Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Charlie to the Rescue by R. M. Ballantyne (great book club books txt) 📖
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Book online «Charlie to the Rescue by R. M. Ballantyne (great book club books txt) 📖». Author R. M. Ballantyne
The instant the strain was off, he passed a rope round his waist and gave the end of it to the sailor.
“Here, make it fast,” he said, beginning to haul with all his might on the line which he had brought from shore. “You’re the skipper—eh?”
“Yes. Don’t waste your breath in speech. I know what to do. All’s ready.”
These few words were an unspeakable relief to our hero, who was well aware that the working of the rocket apparatus required a slight amount of knowledge, and who felt from his manner and tone that the skipper was a thorough man. He glanced upwards as he hauled in the line, assisted by his companion, and saw that a stout rope with two loops on it had been fixed to the stump of the mast. Just as he noted this with satisfaction a large block with a thin line rove through it emerged from the boiling sea. It had been attached by the men on shore to the rocket line which Charlie had been hauling out with so much energy. Its name was indicated by the skipper.
“Here comes the whip,” he cried, catching hold of the block when it reached him. “Hold me up, lad, while I make it fast to them loops.”
While Charlie obeyed he saw that by fixing the tail-lines of the block quickly to the loops prepared for them, instead of winding them round the mast,—a difficult process in such a sea—much time was saved.
“There, our part o’ the job is done now,” said the skipper, pulling off his sou’-wester as he spoke and holding it up as a signal to the men on shore.
Meanwhile those to whom he signalled had been watching every movement with intense eagerness, and with the expressions of men whose gaze has to penetrate with difficulty through a haze of blinding spray.
“They’ve got the block now,” cried one man.
“Does that young feller know about fixin’ of it?” asked another.
“Clap a stopper on your mugs; they’re a-fixin’ of it now,” said old Grinder. “There’s the signal! Haul away, lads!”
We must explain here that the “whip” above mentioned was a double or endless line, passing through the block which had been hauled out to the wreck by our hero.
By means of this whip one end of a stout cable was sent off to the wreck, and on this cable a sling-lifebuoy was hung to a pulley and also run out to the wreck. The working of the apparatus, though simple enough to seamen, would entail a complicated, perhaps incomprehensible, description to landsmen: we therefore pass it by with the remark that, connection with the shore having been established, and the sling-lifebuoy—or life-saving machine—run out, the crew received it with what was meant for a hearty cheer, but which exhaustion modified to a feeble shout.
“Now, lads,” cried the skipper to his men, “look sharp! Let out the passengers.”
“Passengers?” exclaimed Charlie Brooke in surprise.
“Ay—my wife an’ little gurl, two women and an old gentleman. You don’t suppose I’d keep ’em on deck to be washed overboard?”
As he spoke two of the men opened the doors of the companion-hatch, and caught hold of a little girl of about five years of age, who was handed up by a woman.
“Stay! keep her under cover till I get hold of her,” cried the skipper.
As he was passing from the mast to the companion a heavy sea burst over the bulwarks, and swept him into the scuppers. The same wave wrenched the child from the grasp of the man who held it and carried it right overboard. Like an eel, rather than a man, Charlie cleft the foam close behind her, caught her by the skirt and bore her to the surface, when a few strokes of his free arm brought him close under the lee of the wreck just in time to prevent the agonised father from leaping after his child. There was terrible suspense for a few minutes. At one moment our hero, with his burden held high aloft, was far down in the hollow of the watery turmoil, with the black hull like a great wall rising above him, while the skipper in the main-chains, pale as death but sternly silent held on with his left hand and reached down with his right—every finger rigid and ready! Next moment a water-spout, so to speak, bore the rescuer upward on its crest, but not near enough—they went downward again. Once more the leaping water surged upwards; the skipper’s strong hand closed like the grip of death on the dress, and the child was safe while its rescuer sank away from it.
“Help him!” shouted the skipper, as he staggered to the shelter of the companion.
But Charlie required no help. A loose rope hanging over the side caught his eye: he seized it and was on deck again in a few seconds. A minute later and he was down in the cabin.
There, terror-stricken, sat the skipper’s wife, never venturing to move, because she had been told to remain there till called. Happily she knew nothing of the incident just described.
Beside her sat the other women, and, near to them, a stern old gentleman, who, with compressed lips, quietly awaited orders.
“Come, quick!” said Charlie, grasping by the arm one of the women.
It was the skipper’s wife. She jumped up right willingly and went on deck. There she found her child already in the life-buoy, and was instantly lifted in beside it by her husband, who looked hastily round.
“Come here, Dick,” he said to a little cabin-boy who clung to a stanchion near by. “Get in.”
The boy looked surprised, and drew back.
“Get in, I say,” repeated the skipper sternly.
“There’s more women, sir,” said the boy, still holding back.
“True—brave lad! but you’re wanted to keep these from getting washed out. I am too heavy, you know.”
The boy hesitated no longer. He squeezed himself into the machine beside the woman and child.
Then up at arm’s-length went the skipper’s sou’-wester as a signal that all was ready, and the fishermen began to haul the life-buoy to the shore.
It was an awful trip! Part of the distance, indeed, the trio were borne along well out of the sea, though the waves leaped hungrily up and sent spray over them, but as they drew near the shore they were dipped again and again into the foam, so that the little cabin boy needed all his energy and knowledge, as well as his bravery and strength, to prevent his charge being washed out. Amid ringing cheers from the fishermen—and a treble echo from the women behind the wall—they were at last safely landed.
“My lass, that friend o’ your’n be a braave cheeld,” said an old woman to May Leather, who crouched beside her.
“Ay, that he is!” exclaimed May, with a gush of enthusiasm in tone and eyes that made them all turn to look at her.
“Your brother?” asked a handsome, strapping young woman.
“No—I wish he was!”
“Hm! ha!” exclaimed the strapping young woman—whereat there was exchanged a significant laugh; but May took no notice of it, being too deeply engrossed with the proceedings on shore and sea.
Again the fishermen ran out the life-buoy and soon hauled it back with another woman; then a third. After that came the old gentleman, quite self-possessed and calm, though very pale and dishevelled; and, following him, the crew, one by one, were rescued. Then came the hero of the hour, and last of all, as in duty bound, the skipper—not much too soon, for he had barely reached the land when the brig was overwhelmed and engulfed in the raging sea.
That many if not most names have originated in the character or condition of individuals seems obvious, else why is it that so many people take after their names? We have no desire to argue the question, but hasten on to remark that old Jacob Crossley was said to be—observe, we do not say that he was—a notable illustration of what we refer to.
Jacob was “as cross as two sticks,” if we are to believe Mrs Bland, his housekeeper—and Mrs Bland was worthy of belief, for she was an honest widow who held prevarication to be equivalent to lying, and who, besides having been in the old bachelor’s service for many years, had on one occasion been plucked by him from under the feet of a pair of horses when attempting the more dangerous than nor’-west passage of a London crossing. Gratitude, therefore, rendered it probable that Mrs Bland spake truly when she said that her master was as cross as two sticks. Of course we admit that her judgment may have been faulty.
Strange to say Mr Crossley had no reason—at least no very apparent reason—for being cross, unless, indeed, the mere fact of his being an old bachelor was a sufficient reason. Perhaps it was! But in regard to everything else he had, as the saying goes, nothing to complain of. He was a prosperous East India merchant—not a miser, though a cross old bachelor, and not a millionaire, though comfortably rich. His business was prosperous, his friends were numerous, his digestion was good, his nervous system was apparently all that could be desired, and he slept well!
Standing one morning in the familiar British position before his dining-room fire in London, he frowningly contemplated his housekeeper as that indefatigable woman removed the breakfast equipage.
“Has the young man called this morning?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“Well, when he comes tell him I had business in the city and could wait no—”
A ring and a sharp knock interrupted him. A few moments later Charlie Brooke was ushered into the room. It was a smallish room, for Mr Crossley, although well off, did not see the propriety of wasting money on unnecessary space or rent, and the doorway was so low that Charlie’s hair brushed against the top as he entered.
“I called, Mr Crossley, in accordance with the wish expressed in your letter. Although, being a stranger, I do not—”
The young man stopped at this point and looked steadily at the old gentleman with a peculiarly questioning expression.
“You recognise me, I see,” said the old man, with a very slight smile.
“Well—I may be mistaken, but you do bear some resemblance to—”
“Just so, I’m the man that you hauled so violently out of the cabin of the wreck last week, and shoved so unceremoniously into the life-buoy, and I have sent for you, first, to thank you for saving my life, because they tell me that, but for your swimming off with a rope, we should certainly have all been lost; and, secondly, to offer you aid in any course of life you may wish to adopt, for I have been informed that you are not at present engaged in any special employment.”
“You are very kind, sir, very kind,” returned Charlie, somewhat embarrassed. “I can scarcely claim, however, to have saved your life, though I thankfully admit having had the opportunity to lend a hand. The rocket-men, in reality, did the work, for without their splendid working of the apparatus my swimming off would have been useless.”
Mr Crossley frowned while the youth was speaking, and regarded him with some suspicion.
“You admit, I suppose,” he rejoined sternly, “that if you had not swum off, the rocket apparatus would have been equally useless.”
“By no means,” returned Charlie, with that benignant smile that always accompanied his opposition in argument. “I do not admit that, because, if I had not done it, assuredly some one else would. In fact a friend of mine was on the point of making the attempt when I
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