was no sinecure.

The shout of Jerry recalled the king from his contemplation of things in general to the lantern in particular.

“All ready to hoist, Jerry?” inquired Mr Welton, going forward.

“All ready, sir,” exclaimed the man, looking at his handiwork with admiration, and carefully removing a speck of dust that had escaped his notice from one of the plate-glass windows; “An’t she a purty thing now?—baits the best Ginaiva watch as iver was made. Ye might ait yer supper off her floor and shave in the reflictors.”

“That’s a fact, Jerry, with no end of oil to your salad too,” said Mr Welton, surveying the work of the lamplighter with a critical eye.

“True for ye,” replied Jerry, “an’ as much cotton waste as ye like without sinful extravagance.”

“The sun will be down in a few minutes,” said the mate, turning round and once more surveying the western horizon.

Jerry admitted that, judging from past experience, there was reason to believe in the probability of that event; and then, being of a poetical temperament, he proceeded to expatiate upon the beauty of the evening, which was calm and serene.

“D’ye know, sir,” he said, gazing towards the shore, between which and the floating light a magnificent fleet of merchantmen lay at anchor waiting for a breeze—each vessel reflected clearly in the water along with the dazzling clouds of gold that towered above the setting sun—“D’ye know, sir, I niver sees a sky like that but it minds me o’ the blissid green hills an’ purty lakes of owld Ireland, an’ fills me buzzum wid a sort of inspiration till it feels fit a’most to bust.”

“You should have been a poet, Jerry,” observed the mate, in a contemplative tone, as he surveyed the shipping through his telescope.

“Just what I’ve often thought mesilf, sir,” replied Jerry, wiping his forehead with the bunch of waste—“many a time I’ve said to mesilf, in a thoughtful mood—

“Wan little knows what dirty clo’es

    May kiver up a poet;

What fires may burn an’ flout an’ skurn,

    An’ no wan iver know it.”

“That’s splendid, Jerry; but what’s the meanin’ of ‘skurn?’”

“Sorrow wan of me knows, sir, but it conveys the idee somehow; don’t it, now?”

“I’m not quite sure that it does,” said the mate, walking aft and consulting his chronometer for the last time, after which he put his head down the hatchway and shouted, “Up lights!” in a deep sonorous voice.

“Ay, ay, sir,” came the ready response from below, followed by the prompt appearance of the other lamplighter and the four seamen who composed the crew of the vessel Jerry turned on his heel, murmuring, in a tone of pity, that the mate, poor man, “had no soul for poethry.”

Five of the crew manned the winch; the mate and Jerry went to a block-tackle which was also connected with the lifting apparatus. Then the order to hoist was given, and immediately after, just as the sun went down, the floating light went up,—a modest yet all-important luminary of the night. Slowly it rose, for the lantern containing it weighed full half a ton, and caused the hoisting chain and pulleys to groan complainingly. At last it reached its destination at the head of the thick part of the mast, but about ten or fifteen feet beneath the ball. As it neared the top, Jerry sprang up the chain-ladder to connect the lantern with the rod and pinion by means of which, with clockwork beneath, it was made to revolve and “flash” once every third of a minute.

Simultaneously with the ascent of the Gull light there arose out of the sea three bright stars on the nor’-eastern horizon, and another star in the south-west. The first were the three fixed lights of the lightship that marked the North sandhead; the latter was the fixed light that guarded the South sandhead. The Goodwin sentinels were now placed for the night, and the commerce of the world might come and go, and pass those dreaded shoals, in absolute security.

Ere long the lights of the shipping in the Downs were hung out, and one by one the lamps on shore shone forth—those which marked the entrance of Ramsgate harbour being conspicuous for colour and brilliancy—until the water, which was so calm as to reflect them all, seemed alive with perpendicular streams of liquid fire; land and sea appearing to be the subjects of one grand illumination. A much less poetical soul than that of the enthusiastic lamp-lighter might have felt a touch of unwonted inspiration on such a night, and in such a scene. The effect on the mind was irresistibly tranquillising. While contemplating the multitudes of vessels that lay idle and almost motionless on the glassy water, the thought naturally arose that each black hull en-shrouded human beings who were gradually sinking into rest—relaxing after the energies of the past day—while the sable cloak of night descended, slowly and soothingly, as if God were spreading His hand gently over all to allay the fever of man’s busy day-life and calm him into needful rest.

The watch of the floating light having been set, namely, two men to perambulate the deck—a strict watch being kept on board night and day—the rest of the crew went below to resume work, amuse themselves, or turn in as they felt inclined.

While they were thus engaged, and darkness was deepening on the scene, Welton stood on the quarterdeck observing a small sloop that floated slowly towards the lightship. Her sails were indeed set, but no breath of wind bulged them out; her onward progress was caused by the tide, which had by that time begun to set with a strong current to the northward. When within about a cable’s length, the rattle of her chain told that the anchor had been let go. A few minutes later, a boat was seen to push off from the sloop and make for the lightship. Two men rowed it and a third steered. Owing to the force of the current they made the vessel with some difficulty.

“Heave us a rope,” cried one of the men, as they brushed past.

“No visitors allowed aboard,” replied Mr Welton sternly; catching up, nevertheless, a coil of rope.

“Hallo! father, surely you’ve become very unhospitable,” exclaimed another voice from the boat.

“Why, Jim, is that you, my son?” cried the mate, as he flung the coil over the side.

The boatmen caught it, and next moment Jim stood on the deck—a tall strapping young seaman of twenty or thereabouts—a second edition of his father, but more active and lithe in his motions.

“Why you creep up to us, Jim, like a thief in the night. What brings you here, lad, at such an hour?” asked Mr Welton, senior, as he shook hands with his son.

“I’ve come to have a talk with ’ee, father. As to creeping like a thief, a man must creep with the tide when there’s no wind, d’ye see, if he don’t come to an anchor. ’Tis said that time and tide wait for no man; that bein’ so, I have come to see you now that I’ve got the chance. That’s where it is. But I can’t stay long, for old Jones will—”

“What!” interrupted the mate with a frown, as he led his son to the forepart of the vessel, in order to be out of earshot of the watch, “have ’ee really gone an’ shipped with that scoundrel again, after all I’ve said to ’ee?”

“I have, father,” answered the young man with a perplexed expression; “it is about that same that I’ve come to talk to ’ee, and to explain—”

“You have need to explain, Jim,” said the mate sternly, “for it seems to me that you are deliberately taking up with bad company; and I see in you already one o’ the usual consequences; you don’t care much for your father’s warnings.”

“Don’t say that, father,” exclaimed the youth earnestly, “I am sure that if you knew—stay; I’ll send back the boat, with orders to return for me in an hour or so.”

Saying this he hurried to the gangway, dismissed the boat, and returned to the forepart of the vessel, where he found his father pacing the deck with an anxious and somewhat impatient air.

“Father,” said Jim, as he walked up and down beside his sire, “I have made up my mind that it is my duty to remain, at least a little longer with Jones, because—”

“Your duty!” interrupted the mate in surprise. “James!” he added, earnestly, “you told me not long ago that you had taken to attending the prayer-meetings at the sailors’ chapel when you could manage it, and I was glad to hear you say so, because I think that the man who feels his need of the help of the Almighty, and acts upon his feeling, is safe to escape the rocks and shoals of life—always supposin’ that he sails by the right chart—the Bible; but tell me, does the missionary, or the Bible, teach that it is any one’s duty to take up with a swearing, drinking scoundrel, who is going from bad to worse, and has got the name of being worthy of a berth in Newgate?”

“We cannot tell, father, whether all that’s said of Morley Jones be true. We may have our suspicions, but we can’t prove t’em; and there’s no occasion to judge a man too soon.”

“That may be so, Jim, but that is no reason why you should consort with a man who can do you no goods and, will certainly do ’ee much harm, when you’ve no call for to do so. Why do ’ee stick by him—that’s what I want to know—when everybody says he’ll be the ruin of you? And why do ’ee always put me off with vague answers when I git upon that subject? You did not use to act like that, Jim. You were always fair an’ above-board in your young days. But what’s the use of askin’? It’s plain that bad company has done it, an’ my only wonder is, how you ever come to play the hypocrite to that extent, as to go to the prayer-meeting and make believe you’ve turned religious.”

There was a little bitterness mingled with the tone of remonstrance in which this was said, which appeared to affect the young man powerfully, for his face crimsoned as he stopped and laid his hand on his father’s shoulder.

“Whatever follies or sins I may have committed,” he said, solemnly, “I have not acted a hypocrite’s part in this matter. Did you ever yet find me out, father, tellin’ you a lie?”

“Well, I can’t say I ever did,” answered the mate with a relenting smile, “’xcept that time when you skimmed all the cream off the milk and