Personal Reminiscences in Book Making, Robert Michael Ballantyne [the best ebook reader for android txt] 📗

could not be made out.

What could it be that caused Jo Grain's heart to beat against his strong ribs with the force of a sledge-hammer and his eyes to blaze with excitement, as he turned on his thwart and crouched like a tiger ready to spring?

There was tremendous danger in drawing near: for, at one moment, the boat rushed up on a sea as if about to plunge through the rigging of the vessel, and the next she was down in a seething caldron, with the black hull looming over her. It was observed that the two figures aloft, which could barely be seen against the dark sky, were struggling with some difficulty. They had lashed themselves to the mast, and their benumbed fingers could not undo the fastenings.

"Haul off!" shouted the coxswain, as the boat was hurled with such force towards the vessel's hull that destruction seemed imminent.

"No, hold on!" roared Jo Grain.

The men obeyed their coxswain, but as the boat heaved upwards Jo sprang with all his might, and fell into the rigging of the wreck. A few seconds later and he was on the cross-trees, knife in hand, and the lashings were cut.

At the same moment a rending crash was heard, and again the stentorian voice of the coxswain was heard shouting to the men. The lifeboat was pulled off just in time to escape from the mainmast as it fell, burying its cross-trees and all its tangled gearing in the sea.

The bowman and young Guy leaned over the side, and at the risk of their lives grasped at a drowning man. They caught him, and Captain Bolter was dragged into the boat insensible. A moment later and a hand was seen to rise in the midst of the wreckage. Guy knew it well. He grasped it and held on. A few seconds more and Jo Grain, with blood pouring down his face, from a deep cut in his head, was raised to the gunwale.

"Have a care," he gasped faintly.

His right arm encircled an inanimate form. Both were dragged on board, and then it was seen that the form was that of Mary Bolter, uninjured though insensible.

To haul up to the anchor was a slow process and laborious, but it was done cheerily, for the hearts of the men were aglow with satisfaction. Three lives saved! It was what Blunt styled a grand haul. Not many, indeed: but was not one that of a loved comrade, and was not another that of "the sweetest lass in all the town," in spite of young Guy's difference of opinion?

It was grey dawn when the lifeboat returned to port under sail, with a small flag flying in token of success, and it would have done your heart good, reader, to have seen the faces of the crowds that lined the pier, and heard the ringing cheers that greeted the gallant rescuers as they brought the rescued safe to land.

Six hours after that Captain Bolter sat at the bedside of Jo Grain.

"You've been hard hit, Jo, I fear," he said kindly.

"Yes, rather hard, but the doctor says I'll be all right in a week or two; and it's little I'll care about it, Captain, if you'll only agree to forgive and forget."

The Captain seized Jo's hand and tried to speak, but could not. After an abortive effort he turned away with a grunt and left the room.

Six months after that, Joseph Grain, transformed into a coast-guardsman, led "the sweetest lass in all the town" to the village church, and young Guy, still objecting to the title, was groom's-man.

"Jo," said Captain Bolter that day, at parting, "I've forgiven you long ago, but I _can't_ forget; for you said the truth that time. I _was_ an old grampus, or a fool, if you like, and I'm not much better now. However, good-bye, dear boy, and take care of her, for there's not another like her in all England."

"Except one," murmured young Guy, as he squeezed his friend's hand and quietly attached an old slipper to their cab as they drove away. Thereafter he swaggered off to a certain familiar cottage to talk over the wedding with one whom _he_ considered the sweetest lass in all the town.


CHAPTER TWELVE.


"RESCUE THE PERISHING."

Proverbial philosophy asserts that the iron should be struck when it is hot. I sympathise with proverbial philosophy in this case, but that teacher says nothing whatever about striking the iron when it is cold; and experience--at least that of blacksmiths--goes to prove that cold iron may be struck till heat is evolved, and, once heated, who knows what intensity of incandescence may be attained?

I will try it. My hammer may not be a large one. A sledge-hammer it certainly is not. Such as it is I wield it under the impulse of great heat within me, and will direct my blows at the presumably cold iron around. I say presumably,--because if you, good reader, have not been subjected to the same influences with myself you cannot reasonably be expected to be even warm--much less white-hot.

The cause of all this heat was Dr Barnardo's splendid meeting held recently in the Royal Albert Hall. I came home from that meeting incandescent--throwing off sparks of enthusiasm, and eagerly clutching at every cold or lukewarm creature that came in my way with a view to expend on it some of my surplus heat!

The great Albert Hall filled is enough of itself to arouse enthusiasm, whatever the object of the gathering may be. Ten thousand human beings, more or less, swarming on the floor, clustering on the walls, rising tier above tier, until in dim distance the pigmy throng seems soaring up into the very heavens, is a tremendous, a solemn, a heart-stirring sight, suggestive--I write with reverence--of the Judgment Day. And when such an assembly is convened for the purpose of considering matters of urgent importance, matters affecting the well-being of multitudes, matters of life and death which call for instant and vigorous action, then the enthusiasm is naturally intensified and needs but little hammering to rouse it to the fiercest glow.

It was no ordinary gathering this--no mere "annual meeting" of a grand society. It was indeed that, but a great deal more. There was a "noble chairman," of course, and an address, and several speeches by eminent men; but I should suppose that one-half of the audience could not well see the features of the speakers or hear their words. These were relatively insignificant matters.

The business of the evening was to present to the people a great Object Lesson, and the only figure on the platform that bulked large--at least in my esteem--was that of Dr Barnardo himself, and a magical master of the ceremonies did the doctor prove himself to be.

Being unable to induce the "West End" to visit the "East End," he had simply cut several enormous slices out of the slums and set them down in the Royal Albert Hall for inspection.

The display was set forth interestingly and with emphasis, insomuch that things almost spoke for themselves, and wherein they failed to do so the Doctor supplemented in a satisfactorily sonorous voice.

One of the slum-slices was a large one. It consisted of thirteen hundred children--boys and girls--in bright, light, smart dresses, who clustered on the orchestra and around the great organ, like flowers in June. Looking at their clean, wholesome faces, neat attire, and orderly demeanour, I thought, "Is it possible that these are the sweepings of the streets?" The question was tellingly answered later on; but here it may be stated that this beautiful band of 1300 was only a slice--a sample--of the Doctor's large family, which at present numbers nearly 3500. (It now, in 1893, numbers nearly 5000.)

It was grand to hear them sing! The great organ itself had to sing small beside them, for wood and metal can never hope to equal the living human voice, even though it be but a voice from the slums. Not only hymns but humorous songs they sang, and heroic. A telling effect was produced while singing one of the latter by the sudden display of 1300 Union Jacks, each the size of a 'kerchief, which the singers waved in time to the chorus. It seemed as though a stiff breeze had swept over the flower-bed and kissed the national flag in passing.

Another surprise of this kind was given during the stirring song of _The Fire Brigade_, when 1300 bits of gold and silver paper, waved to and fro, seemed to fill the orchestra with flashing fire.

But much of this was for show, to tickle our eyes and ears and prepare the way, as it were, for the grave and stern realities yet to come.

There was a mighty platform covered with crimson cloth in the centre of the hall in front of the orchestra. On it were several mysterious objects covered with sheets. At a signal--a whistle--given by the Doctor, a band of sturdy boys, clad in their work-a-day uniform, scampered down the central passage of the hall, jumped on the platform, flung off the sheets, and discovered carpenters' benches, saws, hammers, wood--in short, all the appliances with which they carry on the various trades at their "Home" in the East End. In a few seconds, as if by magic, the platform was a workshop in full swing--hammering, sawing, chiselling, wood-chopping, clattering, and indescribable din, which was enhanced, but not drowned, by the applause of the astonished audience. The little fellows worked as though life depended on their activity, for the space, it seemed to me, of half a minute. Then the shrill whistle sounded again, and the work ceased, as if the springs of life had been suddenly cut off. Dead silence ensued; each worker remaining in the attitude in which he had been petrified--a group of artisan statuary in colour!

The Doctor was thus enabled quietly to explain that the display represented only a very few of the trades taught and carried on by his rescued boys at Stepney Causeway.

At another signal the splendidly drilled young fellows scampered off, carrying not only their tools, but their benches, tables, stools, and even debris along with them, and, disappearing in less than a couple of minutes, left not a chip or shaving behind.

It would take a good many pages of close writing to give anything like a detailed account of all that I saw. I must pass over much in order to emphasise one or two very telling incidents. The Doctor presented a sample of all his wares. One of these was a very touching sample-- namely, a band of cripples, who made their way slowly on crutches down the passage to the platform--for it is one of the noteworthy points in this Mission that no destitute boy is turned away, whether he be well or ill, crippled or sound. So, also, there was a small procession of neat, pleasant-looking nurses, each leading one or more mites of forsaken humanity from "Babies' Castle."

But it seemed to me that the kernel of the nut had been reached, and the foundation of the God-like Mission laid bare for our inspection, when the raw material was led forth. We had got accustomed by that time to turn an expectant gaze at a far distant door when the Doctor's