The Lifeboat Part 23

How inadequate are our conceptions of these things when formed from a written account of one or two incidents, even although these be graphically described! How difficult it is to realise the actual scenes that are presented all along the coast during and immediately after each great storm that visits our sh.o.r.es.

If we could, by the exercise of supernatural power, gaze down at these sh.o.r.es as from a bird's-eye point of view, and take them in, with all their stirring incidents, at one glance; if we could see the wrecks, large and small--colliers with their four or five hands; emigrant s.h.i.+ps with their hundreds of pa.s.sengers--beating and grinding furiously on rocks that appear to rise out of and sink into a sea of foam; if we could witness our lifeboats, with their n.o.ble-hearted crews, creeping out of every nook and bay in the very teeth of what seems to be inevitable destruction; if we could witness the hundred deeds of individual daring done by men with bronzed faces and rough garments, who carry their lives habitually in their hands, and think nothing of it; if we could behold the flash of the rockets, and hear the crack of the mortars and the boom of minute guns from John o' Groat's to the Land's End, at the dead and dark hours of night, when dwellers in our inland districts are abed, all ignorant, it may be, or thoughtless, in regard to these things; above all, if we could hear the shrieks of the peris.h.i.+ng, the sobs and thanksgivings of the rescued, and the wild cheers of the rescuers; and hear and see all this at one single glance, so that our hearts might be more filled than they are at present with a sense of the terrible dangers of our sh.o.r.es, and the heroism of our men of the coast, it is probable that our prayers for those who "go down to the sea in s.h.i.+ps" would be more frequent and fervent, and our respect for those who risk life and limb to save the s.h.i.+pwrecked would be deeper. It is also probable that we might think it worth our while to contribute more largely than we do to the support of that n.o.ble Inst.i.tution whose work it is to place lifeboats where they are wanted on our coasts, and to recognise, reward, and chronicle the deeds of those who distinguish themselves in the great work of saving human life.

Let us put a question to you, good reader. If France, or any other first-rate Power, were to begin the practice of making a sudden descent on us about once a month, on an average, all the year round, slaying some hundreds of our fishermen and seamen each time; occasionally cutting off some of our first-cla.s.s emigrant s.h.i.+ps, and killing all on board--men, women, and children,--thus filling the land with repeated wails of sorrow, with widows and with fatherless children: What would you do?

What!--do you say that you "would fortify every island on the coast, plant Martello towers on every flat beach, crown every height with cannon, and station iron-clads in every harbour and bay, so that the entire coast should bristle with artillery?" That sounds well, but what guarantee have we that you really would act thus if France were to become so outrageous?

"Common sense might a.s.sure me of it," you reply.

So it might, and so it would, if we had not evidence to the contrary in the fact that our country _is_ thus a.s.sailed month after month--year after year--by a more inveterate enemy than France ever was or will be, and yet how little is done to defend ourselves against his attacks, compared with what might be, with what _ought_ to be, done!

This enemy is the storm; but, like France, he is not our _natural_ enemy. We have only chosen in time past to allow him to become so. The storm has been wisely and beneficently ordained by G.o.d to purify the world's atmosphere, and to convey health and happiness to every land under heaven. If we will not take the obvious and quite possible precautions that are requisite to secure ourselves from his violence, have we not ourselves to blame?

There are far too few harbours of refuge on our exposed coasts; the consequence is that our fis.h.i.+ng-boats are caught by the storm and wrecked, and not unfrequently as many as a hundred lives are lost in a few hours: Who is to blame? A large vessel goes on the rocks because there is no lighthouse there to give warning of danger; a post has been neglected and the enemy has crept in: Who neglected that post? After the s.h.i.+p has got on the rocks, it is made known to the horrified pa.s.sengers that there are no s.h.i.+p's lifeboats aboard, neither are there any life-belts: Whose blame is that? Still there seems hope, for the sh.o.r.e is not far off, and anxious people line it; but no ordinary boat can live in such a sea. There is no rocket apparatus on this part of the coast; no mortar apparatus by which a line might be sent on board: Why not? The nearest lifeboat station is fifteen miles off: Whose fault is that? Is the storm our enemy here? Is not selfish, calculating, miserly man his own enemy in this case? So the s.h.i.+p goes to pieces, and the result is that the loss of this single vessel makes 60 widows and 150 fatherless children in one night! not to speak of thousands of pounds' worth of property lost to the nation.

If you doubt this, reader, consult the pages of the _Lifeboat Journal_, in which you will find facts, related in a grave, succinct, unimpa.s.sioned way, that ought to make your hair stand on end!

Thoughts strongly resembling those recorded in the last few pages filled the mind and the heart of Bax, as he stood on that calm bright morning on the sea-sh.o.r.e. It was a somewhat lonely spot at the foot of tall cliffs, not far from which the shattered hull of a small brig lay jammed between two rocks. Tommy Bogey stood beside him, and both man and boy gazed long and silently at the wrack which lined the sh.o.r.e. Every nook, every crevice and creek at the foot of the cliff was filled choke full of broken planks and spars, all smashed up into pieces so small that, with the exception of the stump of a main-mast and the heel of a bowsprit, there was not a morsel that exceeded three feet in length, and all laid side by side in such regular order by the swas.h.i.+ng of the sea in and out of the narrower creeks, that it seemed as if they had been piled there by the hand of man.

They gazed silently, because they had just come upon a sight which filled their hearts with sadness. Close beside a large rock lay the form of an old white-haired man with his head resting on a ma.s.s of sea-weed, as if he were asleep. Beside him lay a little girl, whose head rested on the old man's breast, while her long golden hair lay in wild confusion over his face. The countenances of both were deadly pale, and their lips blue. It required no doctor's skill to tell that both were dead.

"Ah's me! Tommy, 'tis a sad sight," said Bax.

Tommy made no reply for a few seconds, but after an ineffectual effort to command himself, he burst into tears.

"If we had only been here last night," he sobbed at length, "we might have saved them."

"So we might, so we might, Tommy; who knows? Some one should have been here anyhow. It seems to me that things ain't well managed in these days. They haven't half enough of appliances to save life, that's a fact."

Bax said this somewhat sternly.

"Whose fault is it, Bax?" said Tommy, looking up in his friend's face.

"Ha, Tommy," replied the other with a smile, "it don't become the like o' you or me to say who's to blame. You're too young to understand the outs and ins o' such matters, and I'm too ignorant."

The boy smiled incredulously. The idea of Bax being "ignorant" was too gross and absurd to be entertained for a moment, even although stated by himself.

"Well, but," urged Tommy stoutly, "if things _are_ wrong, it's clear that they ain't right, and surely I've a right to say so."

"True, lad, true," returned Bax, with an approving nod; "that's just the point which I'd like you and me to stick to: when we see things to be wrong don't let's s.h.i.+rk sayin' so as flat as we can; but don't let us go, like too many shallow-pates, and say that we know _who's_ wrong and _why_ they're wrong, and offer to put them all right on the shortest notice. Mayhap" (here Bax spoke in a soft meditative tone, as if he had forgotten his young friend, and were only thinking aloud) "mayhap we may come to understand the matter one of these days, and have a better right to speak out--who knows?"

"That I'm certain of!" cried Tommy, in a tone and with an air that made Bax smile despite the sad sight before him.

"Come, lad," he said, with sudden energy, "we must get 'em removed.

Away! and fetch a couple of men. I'll arrange them."

Tommy was off in a moment, and Bax proceeded with gentle care to arrange the dress and limbs of the old man and the child. Two men soon arrived, and a.s.sisted to carry them away. Who they were no one knew and few cared. They were only two of the many who are thus cast annually, and by no means _unavoidably_, on our stormy sh.o.r.es.

Do not misunderstand us, good reader. Compared with what is done by other lands in this matter, Britain does her duty well; but, compared with what is required by G.o.d at the hands of those who call themselves Christians, we still fall far short of our duty, both as a nation and as individuals.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

RELATES TO LOVE, CROSS PURPOSES AND MISTAKES, ETCETERA.

Storms may rage, orphans and widows may weep, but the world must not pause in its regular routine of business and of pleasure. This is natural and right. It was not intended that men should walk perpetually in sackcloth and ashes because of the sorrows that surround them. But equally true is it that they were never meant to shut their eyes and ears to those woes, and dance and sing through life heedlessly, as far too many do until some thunderbolt falls on their own hearts, and brings the truth home.

The command is twofold: "Weep with those that weep, and rejoice with those that do rejoice."

Come then, reader, let us visit good Mrs Foster, and rejoice with her as she sits at her tea-table contemplating her gallant son with a mother's pride. She has some reason to be proud of him. Guy has just received the gold medal awarded him by the Lifeboat Inst.i.tution. Bax and Tommy have also received their medals, and all three are taking tea with the widow on the occasion. Lucy Burton and Amy Russell are there too, but both of these young ladies are naturally much more taken up with Tommy's medal than with those of Guy or of Bax!

And well they may be, for never a breast, large or small, was more worthy of the decoration it supported.

"My brave boy," said the widow, referring to Tommy, and taking him by the arm as he sat beside her, but looking, irresistibly, at her son, "it was a n.o.ble deed. If I had the giving of medals I would have made yours twice the size, with a diamond in the middle of it."

"What a capital idea!" said Lucy, with a silvery laugh, that obliged her to display a double row of brilliant little teeth.

"A coral ring set with pearls would be finer, don't you think?" said Guy, gravely.

Tommy grinned and said that that was a toothy remark!

Lucy blushed, and said laughingly, that she thought Mrs Foster's idea better, whereupon the widow waxed vainglorious, and tried to suggest some improvements.

Guy, fearing that he had been presumptuous in paying this sly compliment, anxiously sought to make amends by directing most of his conversation to Amy.

Bax, who was unusually quiet that evening, was thus left to make himself agreeable to Lucy. But he found it hard work, poor fellow. It was quite evident that he was ill at ease.

On most occasions, although habitually grave, Bax was hearty, and had always plenty to say without being obtrusive in his conversation.

Moreover, his manners were good, and his deportment unconstrained and easy. But when he visited the widow's cottage he became awkward and diffident, and seemed to feel great difficulty in carrying on conversation. During the short time he had been at Deal since the wreck of the "Nancy," he had been up at the cottage every day on one errand or another, and generally met the young ladies either in the house or in the garden.

Could it be that Bax was in love? There was no doubt whatever of the fact in his own mind; but, strange to say, no one else suspected it.

His character was grave, simple, and straightforward. He did not a.s.sume any of those peculiar airs by which young men make donkeys of themselves when in this condition! He feared, too, that it might be interfering with the hopes of his friend Guy, whose affections, he had latterly been led to suspect, lay in the same direction with his own. This made him very circ.u.mspect and modest in his behaviour. Had he been quite sure of the state of Guy's heart he would have retired at once, for it never occurred to him for a moment to imagine that the girl whom Guy loved might not love Guy, and might, possibly, love himself.

Be this as it may, Bax resolved to watch his friend that night closely, and act according to the indications given. Little did poor Guy know what a momentous hour that was in the life of his friend, and the importance of the part he was then performing.

Bax rose to go sooner than usual.

"You are very kind, ma'am," he said, in reply to Mrs Foster's remonstrances; "I have to visit an old friend to-night, and as it is probable I may never see him again, I trust you'll excuse my going so early."

Mrs Foster was obliged to acquiesce. Bax shook hands hurriedly, but very earnestly, with each of the party, and quitted the cottage in company with Guy.

"Come, Guy, let us walk over the sandhills."

"A strange walk on so dark a night; don't you think it would be more cheerful on the beach?"

"So it would, so it would," said Bax, somewhat hastily, "but I want to be alone with you, and we're likely to meet some of our chums on the beach. Besides, I want to have a quiet talk, and to tell ye something.--You're in love, Guy."