The Floating Light of the Goodwin Sands

“Perish the thought
Which never ought
To be,
Let not the thing.”

“Thing—wing—bing—ping—jing—ring—ling—ting—cling—dear me! what a lot of words with little or no meaning there are in the English language!—what will rhyme with—ah! I have it—sting—”

“Let not the thing
Reveal its sting
To me!”

Having penned these lines, Queeker heaved a deep sigh—cast one long lingering gaze on the moon, and went to bed.

Chapter Eight.

The Sloop Nora—Mr Jones Becomes Communicative, and Billy Towler, for the First Time in his Life, Thoughtful

A dead calm, with a soft, golden, half-transparent mist, had settled down on Old Father Thames, when, early one morning, the sloop Nora floated rather than sailed towards the mouth of that celebrated river, bent, in the absence of wind, on creeping out to sea with the tide.

Jim Welton stood at the helm, which, in the circumstances, required only attention from one of his legs, so that his hands rested idly in his coat pockets. Morley Jones stood beside him.

“So you managed the insurance, did you?” said Jim in a careless way, as though he put the question more for the sake of saying something than for any interest he had in the matter.

Mr Jones, whose eyes and manner betrayed the fact that even at that early hour he had made application to the demon-spirit which led him captive at its will, looked suspiciously at his questioner, and replied—

“Well, yes, I’ve managed it.”

“For how much?” inquired Jim.

“For 300 pounds.”

Jim looked surprised. “D’ye think the herring are worth that?” he asked.

“No, they ain’t, but there’s some general cargo besides as’ll make it up to that, includin’ the value o’ the sloop, which I’ve put down at 100 pounds. Moreover, Jim, I have named you as the skipper. They required his name, d’ye see, and as I’m not exactly a seafarin’ man myself, an’ wanted to appear only as the owner, I named you.”

“But that was wrong,” said Jim, “for I’m not the master.”

“Yes, you are,” replied Morley, with a laugh. “I make you master now. So, pray, Captain Welton, attend to your duty, and be civil to your employer. There’s a breeze coming that will send you foul o’ the Maplin light if you don’t look out.”

“What’s the name o’ the passenger that came aboard at Gravesend, and what makes him take a fancy to such a craft as this?” inquired Jim.

“I can answer these questions for myself,” said the passenger referred to, who happened at that moment to come on deck. “My name is Stanley Hall, and I have taken a fancy to the Nora chiefly because she somewhat resembles in size and rig a yacht which belonged to my father, and in which I have had many a pleasant cruise. I am fond of the sea, and prefer going to Ramsgate in this way rather than by rail. I suppose you will approve my preference of the sea?” he added, with a smile.

“I do, indeed,” responded Jim. “The sea is my native element. I could swim in it as soon a’most as I could walk, and I believe that—one way or other, in or on it—I have had more to do with it than with the land.”

“You are a good swimmer, then, I doubt not?” said Stanley.

“Pretty fair,” replied Jim, modestly.

“Pretty fair!” echoed Morley Jones, “why, he’s the best swimmer, I’ll be bound, in Norfolk—ay, if he were brought to the test I do b’lieve he’d turn out to be the best in the kingdom.”

On the strength of this subject the two young men struck up an acquaintance, which, before they had been long together, ripened into what might almost be styled a friendship. They had many sympathies in common. Both were athletic; both were mentally as well as physically active, and, although Stanley Hall had the inestimable advantage of a liberal education, Jim Welton possessed a naturally powerful intellect, with a capacity for turning every scrap of knowledge to good use.

Their conversation was at that time, however, cut short by the springing up of a breeze, which rendered it necessary that the closest attention should be paid to the management of the vessel among the numerous shoals which rendered the navigation there somewhat difficult.

It may be that many thousands of those who annually leave London on voyages, short and long—of profit and pleasure—have very little idea of the intricacy of the channels through which they pass, and the number of obstructions which, in the shape of sandbanks, intersect the mouth of the Thames at its junction with the ocean. Without pilots, and an elaborate well-considered system of lights, buoys, and beacons, a vessel would be about as likely to reach London from the ocean, or vice versa, in safety, as a man who should attempt to run through an old timber-yard blindfold would be to escape with unbroken neck and shins. Of shoals there are the East and West Barrows, the Nob, the Knock, the John, the Sunk, the Girdler, and the Long sands, all lying like so many ground-sharks, quiet, unobtrusive, but very deadly, waiting for ships to devour, and getting them too, very frequently, despite the precautions taken to rob them of their costly food.

These sand-sharks (if we may be allowed the expression) separate the main channels, which are named respectively the Swin or King’s channel, on the north, and the Prince’s, the Queen’s, and the South channels, on the south. The channel through which the Nora passed was the Swin, which, though not used by first-class ships, is perhaps the most frequented by the greater portion of the coasting and colliery vessels, and all the east country craft. The traffic is so great as to be almost continuous; innumerable vessels being seen in fine weather passing to and fro as far as the eye can reach. To mark this channel alone there was, at the time we write of, the Mouse light-vessel, at the western extremity of the Mouse sand; the Maplin lighthouse, on the sand of the same name; the Swin middle light-vessel, at the western extremity of the Middle and Heaps sand; the Whittaker beacon, and the Sunk light-vessel on the Sunk sand—besides other beacons and numerous buoys. When we add that floating lights and beacons cost thousands and hundreds of pounds to build, and that even buoys are valued in many cases at more than a hundred pounds each, besides the cost of maintenance, it may be conceived that the great work of lighting and buoying the channels of the kingdom—apart from the light-house system altogether—is one of considerable expense, constant anxiety, and vast national importance. It may also be conceived that the Elder Brethren of the Corporation of Trinity House—by whom, from the time of Henry VIII down to the present day, that arduous duty has been admirably performed—hold a position of the highest responsibility.

It is not our intention, however, to trouble the reader with further remarks on this subject at this point in our tale. In a future chapter we shall add a few facts regarding the Trinity Corporation, which will doubtless prove interesting; meanwhile we have said sufficient to show that there was good reason for Jim Welton to hold his tongue and mind his helm.

When the dangerous navigation was past, Mr Jones took Billy Towler apart, and, sitting down near the weather gangway, entered into a private and confidential talk with that sprightly youngster.

“Billy, my boy,” he said, with a leer that was meant to be at once amiable and patronising, “you and I suit each other very well, don’t we?”

Billy, who had been uncommonly well treated by his new master, thrust his hands into the waistband of his trousers, and, putting his head meditatively on one side, said in a low voice—

“H’m—well, yes, you suit me pretty well.”

The respectable fish-curer chuckled, and patted his protégé on the back. After which he proceeded to discuss, or rather to detail, some matters which, had he been less affected by the contents of Square-Tom, he might have hesitated to touch upon.

“Yes” he said, “you’ll do very well, Billy. You’re a good boy and a sharp one, which, you see, is exactly what I need. There are a lot o’ small matters that I want you to do for me, and that couldn’t be very well done by anybody else; ’cause, d’ye see, there ain’t many lads o’ your age who unite so many good qualities.”

“Very true,” remarked Billy, gravely nodding his head—which, by the way, was now decorated with a small straw hat and blue ribbon, as was his little body with a blue Guernsey shirt, and his small legs with white duck trousers of approved sailor cut.

“Now, among other things,” resumed Morley, “I want you to learn some lessons.”

Billy shook his head with much decision.

“That won’t go down, Mister Jones. I don’t mean for to larn no more lessons. I’ve ’ad more than enough o’ that. Fact is I consider myself edicated raither ’igher than usual. Can’t I read and write, and do a bit o’ cypherin’? Moreover, I knows that the world goes round the sun, w’ich is contrairy to the notions o’ the haincients, wot wos rediklous enough to suppose that the sun went round the world. And don’t I know that the earth is like a orange, flattened at the poles? though I don’t b’lieve there is no poles, an’ don’t care a button if there was. That’s enough o’ jogrify for my money; w’en I wants more I’ll ax for it.”

“But it ain’t that sort o’ lesson I mean, Billy,” said Mr Jones, who was somewhat amused at the indignant tone in which all this was said. “The lesson I want you to learn is this: I want you to git off by heart what you and I are doin’, an’ going to do, so that if you should ever come to be questioned about it at different times by different people, you might always give ’em the same intelligent answer,—d’ye understand?”

“Whew!” whistled the boy, opening his eyes and showing his teeth; “beaks an’ maginstrates, eh?”

“Just so. And remember, my boy, that you and I have been doin’ one or two things together of late that makes it best for both of us to be very affectionate to, and careful about, each other. D’ye understand that?”

Billy Towler pursed his little red lips as he nodded his small head and winked one of his large blue eyes. A slight deepening of the red on his cheeks told eloquently enough that he did understand that.

The tempter had gone a long way in his course by that time. So many of the folds of the thin net had been thrown over the little thoughtless victim, that, light-hearted and defiant though he was by nature, he had begun to experience a sense of restraint which was quite new to him.

“Now, Billy,” continued Jones, “let me tell you that our prospects are pretty bright just now. I have effected an insurance on my sloop and cargo for 300 pounds, which means that I’ve been to a certain great city that you and I know of, and paid into a company—we shall call it the Submarine Insurance Company—a small sum for a bit of paper, which they call a policy, by which they bind themselves to pay me 300 pounds if I should lose my ship and cargo. You see, my lad, the risks of the sea are very great, and there’s no knowing what may happen between this and the coast of France, to which we are bound after touching at Ramsgate. D’ye understand?”

Billy shook his head, and with an air of perplexity said that he “wasn’t quite up to that dodge—didn’t exactly see through it.”

“Supposin’,” said he, “you does lose the sloop an’ cargo, why, wot then?—the sloop an’ cargo cost somethin’, I dessay?”

“Ah, Billy, you’re a smart boy—a knowing young rascal,” replied Mr Jones, nodding approval; “of course they cost something, but therein lies the advantage. The whole affair, sloop an’ cargo, ain’t worth more than a few pounds; so, if I throw it all away, it will be only losing a few pounds for the sake of gaining three hundred. What think you of that, lad?”