The Lifeboat Part 8

Again the rope was shaken violently, and a heavy strain was felt on it.

The men pulled it in with difficulty, hand over hand, and in a short time Bax, Guy, and Tommy were once more safe in their former position on the cross-trees.

Terrible indeed their danger, when such a position could be spoken of as one of safety!

Another hour pa.s.sed away. To those who were out on that fatal night the minutes seemed hours--the hours days.

Still no succour came to them. The storm instead of abating seemed to be on the increase. Had it not been for the peculiar form of the shoal on which they lay, the old vessel must have been dashed to pieces in the first hour of that terrible gale.

Gradually Bax ceased to raise his encouraging voice--indeed the whistling wind would have rendered it inaudible--and the party on the cross-trees clung to their frail spar almost in despair. As the gale increased so did the danger of their position. No chance of deliverance seemed left to them; no prospect of escape from their dreadful fate; the only ray of hope that came to them fitfully through the driving storm, was the faint gleaming of the lights.h.i.+p that guards the Goodwin Sands.

CHAPTER SIX.

HEROES OF THE KENTISH COAST--THE LIFEBOAT--THE RESCUE.

Deal beach is peculiar in more respects than one. There are a variety of contradictory appearances about it which somewhat puzzle a visitor, especially if he be accustomed to sea-coast towns and villages in other parts of the country.

For one thing, all the boats seem hopelessly high and dry on the beach, without the chance, and apparently without any intention, of ever being got off again. Then there is, at certain seasons of the year, nothing whatever doing. Great hard-fisted fellows, with nautical garments and bronzed faces, are seen lounging about with their hands in their pockets, and with a heavy slowness in their gait, which seems to imply that they are elephantine creatures, fit only to be looked at and wondered at as monuments of strength and laziness.

If the day happens to be fine and calm when the stranger visits the beach, he will probably be impressed with the idea that here is an acc.u.mulation of splendid sea-going _materiel_, which has somehow got hopelessly stranded and become useless.

Of course, in the height of summer, there will be found bustle enough among the visitants to distract attention from the fact to which I allude; but in spring, before these migratory individuals arrive, there is marvellously little doing on Deal beach in fine weather. The pilots and boatmen lounge about, apparently amusing themselves with pipes and telescopes; they appear to have no object in life but to kill time; they seem a set of idle hulking fellows;--nevertheless, I should say, speaking roughly, that at least the half of these men are heroes!

The st.u.r.dy oak, in fine weather, bends only its topmost branches to the light wind, and its leaves and twigs alone are troubled by the summer breeze; but when the gale lays low the trees of the forest and whirls the leaves about like ocean spray, then the oak is stirred to wild action; tosses its gnarled limbs in the air, and moves the very earth on which it stands. So the heroes on Deal beach are sluggish and quiescent while the sun s.h.i.+nes and the b.u.t.terflies are abroad; but let the storm burst upon the sea; let the waves hiss and thunder on that steep pebbly sh.o.r.e; let the breakers gleam on the horizon just over the fatal Goodwin Sands, or let the night descend in horrid blackness, and shroud beach and breakers alike from mortal view, then the man of Deal bestirs his powerful frame, girds up his active loins, and claps on his sou'-wester; launches his huge boat that seemed before so hopelessly high and dry; hauls off through the raging breakers, and speeds forth on his errand of mercy over the black and stormy sea with as much hearty satisfaction as if he were hasting to his bridal, instead of, as is too often the case, to his doom.

Near the north end of Deal beach, not very far from the ruins of Sandown Castle, there stood an upturned boat, which served its owner as a hut or shelter whence he could sit and scan the sea. This hut or hovel was a roomy and snug enough place even in rough weather, and although intended chiefly as a place of out-look, it nevertheless had sundry conveniences which made it little short of a veritable habitation. Among these were a small stove and a swinging oil lamp which, when lighted, filled the interior with a ruddy glow that quite warmed one to look at. A low door at one end of the hovel faced the sea, and there was a small square hole or window beside it, through which the end of a telescope generally protruded, for the owners of the hovel spent most of their idle time in taking observations of the sea. There was a bench on either side of the hut which was lumbered with a confused ma.s.s of spars, sails, sou'westers, oil-skin coats and trousers; buoys, sea-chests, rudders, tar-barrels, and telescopes.

This hovel belonged jointly to old Jeph and Captain Bluenose. Bax had shared it with them before he was appointed to the command of the "Nancy." In the olden time the owners of these nautical huts dwelt in them, hence the name of "hoveller" which is used at the present day.

But with the progress of civilisation the hovellers have come to reside in cottages, and only regard the hovels as their places of business.

Hovellers, as a cla.s.s, do little else than go off to s.h.i.+ps in distress and to wrecks; in which dangerous occupation they are successful in annually saving much property and many human lives. Their livelihood from salvage, as may be supposed, is very precarious. Sometimes they are "flush of cash," at other times reduced to a low enough ebb. In such circ.u.mstances it almost invariably follows that men are improvident.

Not many years ago the hovellers were notorious smugglers. Many a bold deed and wild reckless venture was made on Deal beach in days of old by these fellows, in their efforts to supply the country with French lace, and brandy, and tobacco, at a low price! Most of the old houses in Deal are full of mysterious cellars, and invisible places of concealment in walls, and beams, and chimneys; showing the extent to which contraband trade was carried on in the days of our fathers. Rumour says that there is a considerable amount of business done in that way even in our own days; but everybody knows what a story-teller Rumour is.

The only thing that gives any colour to the report is the fact that there is still a pretty strong coast-guard force in that region; and one may observe that whenever a boat comes to the beach a stout fellow in the costume of a man-of-war's man, goes up to it and pries into all its holes and corners, pulling about the ballast-bags and examining the same in a cool matter-of-course manner that must be extremely irritating, one would imagine, to the owner of the boat!

At night, too, if one chances to saunter along Deal beach by moonlight, he will be sure to meet, ere long, with a portly personage of enormous breadth, enveloped in many and heavy garments, with a brace of pistols sticking out of his breast pockets, and a short cutla.s.s by his side.

But whatever these sights and symptoms may imply, there can be no question that smuggling now is not, by any means, what it was thirty or forty years ago.

On the night of the storm, described in the last chapter, the only individual in old Jeph's hovel was old Jeph himself. He was seated at the inner end of it on a low chest near the stove, the light of which shone brightly on his thin old face and long white locks, and threw a gigantic black shadow on the wall behind. The old man was busily engaged in forming a model boat out of a piece of wood with a clasp knife. He muttered to himself as he went on with his work, occasionally pausing to glance towards the door, the upper half of which was open and revealed the dark storm raging without.

On one of these occasions old Jeph's eyes encountered those of a man gazing in upon him.

"Is that you, Long Orrick? Come in; it's a cold night to stand out i'

the gale."

He said this heartily, and then resumed his work, as if he had forgotten the presence of the other in an instant. It is not improbable that he had, for Jeph was very old. He could not have been far short of ninety years of age.

Long Orrick entered the hovel, and sat down on a bench opposite the old man. He was a very tall, raw-boned, ill-favoured fellow, of great muscular strength, and with a most forbidding countenance. He was clad in oiled, rough-weather garments.

"You seem busy, old man," said he abruptly.

"Ay, I had need be busy," said old Jeph without looking up; "there are many lives to save; many lives bein' lost this very night, and no means of savin' 'em; leastwise not sufficient."

"Humph! ye're eternally at that bit o' humbug. It's bam, old man, all bam; bosh and gammon," said Orrick. "It'll never come to no good, _I_ tell ye."

"Who knows?" replied the old man meekly, but going on with his work not the less diligently because of these remarks.

"Jeph," said Orrick, leaning forward until his sharp features were within a few inches of his companion's face, "Jeph, will ye tell me where the `hide' is in yer old house?"

"No, Long Orrick, I won't," replied the old man with an amount of energy of which he seemed, a few seconds before, quite incapable.

The reply did not seem to please Long Orrick, neither did the steady gaze with which it was accompanied.

"You won't?" said Orrick between his set teeth.

"No," replied the old man, dropping his eyes on the little boat and resuming his work.

"Why not," continued the other after a pause, "you don't require the hide, why won't you lend it to a chum as is hard up?"

"Because I won't encourage smugglin'," said Jeph. "You've smuggled enough in yer young days yerself, you old villain; you might help a friend a bit; it won't be you as does it."

"It's because I have smuggled w'en I was young that I won't do it now that I'm old, nor help anyone else to," retorted Jeph; "besides, you're no friend o' mine."

"What if I turn out to be an enemy?" cried Orrick, fiercely; "see here,"

said he, drawing out a long knife, and holding it up so that the light of the stove glittered on its keen blade, "what if I give you a taste of this, old man?"

"You won't," said Jeph, calmly.

"No! why not?"

"Because you're a coward," replied Jeph, with a quiet chuckle; "you know that you wouldn't like to be hanged, ha! ha! and you know that Bax would be down on you if you touched my old carcase."

Long Orrick uttered a savage oath, and said, "I'm brave enough, anyhow, to let you taste the cold steel to-night--or desperate enough if ye prefer it."

He seized Jeph by the throat as he spoke, and pressed the blade of the knife against his breast. The old man did not shrink, neither did he struggle. He knew that he was in the hands of one whose type is but too common in this world, a bully and a coward, and, knowing this, felt that he was safe.

It seemed, however, as if the very elements scorned the man who could thus raise his hand against unprotected age, for the wind shrieked louder than usual in its fury, and a blinding flash of lightning, accompanied by a deep crash of thunder, added to the horror of the scene.

Just then an exclamation was heard at the door of the hovel. Long Orrick released his hold hastily, and turning round, observed a round ruddy visage scowling at him, and the glittering barrel of a pistol levelled at his head.

"Ha! ha!" he laughed hoa.r.s.ely, endeavouring to pa.s.s it off as a jest, "so you've caught us jokin', Coleman,--actin' a bit--and took it for arnest, eh?"

"Well, if it _is_ actin', it's oncommon ugly actin', _I_ tell ye; a deal too nat'ral for my tastes, so I'd advise ye to drop it here, an' carry yer talents to a theaytre, where you'll be paid according to your desarts, Long Orrick."

"Ah! the night air don't agree with ye, Coleman, so I'll bid ye good-bye," said the other, rising and quitting the hut.

"Wot's he bin' a doin' of, old man?" inquired Coleman, who was a huge, ruddy, good-humoured coast-guardsman, with the aspect of a lion and the heart of a lamb; whose garments were of the roughest and largest kind, and who was, to adopt a time-honoured phrase, armed to the teeth,--that is to say, provided with a brace of pistols, a cutla.s.s, and a port-fire, which last could, on being struck against a rock, burst into flame, and illuminate the region for many yards around him.