The Lighthouse. Robert Michael Ballantyne
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blue sky, save to the northward, where the distant cliffs of Forfar rested like a faint cloud on the horizon.
The sounds, too, which on the rock itself were harsh and loud and varied, came over the water to the distant observer in a united tone, which sounded almost as sweet as soft music.
The smith’s forge stood on a ledge of rock close to the foundation-pit, a little to the north of it. Here Vulcan Dove had fixed a strong iron framework, which formed the hearth. The four legs which supported it were let into holes bored from six to twelve inches into the rock, according to the inequalities of the site. These were wedged first with wood and then with iron, for as this part of the forge and the anvil was doomed to be drowned every tide, or twice every day, besides being exposed to the fury of all the storms that might chance to blow, it behoved them to fix things down with unusual firmness.
The block of timber for supporting the anvil was fixed in the same manner, but the anvil itself was left to depend on its own weight and the small stud fitted into the bottom of it.
The bellows, however, were too delicate to be left exposed to such forces as the stormy winds and waves, they were therefore shipped and unshipped every tide, and conveyed to and from the rock in the boats with the men.
Dove and Ruby wrought together like heroes. They were both so powerful that the heavy implements they wielded seemed to possess no weight when in their strong hands, and their bodies were so lithe and active as to give the impression of men rejoicing, revelling, in the enjoyment of their work.
“That’s your sort; hit him hard, he’s got no friends,” said Dove, turning a mass of red-hot metal from side to side, while Ruby pounded it with a mighty hammer, as if it were a piece of putty.
“Fire and steel for ever,” observed Ruby, as he made the sparks fly right and left. “Hallo! the tide’s rising.”
“Ho! so it is,” cried the smith, finishing off the piece of work with a small hammer, while Ruby rested on the one he had used and wiped the perspiration from his brow. “It always serves me in this way, lad,” continued the smith, without pausing for a moment in his work. “Blow away, Ruby, the sea is my greatest enemy. Every day, a’most, it washes me away from my work. In calm weather, it creeps up my legs, and the legs o’ the forge too, till it gradually puts out the fire, and in rough weather it sends up a wave sometimes that sweeps the whole concern black out at one shot.”
“It will creep you out to-day, evidently,” said Ruby, as the water began to come about his toes.
“Never mind, lad, we’ll have time to finish them picks this tide, if we work fast.”
Thus they toiled and moiled, with their heads and shoulders in smoke and fire, and their feet in water.
Gradually the tide rose.
“Pump away, Ruby! Keep the pot bilin’, my boy,” said the smith.
“The wind blowin’, you mean. I say, Dove, do the other men like the work here?”
“Like it, ay, they like it well. At fist we were somewhat afraid o’ the landin’ in rough weather, but we’ve got used to that now. The only bad thing about it is in the rolling o’ that horrible Pharos. She’s so bad in a gale that I sometimes think she’ll roll right over like a cask. Most of us get sick then, but I don’t think any of ’em are as bad as me. They seem to be gettin’ used to that too. I wish I could. Another blow, Ruby.”
“Time’s up,” shouted one of the men.
“Hold on just for a minute or two,” pleaded the smith, who, with his assistant, was by this time standing nearly knee-deep in water.
The sea had filled the pit some time before, and driven the men out of it. These busied themselves in collecting the tools and seeing that nothing was left lying about, while the men who were engaged on those parts of the rocks that were a few inches higher, continued their labours until the water crept up to them. Then they collected their tools, and went to the boats, which lay awaiting them at the western landing-place.
“Now, Dove,” cried the landing-master, “come along; the crabs will be attacking your toes if you don’t.”
“It’s a shame to gi’e Ruby the chance o’ a sair throat the very first day,” cried John Watt.
“Just half a minute more,” said the smith, examining a pickaxe, which he was getting up to that delicate point of heat which is requisite to give it proper temper.
While he gazed earnestly into the glowing coals a gentle hissing sound was heard below the frame of the forge, then a gurgle, and the fire became suddenly dark and went out!
“I knowed it! always the way!” cried Dove, with a look of disappointment. “Come, lad, up with the bellows now, and don’t forget the tongs.”
In a few minutes more the boats pushed off and returned to the Pharos, three and a half hours of good work having been accomplished before the tide drove them away.
Soon afterwards the sea overflowed the whole of the rock, and obliterated the scene of those busy operations as completely as though it had never been!
Chapter Nine
Storms and Troubles
A week of fine weather caused Ruby Brand to fall as deeply in love with the work at the Bell Rock as his comrades had done.
There was an amount of vigour and excitement about it, with a dash of romance, which quite harmonised with his character. At first he had imagined it would be monotonous and dull, but in experience he found it to be quite the reverse.
Although there was uniformity in the general character of the work, there was constant variety in many of the details; and the spot on which it was carried on was so circumscribed, and so utterly cut off from all the world, that the minds of those employed became concentrated on it in a way that aroused strong interest in every trifling object.
There was not a ledge or a point of rock that rose ever so little above the general level, that was not named after, and intimately associated with, some event or individual. Every mass of seaweed became a familiar object. The various little pools and inlets, many of them not larger than a dining-room table, received high-sounding and dignified names—such as Port Stevenson, Port Erskine, Taylor’s Track, Neill’s Pool, etcetera. Of course the fish that frequented the pools, and the shell-fish that covered the rock, became subjects of much attention, and, in some cases, of earnest study.
Robinson Crusoe himself did not pry into the secrets of his island-home with half the amount of assiduity that was displayed at this time by many of the men who built the Bell Rock Lighthouse. The very fact that their time was limited acted as a spur, so that on landing each tide they rushed hastily to the work, and the amateur studies in natural history to which we have referred were prosecuted hurriedly during brief intervals of rest. Afterwards, when the beacon house was erected, and the men dwelt upon the rock, these studies (if we may not call them amusements) were continued more leisurely, but with unabated ardour, and furnished no small amount of comparatively thrilling incident at times.
One fine morning, just after the men had landed, and before they had commenced work, “Long Forsyth”, as his comrades styled him, went to a pool to gather a little dulse, of which there was a great deal on the rock, and which was found to be exceedingly grateful to the palates of those who were afflicted with sea-sickness.
He stooped over the pool to pluck a morsel, but paused on observing a beautiful fish, about a foot long, swimming in the clear water, as quietly as if it knew the man to be a friend, and were not in the least degree afraid of him.
Forsyth was an excitable man, and also studious in his character. He at once became agitated and desirous of possessing that fish, for it was extremely brilliant and variegated in colour. He looked round for something to throw at it, but there was nothing within reach. He sighed for a hook and line, but as sighs never yet produced hooks or lines he did not get one.
Just then the fish swam slowly to the side of the pool on which the man kneeled, as if it actually desired more intimate acquaintance. Forsyth lay flat down and reached out his hand toward it; but it appeared