The Lighthouse by R. M. Ballantyne (top android ebook reader .txt) 📖

a trowel. There was no scraping off a bit here to put it on there; no digging out pieces from little caverns in the bread with the point of the knife; no repetition of the work to spread it thinner, and, above all, no omitting of corners or edges;—no, the smallest conceivable fly could not have found the minutest atom of dry footing on a Bell Rock slice of toast, from its centre to its circumference. Dove had a liberal heart, and he laid on the butter with a liberal hand. Fair play and no favour was his motto, quarter-inch thick was his gauge, railway speed his practice. The consequence was that the toast floated, as it were, down the throats of the men, and compensated to some extent for the want of milk in the tea.

"Now, boys, sit in," cried Dove, seizing the teapot. "We have not much variety," observed Dumsby to Ruby, in an apologetic tone.

"Variety!" exclaimed Forsyth, "what d'ye call that?" pointing to the fish.

"Well, that is a hextra morsel, I admit," returned Joe; "but we don't get that every day; 'owsever, wot there is is good, an' there's plenty of it, so let's fall to."

Forsyth said grace, and then they all "fell to", with appetites peculiar to that isolated and breezy spot, where the wind blows so fresh from the open sea that the nostrils inhale culinary odours, and the palates seize culinary products, with unusual relish.

There was something singularly unfeminine in the manner in which the duties of the table were performed by these stalwart guardians of the Rock. We are accustomed to see such duties performed by the tender hands of woman, or, it may be, by the expert fingers of trained landsmen; but in places where woman may not or can not act with propriety,—as on shipboard, or in sea-girt towers,—men go through such feminine work in a way that does credit to their versatility,—also to the strength of culinary materials and implements.

The way in which Jamie Dove and his comrades knocked about the pans, teapots, cups and saucers, &c., without smashing them, would have astonished, as well as gratified, the hearts of the fraternity of tinsmiths and earthenware manufacturers.

We have said that everything in the lighthouse was substantial and very strong. All the woodwork was oak, the floors and walls of solid stone,—hence, when Dove, who had no nerves or physical feelings, proceeded with his cooking, the noise he caused was tremendous. A man used to woman's gentle ways would, on seeing him poke the fire, have expected that the poker would certainly penetrate not only the coals, but the back of the grate also, and perchance make its appearance at the outside of the building itself, through stones, joggles, dovetails, trenails, pozzolano mortar, and all the strong materials that have withstood the fury of winds and waves for the last half-century!

Dove treated the other furniture in like manner; not that he treated it ill,—we would not have the reader imagine this for a moment. He was not reckless of the household goods. He was merely indifferent as to the row he made in using them.

But it was when the cooking was over, and the table had to be spread, that the thing culminated. Under the impulse of lightheartedness, caused by the feeling that his labours for the time were nearly ended, and that his reward was about to be reaped, he went about with irresistible energy, like the proverbial bull in a china shop, without reaching that creature's destructive point. It was then that a beaming smile overspread his countenance, and he raged about the kitchen with Vulcan-like joviality. He pulled out the table from the wall to the centre of the apartment, with a swing that produced a prolonged crash. Up went its two leaves with two minor crashes. Down went the four plates and the cups and saucers, with such violence and rapidity that they all seemed to be dancing on the board together. The beef all but went over the side of its dish by reason of the shock of its sudden stoppage on touching the table, and the pile of toast was only saved from scatteration by the strength of the material, so to speak, with which its successive layers were cemented.

When the knives, forks, and spoons came to be laid down, the storm seemed to lull, because these were comparatively light implements, so that this period—which in shore-going life is usually found to be the exasperating one—was actually a season of relief. But it was always followed by a terrible squall of scraping wooden legs and clanking human feet when the camp stools were set, and the men came in and sat down to the meal.

The pouring out of the tea, however, was the point that would have called forth the admiration of the world—had the world seen it. What a contrast between the miserable, sickly, slow-dribbling silver and other teapots of the land, and this great teapot of the sea! The Bell Rock teapot had no sham, no humbug about it. It was a big, bold-looking one, of true Britannia metal, with vast internal capacity and a gaping mouth.

Dove seized it in his strong hand as he would have grasped his biggest fore-hammer. Before you could wink, a sluice seemed to burst open; a torrent of rich brown tea spouted at your cup, and it was full—the saucer too, perhaps—in a moment.

But why dwell on these luxurious scenes? Reader, you can never know them from experience unless you go to visit the Bell Bock; we will therefore cease to tantalize you.

During breakfast it was discussed whether or not the signal-ball should be hoisted.

The signal-ball was fixed to a short staff on the summit of the lighthouse, and the rule was that it should be hoisted at a fixed hour every morning when all was well, and kept up until an answering signal should be made from a signal-tower in Arbroath where the keepers' families dwelt, and where each keeper in succession spent a fortnight with his family, after a spell of six weeks on the rock. It was the duty of the keeper on shore to watch for the hoisting of the ball (the "All's well" signal) each morning on the lighthouse, and to reply to it with a similar ball on the signal-tower.

If, on any occasion, the hour for signalling should pass without the ball on the lighthouse being shown, then it was understood that something was wrong, and the attending boat of the establishment was sent off at once to ascertain the cause, and afford relief if necessary. The keeping down of the ball was, however, an event of rare occurrence, so that when it did take place the poor wives of the men on the rock were usually thrown into a state of much perturbation and anxiety, each naturally supposing that her husband must be seriously ill, or have met with a bad accident.

It was therefore natural that there should be some hesitation about keeping down the ball merely for the purpose of getting a boat off to send Ruby ashore.

"You see," said Forsyth, "the day after to-morrow the 'relief boat' is due, and it may be as well just to wait for that, Ruby, and then you can go ashore with your friend Jamie Dove, for it's his turn this time."

"Ay, lad, just make up your mind to stay another day," said the smith; "as they don't know you're here they can't be wearyin' for you, and I'll take ye an' introduce you to my little wife, that I fell in with on the cliffs of Arbroath not long after ye was kidnapped. Besides, Ruby, it'll do ye good to feed like a fighting cock out here another day. Have another cup o' tea?"

"An' a junk o' beef?" said Forsyth.

"An' a slice o' toast?" said Dumsby.

Ruby accepted all these offers, and soon afterwards the four friends descended to the rock, to take as much exercise as they could on its limited surface, during the brief period of low water that still remained to them.

It may easily be imagined that this ramble was an interesting one, and was prolonged until the tide drove them into their tower of refuge. Every rock, every hollow, called up endless reminiscences of the busy building seasons. Ruby went over it all step by step with somewhat of the feelings that influence a man when he revisits the scene of his childhood. There was the spot where the forge had stood.

"D'ye mind it, lad?" said Dove. "There are the holes where the hearth was fixed, and there's the rock where you vaulted over the bellows when ye took that splendid dive after the fair-haired lassie into the pool yonder."

"Mind it? Ay, I should think so!"

Then there were the holes where the great beams of the beacon had been fixed, and the iron bats, most of which latter were still left in the rock, and some of which may be seen there at the present day. There was also the pool into which poor Selkirk had tumbled with the vegetables on the day of the first dinner on the rock, and that other pool into which Forsyth had plunged after the mermaids; and, not least interesting among the spots of note, there was the ledge, now named the "Last Hope", on which Mr. Stevenson and his men had stood on the day when the boat had been carried away, and they had expected, but were mercifully preserved from, a terrible tragedy.

After they had talked much on all these things, and long before they were tired of it, the sea drove them to the rails; gradually, as it rose higher, it drove them into the lighthouse, and then each man went to his work—Jamie Dove to his kitchen, in order to clean up and prepare dinner, and the other two to the lantern, to scour and polish the reflectors, refill and trim the lamps, and, generally, to put everything in order for the coming night.

Ruby divided his time between the kitchen and lantern, lending a hand in each, but, we fear, interrupting the work more than he advanced it.

That day it fell calm, and the sun shone brightly. "We'll have fog to-night," observed Dumsby to Brand, pausing in the operation of polishing a reflector, in which his fat face was mirrored with the most indescribable and dreadful distortions.

"D'ye think so?"

"I'm sure of it."

"You're right," remarked Forsyth, looking from his elevated position to the seaward horizon. "I can see it coming now."

"I say, what smell is that?" exclaimed Ruby, sniffing.

"Somethink burnin'," said Dumsby, also sniffing.

"Why, what can it be?" murmured Forsyth, looking round and likewise sniffing. "Hallo! Joe, look out; you're on fire!"

Joe started, clapped his hand behind him, and grasped his inexpressibles, which were smouldering warmly. Ruby assisted, and the fire was soon put out, amidst much laughter.

"'Ang them reflectors!" said Joe, seating himself, and breathing hard after his alarm and exertions; "it's the third time they've set me ablaze."

"The reflectors, Joe?" said Ruby.

"Ay, don't ye see? They've nat'rally got a focus, an' w'en I 'appen to be standin' on a sunny day in front of 'em, contemplatin' the face o' natur', as it wor, through the lantern panes, if I gits into the focus by haccident, d'ye see, it just acts like a burnin'-glass."

Ruby could scarcely believe this, but after testing the truth of the statement by actual experiment he could no longer doubt it.

Presently a light breeze sprang up, rolling the fog before it, and then dying away, leaving the lighthouse enshrouded.

During fog there is more danger to shipping than at any other time. In the daytime, in ordinary weather, rocks and lighthouses can be seen. At nights lights can be seen, but during fog nothing can be seen until danger may be too near to be avoided. The two great fog-bells of the lighthouse were therefore set agoing, and they rang out their slow deep-toned peal all that day and all that night, as the bell of the Abbot of Aberbrothoc is said to have done in days of yore.

That night Ruby was astonished, and then he was stunned!

First, as to his astonishment. While he was seated by the kitchen fire chatting with his friend the smith, sometime between nine o'clock and midnight, Dumsby summoned him to the lantern to "help in catching to-morrow's dinner!"

Dove laughed at the summons, and they all went up.

The first thing that caught Ruby's eye at one of the window panes was the round visage of an owl, staring in with its two large eyes as if it had gone mad