Читать книгу The Lifeboat - Robert Michael Ballantyne - Страница 3

“Where away’s the boat, lad?” said Captain Bluenose to Bax, on recovering his equanimity.

“Close at hand; mind the fluke of that anchor. The owner of this spot should be put in limbo for settin’ man-traps. Have a care of your shins, Guy; it’s difficult navigation here on a dark night.”

“All right, Bax,” replied Guy; “I’ll keep close in your wake, so if you capsize we shall at least have the comfort of foundering together.”

The place through which the three friends were groping their way was that low locality of mud and old stores, which forms the border region between land and water, and in which dwelt those rats which have been described as being frolicsome and numerous.

“Hold hard!” roared Bluenose, as he tripped over the shank of an anchor, “why don’t you set up a lighthouse, or a beacon o’ some sort on these here shoals?”

“Starboard, old boy, starboard hard, steady!” cried Bax.

With seaman-like promptitude the Captain obeyed, and thus escaped tumbling off the end of the wharf at which they had arrived.

“Nancy, a-hoy!” cried Bax in a subdued shout.

A juvenile “Ay, ay, sir!” instantly came back in reply from the dark obscurity that overhung the river. The sound of oars followed.

“Smart little fellow that nephew of yours; he’ll do you credit some day,” said Bax, turning towards Bluenose, who, although close at his side, was scarcely visible, so dark was the night.

The Captain’s rejoinder was cut short by the boy in question sending the bow of the boat crash against the wharf, an exploit which had the effect of pitching him heels over head into the bottom of it.

“Why didn’t you give us a hail, uncle?” remonstrated the boy, as he rose and rubbed his elbows.

“Good practice, my lad, it’s good practice,” replied Bluenose, chuckling, as he stepped in.

A few seconds sufficed to take them alongside of the “Nancy,” in two narrow berths of which the Captain and Guy were quickly stowed away and sound asleep, while Bax paced the deck slowly overhead, having relieved the watch and sent him below.

Just half an hour or so before dawn—that mysterious, unreal and solemn period of the night or morning—Captain Bluenose came on deck minus his coat and shoes, in order to have a look at “how things were getting on,”—as if the general operations of nature had been committed to his charge, and he were afraid lest the sun should not be able to rise without his assistance.

“Light air, west-sou’-west,” muttered the Captain as he stepped on deck, cast a glance up at the vane on the mast-head, and then swept his eye round the (imaginary) horizon.

There was not much to be seen, except the numerous lights of the shipping, and the myriad lamps of the great city, whose mighty hum of life had not yet begun to awaken. It was the deadest hour of night (if we may use the expression), although advanced towards morning. The latest of late sitters-up had gone to bed and got to sleep, and the earliest of early risers had not yet been aroused. None save night-workers and night-watchers were astir, and these did not disturb in any appreciable degree the deep quiet of the hour.

While Bax and his friend were conversing in subdued tones near the binnacle, they were startled by a piercing shriek, followed by a heavy plunge in the water, which, from the sound, appeared to be not far distant. They sprang to the bow, which was pointing down the river,—the flood-tide was running strong up at the time. On reaching it they heard a gurgling cry, not twenty yards ahead of the vessel.

“Hold on!” cried Bax to Bluenose, sharply, at the same time fastening the end of a rope round his waist with the speed of thought, and plunging over the side head-foremost. The cry and the plunge brought Guy Foster on deck instantly. He found the Captain holding on with all his might to the end of the rope, on which there seemed to be a tremendous strain.

“Take a turn round that belayin’ pin,” gasped the Captain.

Guy obeyed, and the moment his companion was relieved, he shouted, “All hands a-hoy!”

It was unnecessary. The four men who formed the crew of the “Nancy” were already springing up the fore-hatch. There was bustle among the shipping too. Lights danced about, the sound of oars was heard in various directions, and sharp eager shouts, as of men who felt that life was in danger, but knew not where to hasten in order to afford aid.

“Haul now, lads, with a will,” cried the Captain; “so, steady, avast heaving. Ah! that’s a smart lad.”

While the men were hauling on the rope, little Tommy had bounded over the side into the boat, which he quickly brought close to the rope, and, seizing it, guided his craft to the end to which Bax was fastened. He found him buffeting the strong current stoutly, and supporting a head on his shoulder in such a way that the mouth should not get below water.

“All right, Tommy,” said Bax, quietly. “Don’t get excited, my lad; lend a hand to raise her a bit out o’ the water. Now, can you hold her there for one moment?”

“Yes, if you just give me the end of that shawl in my teeth,—so.”

Tommy could say no more, for he was squeezed flat against the gunwale of the boat, with his stout little arms tight round the neck and waist of a female figure, the fingers of his left hand grasping her hair, and his legs twisted in a remarkable manner round the thwart to keep him from being dragged out of the boat, besides which his mouth was full of the shawl.

Bax at once grasped the gunwale, and moved hand over hand to the stern, where, by a powerful effort, he raised himself out of the water and sprang inboard. A few minutes more sufficed to enable him to drag the female (a young girl) into the boat, and place her in safety on the schooner’s deck.

The whole thing was done in much less time than is required to tell it. Only one of the boats that were out searching discovered the schooner, just as the female was got on board.

“All right?” inquired one of the men.

“All right—saved,” was the answer, and the boat pulled away into the obscurity of the morning mist with a cheer of congratulation. Then all was again silent, and the sluggish tide glided slowly past the dark hulls that rested on the bosom of the Thames.

On carrying the girl into the small cabin of the “Nancy” it was found that she was still in a state of insensibility. The dim light of the swinging lamp fell on her pale face, and revealed to the surprised and sympathetic beholders features of great beauty and delicate form, over which masses of dark brown hair straggled in wild confusion.

“Now, lads, clear out o’ the way,” cried Captain Bluenose, pulling off his coat energetically. “Leave this here little craft to me. I know ’xactly wot’s got to be done, d’ye see. Turn her on her face—there; never go for to put a drownded body on its back, be it man or woman. Stick that coat under her breast, and her arm under her forehead. So, now we’ll go to work.”

There is no doubt that the worthy captain understood precisely what he meant to do, and was working on a systematic plan; but what the result of his labours might have been it is impossible to say, for at that moment he was interrupted by the tread of hurried footsteps on deck, and the sudden entrance of a silvery-haired man, whose black coat, vest, and pantaloons contrasted strangely with his heavy oilskin coat and sou’-wester, and tended to puzzle the beholder as to whether he was a landsman in nautical outer garments, or a seaman clothed partly in what Jack calls “shore-going toggery.”

There was an expression of wild anxiety on the man’s face as he sprang towards the prostrate form of the girl, fell on his knees, and, seizing her hand, exclaimed, “Lucy, dearest Lucy!” He stopped suddenly as if he had been choked, and, bending his ear close to Lucy’s lips, listened for a few seconds with knitted brow and compressed lips. At that moment there was a flutter on the eyelids of the girl, and a broken sigh escaped her.

The man kneeling at her side sprang convulsively to his feet, raised his hands high above his head, and exclaimed, “O God, in Christ’s name I thank thee,” in tones so fervent, as almost to approach to a shout.

With this irrepressible cry of gratitude every trace of strong emotion appeared to vanish from the countenance and the manner of the stranger. Turning to Bluenose, who had been gazing at this scene in much surprise, not unmingled with anxiety, he said in a calm but quick voice:—

“My friend, this child is my daughter. Pray leave me alone with her for a few minutes.”

“Excuge a oldish man, sir,” said the Captain; “p’raps you’d better let me stay, ’cause why, I knows how to treat drownded—”

“Thank you, it is unnecessary,” said the stranger. “Besides, I myself am acquainted with the rules of the Humane Society. But you can aid me by getting hot blankets and warm coffee.”

“Come along, Captain,” cried Bax, seizing his friend by the arm and dragging him out of the cabin.

Guy had quitted it, followed by Tommy, the instant the old man had expressed a wish to be left alone with his child.

“There, now, you obstinate man,” cried Bax, relaxing his grasp on gaining the foot of the companion ladder; “up with you, and send Tommy to look after coffee and blankets. He knows where to get ’em. I’ll go and put on dry toggery; the best thing that you can do, is to keep out of people’s way.”

This latter piece of advice was not very agreeable to one whose heart was tender, and his desire to engage in works of active benevolence very strong. But feeling that the advice was good, and thoroughly appreciating the fact that, having shipped as a “suppernummerary hand,” he was bound to obey his young commander, he went on deck without remonstrance, walked aft to the binnacle, and began to fill his pipe.

Guy and Tommy were already there, engaged in earnest conversation. The ruddy light of the binnacle lamp streamed up in the face of the latter, and revealed his curly fair hair clustering in wild disorder over his flushed brow, as, with fire gleaming in his blue eyes, he stared up in his companion’s face and related how that Bax, in the coolest manner possible, had kept treading water with the girl in his arms, knowing quite well that not even his strength, great though it was, could enable him to pull himself by the rope to the ship against the tide, and knowing that, in a few minutes, some one would get into the boat and pick them up.

“And so some one did, and very cleverly and bravely done it was, Tommy,” said Guy, laying his hand kindly on the boy’s shoulder.

“Well, I don’t think much o’ that,” replied Tommy. “It don’t call for much courage to jump into a boat of a fine night, twist your legs round a thort, and hold on to a girl by claws and teeth till somebody comes to yer help.”

It was all very well for Tommy to disclaim credit for what he had done; but the glad triumphant expression of his face, and his firm erect gait, proved that he was very much satisfied indeed with the share he had had in that night’s adventure.

“Ah, sir,” continued the boy, “there never was a man like Bax!”

“You appear to admire him very much,” said Guy; “and from the little that I have seen of him I think you have good reason.”

“Admire him!” cried Tommy, with a look of scorn; “no, I don’t. I like him. He’s a trump!”

“Who’s a trump?” inquired Bluenose, coming up at that moment.

“Bax,” replied the boy, with the air of one who takes up an impregnable position, and defies the whole world in arms to overthrow him.

“So he is, so he is, a reg’lar trump,” said the Captain, “an’ wot’s more, there ain’t no more of them there trumps in the pack, for he’s the king of ’arts, he is. An’ you’re a trump, too, Tommy; you’re the knave of ’arts, you are, ye little beggar. Go and git blankets and hot coffee for that gal, and look sharp, my lad.”

“I have heard you speak once or twice of Bax and his exploits,” said Guy Foster, when the boy left them, “but this is the first time I have seen him perform. I did not see much of him when down on the coast last summer, but I saw enough to make me like him. Is he really the wonderful fellow that Tommy makes him out to be?”

“Wonderful?” echoed the Captain, puffing his pipe vigorously, as was his wont when a little puzzled for an expression or an idea. “No, he ain’t wonderful; that’s not the word. He’s a life-preserver, that’s wot he is. None o’ your hinflated injinrubber or cork affairs, but a reg’lar, hanimated, walkin’, self-actin’ life-preserver. Why, I’ve know’d him, off and on, since he was the length of a marline spike, d’ye see—an’ I’ve seed him save dozens, ay dozens, of lives—men, women, and children,—in lifeboats, an’ in luggers, an’ swimmin’. Why, he thinks no more o’ that wot he’s done to-night, than he does of eatin’ salt junk. He’s got a silver medal from the Royal Life-Boat Institution, an’ another from the Queen of Spain, and a gold ’un from some other king or queen, I don’t ’xactly know who—besides no end o’ thanks, written on paper, also on wot they calls wellum, in beautiful German text and small-hand;—ho! you know, nobody knows wot that feller’s been a-doin’ of all his life. If he was hung round with all the gold and silver medals he deserves to have, he’d go to the bottom—life-preserver though he is—like the sheet-anchor of a seventy-four, he would.”

“What’s that about going to the bottom?” said Bax, who came aft at the moment.

“That’s just wot you’ve got nothin’ to do with,” replied Bluenose, resuming his pipe, which, in the ardour of his discourse, he had removed from his lips, and held out at arm’s length before him.

“Well, I have not much to do with going to the bottom,” said Bax, laughing. “But where’s Tommy?—oh! here you are. Have you attended to orders?”

“Blankits, hot, just bin sent in. Coffee, hot, follers in five minits.”

“Brayvo,” ejaculated Bluenose, with an approving smile. “I wonder who the old man is?” said Guy. “He neither looks like a landsman nor a seaman, but a sort of mixture of both.”

“So he is,” said Bax. “I happen to know him, though he does not know me. He is a Scripture reader to sailors (Burton by name), and has spent many years of his life at work on the coast, in the neighbourhood of Ramsgate. I suppose he was goin’ down the coast in the vessel out of which his daughter tumbled. I didn’t know he had a daughter. By the way, she’s not a bad one to begin with, Tommy; a regular beauty,” continued Bax, with a smile. “You’ve often wondered whether the first would be a man, or a woman, or a child. The point is settled now!”

“Yes,” replied the boy, with a grave meditative look. “I suppose I may say she’s my first, for you know you could not have done it without me.”

There was something ludicrous, as well as sublime, in this little chip of humanity gravely talking of poor Lucy Burton being “his first,” as if he had just entered on a new fishing-ground, and were beginning to take account of the creatures he had the good fortune to haul out of the sea!

And in very truth, reader, this was the case. Under the training of a modest, lion-hearted British sailor, the boy was beginning to display, in unusual vigour, those daring, enthusiastic, self-sacrificing qualities which, although mingled with much that is evil, are marked characteristics of our seamen; qualities which have gone far to raise our little island to her present high position of commercial prosperity and political importance, and which, with God’s blessing, will continue to carry our flag, our merchandise, and our bibles, to the ends of the earth, and guard our shores, as in days of old, from the foot of every foreign foe. England can never fully appreciate how much she owes to her seamen. The thousands of our inland population have a very inadequate conception of the race of heroes by which our coasts are peopled. Bax is no exaggerated specimen, got up, in these sensation days, for effect. It is a glorious fact,—proved by the hard and bare statistics furnished annually by the Board of Trade, and from other sources,—that his name is legion, and that the men of whom he is a type swarm all round our coasts, from the old Ultima Thule to the Land’s End.

Yes, Tommy was in good training. He had begun well. He was evidently a chip of the elder block. It did not, indeed, occur to his young imagination to suppose that he could ever become anything in the most distant degree resembling his idol Bax. Neither did he entertain any definite idea as to what his young heart longed after; but he had seen life saved; he had stood on the sea-shore when storms cast shattered wrecks upon the sands, and had witnessed the exploits of boatmen in their brave efforts to save human life; he had known what it was to weep when the rescuer perished with those whom he sought to save, and he had helped to swell with his tiny voice, the bursting cheer of triumph, when men, women, and children were plucked, as if by miracle, from the raging sea! To take part in those deeds of heroism was the leading desire in the boy’s life; and now it seemed as if his career were commencing in earnest, and the day-dreams in which he had so long indulged were at last about to become waking realities.