Chapter 3

"Boldly I venture on a naval scene,
Nor fear the critics' frown, the pedants' spleen.
Sons of the ocean, we their rules disdain.
Hark!--a shock
Tears her strong bottom on the marble rock.
Down on the vale of death, with dismal cries,
The fated victims, shuddering, roll their eyes
In wild despair--while yet another stroke
With deep convulsion rends the solid oak,
Till like the mine in whose infernal cell
The lurking demons of destruction dwell,
At length, asunder torn, her frame divides,
And crushing, spreads in ruin o'er the tides."
FALCONER.

It was in the dreary month of fog, misanthropy, and suicide--the month
during which Heaven receives a scantier tribute of gratitude from
discontented man--during which the sun rises, but shines not--gives
forth an unwilling light, but glads us not with his cheerful
rays--during which large tallow candles assist the merchant to calculate
his gains or to philosophise over his losses--in short, it was one
evening in the month of November of the year l7--, that Edward Forster,
who had served many years in his Majesty's navy, was seated in a snug
armchair, in a snug parlour, in a snug cottage to which he had retired
upon his half-pay, in consequence of a severe wound which had, for many
years, healed but to break out again each succeeding spring.

The locality of the cottage was not exactly so snug as it has been
described in itself and its interior; for it was situated on a hill
which terminated at a short distance in a precipitous cliff, beetling
over that portion of the Atlantic which lashes the shores of Cumberland
under the sub-denomination of the Irish Sea. But Forster had been all
his early life a sailor, and still felt the same pleasure in listening
to the moaning and whistling of the wind, as it rattled the shutters of
his cottage (like some importunate who would gain admittance), as he
used to experience when, lying in his hammock, he was awakened by the
howling of the blast, and shrouding himself in his blankets to resume
his nap, rejoiced that he was not exposed to its fury.

His finances did not allow him to indulge in luxuries, and the
distillation of the country was substituted for wine. With his feet upon
the fender and his glass of whiskey-toddy at his side, he had been led
into a train of thought by the book which he had been reading, some
passage of which had recalled to his memory scenes that had long passed
away--the scenes of youth and hope--the happy castle-building of the
fresh in heart, invariably overthrown by time and disappointment. The
night was tempestuous; the rain now pattered loud, then ceased as if it
had fed the wind, which renewed its violence, and forced its way through
every crevice. The carpet of his little room occasionally rose from the
floor, swelled up by the insidious entrance of the searching blast; the
solitary candle, which from neglect had not only elongated its wick to
an unusual extent, but had formed a sort of mushroom top, was every
moment in danger of extinction, while the chintz curtains of the window
waved solemnly to and fro. But the deep reverie of Edward Forster was
suddenly disturbed by the report of a gun, swept to leeward by the
impetuosity of the gale, which hurled it with violence against the door
and front windows of his cottage, for some moments causing them to
vibrate with the concussion. Forster started up, dropping his book upon
the hearth, and jerking the table with his elbow, so as to dash out the
larger proportion of the contents of his tumbler. The sooty coronal of
the wick also fell with the shock, and the candle, relieved from its
burden, poured forth a brighter gleam.

"Lord ha' mercy, Mr Forster; did you hear that noise?" cried the old
housekeeper (the only inhabitant of the cottage except himself), as she
bolted into the room, holding her apron in both hands.

"I did, indeed, Mrs Beazely," replied Forster; "it's the signal of a
vessel in distress, and she must be on a dead lee-shore. Give me my
hat!" and draining off the remainder in his tumbler, while the old lady
reached his hat off a peg in the passage, he darted out from the door of
his tenement.

The door, which faced to seaward, flew open with violence, as Forster
disappeared in the darkness of the night.

The old housekeeper, on whom had devolved the task of securing it, found
it no easy matter; and the rain, blown in by the sweeping gale, proved
an effectual and unwelcome shower-bath to one who complained bitterly of
the rheumatics. At last her object was accomplished, and she repaired to
the parlour to re-light the candle which had been extinguished, and
await the return of her master. After sundry ejaculations and sundry
wonders, she took possession of his arm-chair, poked the fire, and
helped herself to a glass of whiskey-toddy. As soon as her clothes and
her tumbler were again dry, she announced by loud snores that she was in
a happy state of oblivion; in which we shall leave her, to follow the
motions of Edward Forster.

It was about seven o'clock in the evening when Forster thus exposed
himself to the inclemency of the weather. But a few weeks before how
beautiful were the evenings at this hour; the sun disappearing beyond
the distant wave, and leaving a portion of his glory behind him, until
the stars, in obedience to the divine fiat, were lighted up to "shine by
night;" the sea rippling on the sand, or pouring into the crevices of
the rocks, changing its hue, as day-light slowly disappeared, to the
more sombre colours it reflected, from azure to each deeper tint of
grey, until darkness closed in, and its extent was scarcely to be
defined by the horizontal line.

Now all was changed. The roaring of the wind and the hoarse beating of
the waves upon the streaming rocks deafened the ears of Edward Forster.
The rain and spray were hurled in his face, as, with both hands, he
secured his hat upon his head; and the night was so intensely dark that
but occasionally he could distinguish the broad belt of foam with which
the coast was lined. Still Forster forced his way towards the beach,
which it is now requisite that we should more particularly describe.

As we before observed, the cottage was built upon a high land, which
terminated in a precipitous cliff about two hundred yards distant, and
running in a direct line to the westward. To the northward the coast for
miles was one continued line of rocky cliffs, affording no chance of
life to those who might be dashed upon them; but to the southward of the
cliff which formed the promontory opposite to Forster's cottage, and
which terminated the range, there was a deep indent in the line of
coast, forming a sandy and nearly land-locked bay, small indeed, but so
sheltered that any vessel which could run in might remain there in
safety until the gale was spent. Its only occupant was a fisherman, who,
with his family, lived in a small cottage on the beach. He was an ally
of Forster, who had entrusted to his charge a skiff, in which, during
the summer months, he often whiled away his time. It was to this cottage
that Forster bent his way, and loudly knocked when he arrived.

"Robertson--I say, Robertson," called Forster, at the full compass of
his voice.

"He is not here, Mr Forster," answered Jane, the wife of the fisherman;
"he is out, looking for the vessel."

"Which way did he go?"

Before an answer could be returned, Robertson himself appeared. "I'm
here, Mr Forster," said he, taking off his fur cap, and squeezing out
with both hands the water with which it was loaded; "but I can't see the
vessel."

"Still, by the report of the gun, she must be close to the shore. Get
some fagots out from the shed, and light as large a fire as you can:
don't spare them, my good fellow; I will pay you."

"That I'll do, sir, and without pay; I only hope that they'll understand
the signal, and lay her on shore in the cove. There's another gun!"

This second report, so much louder than the former, indicated that the
vessel had rapidly neared the land; and the direction from which the
report came proved that she must be close to the promontory of rocks.

"Be smart, my dear fellow, be smart," cried Forster. "I will go up to
the cliff, and try if I can make her out;" and the parties separated
upon their mutual work of sympathy and good will.

It was not without danger, as well as difficulty, that Forster succeeded
in his attempt; and when he arrived at the summit, a violent gust of
wind would have thrown him off his legs, had he not sunk down upon his
knees and clung to the herbage, losing his hat, which was borne far away
to leeward. In this position, drenched with the rain and shivering with
the cold, he remained some minutes, attempting in vain, with straining
eyes, to pierce through the gloom of the night, when a flash of
lightning, which darted from the zenith, and continued its eccentric
career until it was lost behind the horizon, discovered to him the
object of his research. But a few moments did he behold it, and then,
from the sudden contrast, a film appeared to swim over his aching eyes,
and all was more intensely, more horribly dark than before; but to the
eye of a seafaring man this short view was sufficient. He perceived that
it was a large ship, within a quarter of a mile of the land, pressed
gunnel under with her reefed courses, chopping through the heavy
seas--now pointing her bowsprit to the heavens, as she rose over the
impeding swell; now plunging deep into the trough encircled by the foam
raised by her own exertions, like some huge monster of the deep,
struggling in her toils and lashing the seas around in her violent
efforts to escape.

The fire burnt up fiercely in the cove, in defiance of the rain and
wind, which, after in vain attempting to destroy it in its birth, now
seemed to assist it with their violence.

"She may yet be saved," thought Forster, "if she will only carry on. Two
cables' length more, and she will be clear of the point."

Again and again was the vessel momentarily presented to his view, as the
forked lightning darted in every quarter of the firmament, while the
astounding claps of thunder bursting upon his ears before the lightning
had ceased to gleam, announced to him that he was kneeling in the very
centre of the war of the elements. The vessel neared the cliff in about
the same proportion that she forged ahead. Forster was breathless with
anxiety, for the last flash of electricity revealed to him that two
moments more would decide her fate.

The gale now redoubled its fury, and Forster was obliged to cling for
his existence as he sank, from his kneeling posture, flat upon the wet
herbage. Still he had approached so near to the edge of the cliff that
his view below was not interrupted by his change of posture. Another
flash of lightning. It was enough! "God have mercy on their souls!"
cried he, dropping his face upon the ground as if to shut out the horrid
vision from his sight.

He had beheld the vessel within the surf, but a few yards distant from
the outer rocks, thrown on her beam-ends, with both foresail and
mainsail blown clear out of their bolt-ropes. The cry for succour was
raised in vain; the wail of despair was not heard; the struggles for
life were not beheld, as the elements in their wrath roared and howled
over their victim.

As if satiated with its devastation, from that moment the storm
gradually abated, and Forster, taking advantage of a lull, slowly
descended to the cove, where he found Robertson still heaping fuel on
the fire.

"Save your wood, my good fellow; it's all over with her; and those who
were on board are in eternity at this moment," said Forster, in a
melancholy tone.

"Is she gone then, sir?"

"Right on the outer ledge; there's not a living soul to see your
beacon."

"God's will be done!" replied the fisherman; "then their time was
come--but He who destroys, can save if He pleases; I'll not put out the
fire while there's a fagot left, for you know, Mr Forster, that if
anyone should by a miracle be thrown into the smooth water on this side
of the point, he might be saved; that is, if he swam well:"--and
Robertson threw on more fagots, which soon flared up with a brilliant
light. The fisherman returned to the cottage, to procure for Forster a
red woollen cap in lieu of the hat which he had lost; and they both sat
down close to the fire to warm themselves and to dry their streaming
clothes.

Robertson had once more replenished the fuel, and the vivid blaze glared
along the water in the cove, when the eye of Forster was attracted by
the appearance of something floating on the wave, and evidently nearing
to the shore. He pointed it out to the fisherman, and they descended to
the water's edge, awaiting its approach with intense anxiety.

"It's not a man, sir, is it?" observed Robertson after a minute's pause.

"I cannot make it out," replied Forster; "but I rather think that it is
an animal--something living, most assuredly."

In another minute or two the point was decided; they distinguished a
large dog bearing something white in its mouth, and making for the shore
where they were standing. Calling to the poor beast to cheer him, for he
evidently was much exhausted, and approached but slowly, they soon had
the satisfaction of seeing him pass through the surf, which, even at
this time, was not heavy in the cove, and, with the water pouring from
his shaggy coat, stagger towards them, bearing in his mouth his burden,
which he laid down at Forster's feet, and then shook off the
accumulation of moisture from his skin. Forster took up the object of
the animal's solicitude--it was the body of an infant, apparently a few
months old.

"Poor thing!" cried Forster, mournfully.

"It's quite dead, sir," observed the fisherman.

"I am afraid so," replied Forster, "but it cannot have been so long; the
dog evidently bore it up clear of the water until it came into the surf.
Who knows but we might restore it?"

"If anything will restore it, sir, it will be the warmth of a woman's
breast, to which it hitherto hath clung. Jane shall take it in her bed,
between her and the little ones;" and the fisherman entered the hut with
the child, which was undressed, and received by his wife with all the
sympathy which maternal feelings create, even towards the offspring of
others. To the delight of Forster, in a quarter of an hour Robertson
came out of the cottage with the intelligence that the child had moved
and cried a little, and that there was every chance of its recovery.

"It's a beautiful little girl, sir, Jane says; and if it lives, she will
halve her milk between it and our little Tommy."

Forster remained another half-hour, until he had ascertained that the
child had taken the breast and had fallen asleep. Congratulating himself
at having been the means of saving even one little life out of the many
which, in all probability, had been swallowed up, he called to the dog,
who had remained passive by the fire, and rose up to return home; but
the dog retreated to the door of the cottage into which he had seen the
infant carried, and all attempts to coax him away were fruitless.

Forster summoned Robertson, to whom he gave some further directions, and
then returned to his home, where, on his arrival, his old housekeeper,
who had never been awakened from her sound nap until roused by his
knocking at the door, scolded him not a little for being out in such
tempestuous weather, and a great deal more for having obliged her to sit
up and _watch_ all night until his return.