The Lighthouse, Robert Michael Ballantyne [summer reading list .txt] 📗

the part of Forsyth, that led him to cross the wooden bridge between the beacon and the lighthouse during his leisure hours, and sit reading at the top of the spiral stair, near one of the windows of the lowest room.

Forsyth was sitting at his usual window one afternoon at the end of a storm. It was a comfortless place, for neither sashes nor glass had at that time been put in, and the wind howled up and down the shaft dreadfully. The man was robust, however, and did not mind that.

The height of the building was at that time fully eighty feet. While he was reading there a tremendous breaker struck the lighthouse with such force that it trembled distinctly. Forsyth started up, for he had never felt this before, and fancied the structure was about to fall. For a moment or two he remained paralysed, for he heard the most terrible and inexplicable sounds going on overhead. In fact, the wave that shook the building had sent a huge volume of spray right over the top, part of which fell into the lighthouse, and what poor Forsyth heard was about a ton of water coming down through storey after storey, carrying lime, mortar, buckets, trowels, and a host of other things, violently along with it.

To plunge down the spiral stair, almost headforemost, was the work of a few seconds. Forsyth accompanied the descent with a yell of terror, which reached the ears of his comrades in the beacon, and brought them to the door, just in time to see their comrade's long legs carry him across the bridge in two bounds. Almost at the same instant the water and rubbish burst out of the doorway of the lighthouse, and flooded the bridge.

But let us return from this digression, or rather, this series of digressions, to the point where we branched off: the aspect of the beacon in the fog, and the calm of that still morning in June.

Some of the men inside were playing draughts, others were finishing their breakfast; one was playing "Auld Lang Syne", with many extempore flourishes and trills, on a flute, which was very much out of tune. A few were smoking, of course (where exists the band of Britons who can get on without that!) and several were sitting astride on the cross-beams below, bobbing--not exactly for whales, but for any monster of the deep that chose to turn up.

The men fishing, and the beacon itself, loomed large and mysterious in the half-luminous fog. Perhaps this was the reason that the sea-gulls flew so near them, and gave forth an occasional and very melancholy cry, as if of complaint at the changed appearance of things.

"There's naethin' to be got the day," said John Watt, rather peevishly, as he pulled up his line and found the bait gone.

Baits are _always_ found gone when lines are pulled up! This would seem to be an angling law of nature. At all events, it would seem to have been a very aggravating law of nature on the present occasion, for John Watt frowned and growled to himself as he put on another bait.

"There's a bite!" exclaimed Joe Dumsby, with a look of doubt, at the same time feeling his line.

"Poo'd in then," said Watt ironically.

"No, 'e's hoff," observed Joe.

"Hm! he never was on," muttered Watt.

"What are you two growling at?" said Ruby, who sat on one of the beams at the other side.

"At our luck, Ruby," said Joe. "Ha! was that a nibble?" ("Naethin' o' the kind," from Watt.) "It was! as I live it's large; an 'addock, I think."

"A naddock!" sneered Watt; "mair like a bit o' tangle than--eh! losh me! it _is_ a fish--"

"Well done, Joe!" cried Bremner, from the doorway above, as a large rock-cod was drawn to the surface of the water.

"Stay, it's too large to pull up with the line. I'll run down and gaff it," cried Ruby, fastening his own line to the beam, and descending to the water by the usual ladder, on one of the main beams. "Now, draw him this way--gently, not too roughly--take time. Ah! that was a miss--he's off; no! Again; now then--"

Another moment, and a goodly cod of about ten pounds weight was wriggling on the iron hook which Ruby handed up to Dumsby, who mounted with his prize in triumph to the kitchen.

From that moment the fish began to "take."

While the men were thus busily engaged, a boat was rowing about in the fog, vainly endeavouring to find the rock.

It was the boat of two fast friends, Jock Swankie and Davy Spink.

These worthies were in a rather exhausted condition, having been rowing almost incessantly from daybreak.

"I tell 'ee what it is," said Swankie; "I'll be hanged if I poo another stroke."

He threw his oar into the boat, and looked sulky.

"It's my belief," said his companion, "that we ought to be near aboot Denmark be this time."

"Denmark or Rooshia, it's a' ane to me," rejoined Swankie; "I'll hae a smoke."

So saying, he pulled out his pipe and tobacco-box, and began to cut the tobacco. Davy did the same.

Suddenly both men paused, for they heard a sound. Each looked enquiringly at the other, and then both gazed into the thick fog.

"Is that a ship?" said Davy Spink.

They seized their oars hastily.

"The beacon, as I'm a leevin' sinner!" exclaimed Swankie.

If Spink had not backed his oar at that moment, there is some probability that Swankie would have been a dead, instead of a living, sinner in a few minutes, for they had almost run upon the north-east end of the Bell Rock, and distinctly heard the sound of voices on the beacon. A shout settled the question at once, for it was replied to by a loud holloa from Ruby.

In a short time the boat was close to the beacon, and the water was so very calm that day, that they were able to venture to hand the packet of letters with which they had come off into the beacon, even although the tide was full.

"Letters," said Swankie, as he reached out his hand with the packet.

"Hurrah!" cried the men, who were all assembled on the mortar-gallery, looking down at the fishermen, excepting Ruby, Watt, and Dumsby, who were still on the cross-beams below.

"Mind the boat; keep her aff," said Swankie, stretching out his hand with the packet to the utmost, while Dumsby descended the ladder and held out _his_ hand to receive it.

"Take care," cried the men in chorus, for news from shore was always a very exciting episode in their career, and the idea of the packet being lost filled them with sudden alarm.

The shout and the anxiety together caused the very result that was dreaded. The packet fell into the sea and sank, amid a volley of yells.

It went down slowly. Before it had descended a fathom, Ruby's head cleft the water, and in a moment he returned to the surface with the packet in his hand amid a wild cheer of joy; but this was turned into a cry of alarm, as Ruby was carried away by the tide, despite his utmost efforts to regain the beacon.

The boat was at once pushed off but so strong was the current there, that Ruby was carried past the rock, and a hundred yards away to sea, before the boat overtook him.

The moment he was pulled into her he shook himself, and then tore off the outer covering of the packet in order to save the letters from being wetted. He had the great satisfaction of finding them almost uninjured. He had the greater satisfaction, thereafter, of feeling that he had done a deed which induced every man in the beacon that night to thank him half a dozen times over; and he had the greatest possible satisfaction in finding that among the rest he had saved two letters addressed to himself, one from Minnie Gray, and the other from his uncle.

The scene in the beacon when the contents of the packet were delivered was interesting. Those who had letters devoured them, and in many cases read them (unwittingly) half-aloud. Those who had none read the newspapers, and those who had neither papers nor letters listened.

Ruby's letter ran as follows (we say his _letter_, because the other letter was regarded, comparatively, as nothing):--

"ARBROATH, etcetera.

"DARLING RUBY,--I have just time to tell you that we have made a
discovery which will surprise you. Let me detail it to you
circumstantially. Uncle Ogilvy and I were walking on the pier a few
days ago, when we overheard a conversation between two sailors, who
did not see that we were approaching. We would not have stopped to
listen, but the words we heard arrested our attention, so--O what a
pity! there, Big Swankie has come for our letters. Is it not strange
that _he_ should be the man to take them off? I meant to have given
you _such_ an account of it, especially a description of the case.
They won't wait. Come ashore as soon as you can, dearest Ruby."

The letter broke off here abruptly. It was evident that the writer had been obliged to close it abruptly, for she had forgotten to sign her name.

"`A description of the case;' _what_ case?" muttered Ruby in vexation. "O Minnie, Minnie, in your anxiety to go into details you have omitted to give me the barest outline. Well, well, darling, I'll just take the will for the deed, but I _wish_ you had--"

Here Ruby ceased to mutter, for Captain Ogilvy's letter suddenly occurred to his mind. Opening it hastily, he read as follows:--

"DEAR NEFFY,--I never was much of a hand at spellin', an' I'm not
rightly sure o' that word, howsever, it reads all square, so ittle do.
If I had been the inventer o' writin' I'd have had signs for a lot o'
words. Just think how much better it would ha' bin to have put a
regular D like that instead o' writin' s-q-u-a-r-e. Then _round_
would have bin far better O, like that. An' crooked thus," (draws a
squiggly line); "see how significant an' suggestive, if I may say so;
no humbug--all fair an' above-board, as the pirate said, when he ran
up the black flag to the peak.

"But avast speckillatin' (shiver my timbers! but that last was a
pen-splitter), that's not what I sat down to write about. My object
in takin' up the pen, neffy, is two-fold,

"`Double, double, toil an' trouble,'

"as Macbeath said,--if it wasn't Hamlet.

"We want you to come home for a day or two, if you can git leave, lad,
about this strange affair. Minnie said she was goin' to give you a
full, true, and partikler account of it, so it's of no use my goin'
over the same course.