Treats of Tender Subjects of a Peculiar Kind, and Shows how Billy Towler got into Scrapes and out of Them.
The fact that we know not what a day may bring forth, receives frequent, and sometimes very striking, illustration in the experience of most people. That the day may begin with calm and sunshine, yet end in clouds and tempest—or vice versa—is a truism which need not be enforced. Nevertheless, it is a truism which men are none the worse of being reminded of now and then. Poor Billy Towler was very powerfully reminded of it on the day following his night-adventure with the ravens; and his master was taught that the best-laid plans of men, as well as mice, are apt to get disordered, as the sequel will show.
Next morning the look-out on board the Gull lightship reported the Trinity steam-tender in sight, off the mouth of Ramsgate harbour, and the ensign was at once hoisted as an intimation that she had been observed.
This arrangement, by the way, of hoisting a signal on board the floating lights when any of the Trinity yachts chance to heave in sight, is a clever device, whereby the vigilance of light-ship crews is secured, because the time of the appearing of these yachts is irregular, and, therefore, a matter of uncertainty. Every one knows the natural and almost irresistible tendency of the human mind to relax in vigilance when the demand on attention is continual—that the act, by becoming a mere matter of daily routine, loses much of its intensity. The crews of floating lights are, more than most men, required to be perpetually on the alert, because, besides the danger that would threaten innumerable ships should their vessels drift from their stations, or any part of their management be neglected, there is great danger to themselves of being run into during dark stormy nights or foggy days. Constant vigilance is partly secured, no doubt, by a sense of duty in the men; it is increased by the feeling of personal risk that would result from carelessness; and it is almost perfected by the order for the hoisting of a flag as above referred to.
The superintendent of the district of which Ramsgate is head-quarters, goes out regularly once every month in the tender to effect what is styled “the relief,”—that is, to change the men, each of whom passes two months aboard and one month on shore, while the masters and mates alternately have a month on shore and a month on board. At the same time he puts on board of the four vessels of which he has charge—namely, the Goodwin, the Gull, the South-sandhead, and the Varne light-ships,—water, coal, provisions, and oil for the month, and such stores as may be required; returning with the men relieved and the empty casks and cans, etcetera, to Ramsgate harbour. Besides this, the tender is constantly obliged to go out at irregular intervals—it may be even several times in a week—for the purpose of replacing buoys that have been shifted by storms—marking, with small green buoys, the spot where a vessel may have gone down, and become a dangerous obstruction in the “fair way”—taking up old chains and sinkers, and placing new ones—painting the buoys—and visiting the North and South Foreland lighthouses, which are also under the district superintendent’s care.
On all of these occasions the men on duty in the floating lights are bound to hoist their flag whenever the tender chances to pass them within sight, on pain of a severe reprimand if the duty be neglected, and something worse if such neglect be of frequent occurrence. In addition to this, some of the Elder Brethren of the Trinity House make periodical visits of inspection to all the floating lights round the coasts of England; and this they do purposely at irregular times, in order, if possible, to catch the guardians of the coast napping; and woe betide “the watch” on duty if these inspecting Brethren should manage to get pretty close to any light-ship without having received the salute of recognition! Hence the men of the floating lights are kept ever on the alert, and the safety of the navigation, as far as human wisdom can do it, is secured. Hence also, at whatever time any of our floating lights should chance to be visited by strangers, they, like our lighthouses, will invariably be found in perfect working order, and as clean as new pins, except, of course, during periods of general cleaning up or painting.
Begging pardon for this digression, we return to Billy Towler, whose delight with the novelty of his recent experiences was only equalled by his joyous anticipations of the stirring sea-life that yet lay before him.
The satisfaction of Mr Jones, however, at the success of his late venture, was somewhat damped by the information that he would have to spend the whole day on board the tender. The district superintendent, whose arduous and multifarious duties required him to be so often afloat that he seemed to be more at home in the tender than in his own house ashore, was a man whose agreeable manners, and kind, hearty, yet firm disposition, had made him a favourite with every one in the service. Immediately on his boarding the Gull, he informed the uninvited and unfortunate guests of that floating light that he would be very glad to take them ashore, but that he could not do so until evening, as, besides effecting “the relief,” he meant to take advantage of the calm weather to give a fresh coat of paint to one or two buoys, and renew their chains and sinkers, and expressed a hope that the delay would not put them to much inconvenience.
Stanley Hall, between whom and the superintendent there sprang up an intimate and sympathetic friendship almost at first sight, assured him that so far from putting him to inconvenience it would afford him the greatest pleasure to spend the day on board. Billy Towler heard this arrangement come to with an amount of satisfaction which was by no means shared by his employer, who was anxious to report the loss of the Nora without delay, and to claim the insurance money as soon as possible. He judged it expedient, however, to keep his thoughts and anxieties to himself, and only vented his feelings in a few deep growls, which, breaking on the ears of Billy Towler, filled the heart of that youthful sinner with additional joy.
“Wot a savage he is!” said Dick Moy, looking at Jones, and addressing himself to Billy.
“Ah, ain’t he just!” replied the urchin.
“Has he not bin good to ’ee?” asked the big seaman, looking down with a kindly expression at the small boy.
“Middlin’,” was Billy’s cautious reply. “I say, Neptune,” he added, looking up into Dick’s face, “wot’s yer name?”
“It ain’t Neptune, anyhow,” replied Dick. “That’s wot we’ve called the big black Noofoundland dog you sees over there a-jumping about Jim Welton as if he had falled in love with him.”
“Why is it so fond of him?” asked Billy.
Dick replied to this question by relating the incident of the dog’s rescue by Jim.
“Werry interestin’. Well, but wot is your name?” said Billy, returning to the point.
“Dick.”
“Of course I know that; I’ve heerd ’em all call ye that often enough, but I ’spose you’ve got another?”
“Moy,” said the big seaman.
“Moy, eh?” cried Billy, with a grin, “that is a funny name, but there ain’t enough of it for my taste.”
The conversation was interrupted at this point by the superintendent, who, having been for many years in command of an East Indiaman, was styled “Captain.” He ordered the mate and men whose turn it was to be “relieved” to get into the tender along with the strangers. Soon afterwards the vessel steamed away over the glassy water, and Billy, who had taken a fancy to the big lamplighter, went up to him and said—
“Well, Dick Moy, where are we agoin’ to just now?”
Dick pointed to a black speck on the water, a considerable distance ahead of them.
“We’re agoin’ to that there buoy, to lift it and put down a noo un.”
“Oh, that’s a boy, is it? and are them there boys too?” asked Billy, looking round at the curious oval and conical cask-like things, of gigantic proportions, which lumbered the deck and filled the hold of the tender.
“Ay, they’re all buoys.”
“None of ’em girls?” inquired the urchin gravely.
“No, none of ’em,” replied Dick with equal gravity, for to him the joke was a very stale one.
“No? that’s stoopid now; I’d ’ave ’ad some of ’em girls for variety’s sake—wot’s the use of ’em?” asked the imp, who pretended ignorance, in order to draw out his burly companion.
“To mark the channels,” replied Dick. “We puts a red buoy on one side and a checkered buoy on t’other, and if the vessels keeps atween ’em they goes all right—if not, they goes ashore.”
“H’m, that’s just where it is now,” said Billy. “If I had had the markin’ o’ them there channels I’d ’ave put boys on one side an’ girls on t’other all the way up to London—made a sort o’ country dance of it, an’ all the ships would ’ave gone up the middle an’ down agin, d’ye see?”
“Port, port a little,” said the captain at that moment.
“Port it is, sir,” answered Mr Welton, senior, who stood at the wheel.
The tender was now bearing down on one of the numerous buoys which mark off the channels around the Goodwin sands, and it required careful steering in order to avoid missing it on the one hand, or running into it on the other. A number of men stood on the bow of the vessel, with ropes and boat-hooks, in readiness to catch and make fast to it. These men, with the exception of two or three who formed the permanent crew of the tender, were either going off to “relieve” their comrades and take their turn on board the floating lights, or were on their way to land, having been “relieved”—such as George Welton the mate, Dick Moy, and Jerry MacGowl. Among them were several masters and mates belonging to the light-vessels of that district—sedate, grave, cheerful, and trustworthy men, all of them—who had spent the greater part of their lives in the service, and were by that time middle-aged or elderly, but still, with few exceptions, as strong and hardy as young men.
Jerry, being an unusually active and powerful fellow, took a prominent part in all the duties that devolved on the men at that time.
That these duties were not light might have been evident to the most superficial observer, for the buoys and their respective chains and sinkers were of the most ponderous and unwieldy description.
Referring to this, Stanley Hall said, as he stood watching the progress of the work, “Why, captain, up to this day I have been in the habit of regarding buoys as trifling affairs, not much bigger or more valuable than huge barrels or washing-tubs, but now that I see them close at hand, and hear all you tell me about them, my respect increases wonderfully.”
“It will be increased still more, perhaps,” replied the captain, “when I tell you the cost of some of them. Now, then, MacGowl, look out—are you ready?”
“All ready, sir.”
“Port a little—steady.”
“Steady!” replied Mr Welton.
“Arrah! howld on—och! stiddy—heave—hooray!” cried the anxious Irishman as he made a plunge at the buoy which was floating alongside like a huge iron balloon, bumping its big forehead gently, yet heavily, against the side of the tender, and, in that simple way conveying to the mind of Stanley an idea of the great difficulty that must attend the shifting of buoys in rough weather.
The buoy having been secured, an iron hook and chain of great strength were then attached to the ring in its head. The chain communicated with a powerful crane rigged up on the foremast, and was wrought by a steam windlass on deck.
“You see we require stronger tackle,” said the captain to Stanley, while the buoy was being slowly raised. “That buoy weighs fully three-quarters of a ton, and cost not less, along with its chain and sinker, than 150 pounds, yet it is not one of our largest. We have what we call monster buoys, weighing considerably more than a ton, which cost about 300 pounds apiece, including a 60-fathom chain and a 30-hundred-weight sinker. Those medium-sized ones, made of wood and hooped like casks, cost from 80 pounds to 100 pounds apiece without appendages. Even that small green fellow lying there, with which I intend to mark the Nora, if necessary, is worth 25 pounds, and as there are many hundreds of such buoys all round the kingdom, you can easily believe that the guarding of our shores is somewhat costly.”
“Indeed it must be,” answered Stanley; “and if such insignificant-looking things cost so much, what must be the expense of maintaining floating lights and lighthouses?”
“I can give you some idea of that too,” said the captain—
“Look out!” exclaimed the men at that moment.
“Och! be aisy,” cried Jerry, ducking as he spoke, and thus escaping a blow from the buoy, which would have cracked his head against the vessel’s side like a walnut.
“Heave away, lad!”
The man at the windlass obeyed. The irresistible steam-winch caused the huge chain to grind and jerk in its iron pulley, and the enormous globular iron buoy came quietly over the side, black here and brown there, and red-rusted elsewhere; its green beard of sea-weed dripping with brine, and its sides grizzled with a six-months’ growth of barnacles and other shell-fish.
It must not be supposed that, although the engine did all the heavy lifting, the men had merely to stand by and look on. In the mere processes of capturing the buoy and making fast the chains and hooks, and fending off, etcetera, there was an amount of physical effort—straining and energising—on the part of the men, that could scarcely be believed unless seen. Do not fancy, good reader, that we are attempting to make much of a trifle in this description. Our object is rather to show that what might very naturally be supposed to be trifling and easy work, is, in truth, very much the reverse.
The buoy having been lifted, another of the same size and shape, but freshly painted, was attached to the chain, tumbled over the side, and left in its place. In this case the chain and sinker did not require renewing, but at the next (one) visited it was found that buoy, chain, and sinker had to be lifted and renewed.
And here again, to a landsman like Stanley, there was much to interest and surprise. If a man, ignorant of such matters, were asked what he would do in the event of his having to go and shift one of those buoys, he might probably reply, “Well, I suppose I would first get hold of the buoy and hoist it on board, and then throw over another in its place;” but it is not probable that he would reflect that this process involved the violent upturning of a mass of wood or metal so heavy that all the strength of the dozen men who had to struggle with it was scarce sufficient to move gently even in the water; that, being upturned, an inch chain had to be unshackled—a process rendered troublesome, owing to the ponderosity of the links which had to be dealt with, and the constrained position of the man who wrought,—and that the chain and sinker had to be hauled out of the sand or mud into which they had sunk so much, that the donkey-engine had to strain until the massive chains seemed about to give way, and the men stood in peril of having their heads suddenly cut open.
Not to be too prolix on this subject, it may be said, shortly, that when the chain and sinker of the next buoy were being hauled in, a three-inch rope snapped and grazed the finger of a man, fortunately taking no more than a little of the skin off, though it probably had force enough to have taken his hand off if it had struck him differently. Again they tried, but the sinker had got so far down into the mud that it would not let go. The engine went at last very slowly, for it was applying almost the greatest strain that the chains could bear, and the bow of the tender was hauled considerably down into the sea. The men drew back a little, but, after a few moments of suspense, the motion of the vessel gradually loosened the sinker and eased the strain.
“There she goes, handsomely,” cried the men, as the engine again resumed work at reasonable speed.
“We sometimes lose chains and sinkers altogether in that way,” remarked Dick Moy to Billy, who stood looking on with heightened colour and glowing eyes, and wishing with all the fervour of his small heart that the whole affair would give way, in order that he might enjoy the tremendous crash which he thought would be sure to follow.
“Would it be a great loss?” he asked.
“It would, a wery great un,” said Dick; “that there chain an’ sinker is worth nigh fifty or sixty pound.”
While this work was being done, the captain was busy with his telescope, taking the exact bearings of the buoy, to ascertain whether or not it had shifted its position during the six months’ conflict with............