The Story of the Rock

“You couldn’t face it, Martha,” said John. “I thowt ye had bin asleep.”

“No: I’ve bin thinkin’ of our dear boy. I can face it well enough.”

“Come, then: but wrap well up. Let Tommy come too: I see he’s gettin’ ready.”

Presently the three went out. The door almost burst off its hinges when it was opened, and it required John’s utmost strength to reclose it.

Numbers of people, chiefly men, were already hurrying to the beach. Clouds of foam and salt spray were whirled madly in the air, and, carried far inland, and slates and cans were dashing on the pavements. Men tried to say to each other that they had never seen such a storm, but the gale caught their voices; away, and seemed to mingle them all up in one prolonged roar. On gaining the beach they could see nothing at first but the heavings of the maddened sea, whose billows mingled their thunders with the wind. Sand, gravel, and spray almost blinded them, but as daylight increased they caught glimpses of the foam above the rock.

“God help us!” said John, solemnly, as he and his wife and child sought shelter under the lee of a wall: “the light’ouse is gone!”

It was too true. The Eddystone lighthouse had been swept completely away, with the unfortunate Winstanley and all his men: not a vestige, save a fragment of chain-cable, remained on the fatal rock to tell that such a building had ever been.

Chapter Two.

Beginning of Rudyerd’s Lighthouse

The terrible gale which swept away the first lighthouse that was built on the Eddystone Rock, gave ample proof of the evils resulting from the want of such a building. Just after the structure fell, a vessel, named the “Winchelsea,” homeward bound, approached the dreaded rock. Trusting, doubtless, to the light which had been destroyed so recently, she held on her course, struck, split in two, and went down with every soul on board.

The necessity for building another tower was thus made; as it were, urgently obvious; nevertheless, nearly four years elapsed before any one was found with sufficient courage and capacity to attempt the dangerous and difficult enterprise.

During this period, our friend John Potter, being a steady, able man, found plenty of work at the docks of Plymouth; but he often cast a wistful glance in the direction of “the Rock” and sighed to think of the tower that had perished, and the numerous wrecks that had occurred in consequence; for, not only had some vessels struck on the Rock itself, but others, keeping too far off its dreaded locality, were wrecked on the coast of France. John Potter’s sigh, it must be confessed, was also prompted, in part, by the thought that his dreams of a retired and peaceful life as a light-keeper were now destined never to be realised.

Returning home one evening, somewhat wearied, he flung his huge frame into a stout arm chair by the fireside, and exclaimed, “Heigho!”

“Deary me, John, what ails you to-night?” asked the faithful Martha, who was, as of yore, busy with the supper.

“Nothin’ partikler, Martha; only I’ve had a hard day of it, an I’m glad to sit down. Was Isaac Dorkin here to-day?”

“No, ’e wasn’t. I wonder you keep company with that man,” replied Mrs Potter, testily; “he’s for ever quarrelling with ’ee, John.”

“No doubt he is, Martha; but we always make it up again; an’ it don’t do for a man to give up his comrades just because they have sharp words now and then. Why, old girl, you and I are always havin’ a spurt o’ that sort off and on; yet I don’t ever talk of leavin’ ye on that account.”

To this Martha replied, “Fiddlesticks;” and said that she didn’t believe in the friendship of people who were always fighting and making it up again; that for her part she would rather have no friends at all, she wouldn’t; and that she had a settled conviction, she had, that Isaac Dorkin would come to a bad end at last.

“I hope not, Martha; but in the meantime he has bin the means of gettin’ me some work to do that is quite to my liking.”

“What may that be, John?” asked Mrs Potter in surprise.

“I’ll tell you when we’re at supper,” said John with a smile; for he knew from experience that his better half was in a fitter state to swallow unpleasant news when engaged in swallowing her meals than at any other time.

“Where is Tommy?” he added, looking round at the quantity of chips which littered the floor.

“Where is ’e?” repeated Mrs Potter, in a tone of indignation. “Where would you expect ’im to be but after mischief? ’E’s at the mod’l, of course; always at it; never at hanythingk else a’most.”

“No!” exclaimed John, in affected surprise. “Wasn’t he at school to-day?”

“O yes, of course ’e was at school.”

“An’ did he git his lessons for to-morrow after comin’ ’ome?”

“I suppose ’e did.”

“Ah then, he does something else sometimes, eh?”

Mrs Potter’s reply was interrupted by Tommy himself emerging from a closet, which formed his workshop and in which he was at that time busy with a model of Winstanley’s lighthouse, executed from the drawings and descriptions by his father, improved by his own brilliant fancy.

Four years make a marked difference on a boy in the early stage of life. He was now nearly ten, and well grown, both intellectually and physically, for his age.

“Well, Tommy, how d’ee git on wi’ the light-’ouse?” asked his father.

“Pretty well, faither: but it seems to me that Mr Winstanley had too many stickin’-out poles, an’ curlywurleys, an’ things o’ that sort about it.”

“Listen to that now,” said Mrs Potter, with a look of contempt, as they all sat down to supper: “what ever does the boy mean by curlywurleys?”

“You’ve seed Isaac Dorkin’s nose, mother?”

“Of course I ’ave: what then?”

“Well, it goes in at the top and out at the middle and curls up at the end: that’s curlywurley,” said Tommy, with a grin, as he helped himself to a large potato.

“The boy is right, Martha,” said John, laughing, “for a lighthouse should be as round an’ as smooth as a ship’s bow, with nothin’ for wind or water to lay hold on. But now I’ll tell ’ee of this noo situation.”

Both mother and son looked inquiringly up, but did not speak, being too busy and hungry.

“Well, this is how it came about. I met Isaac Dorkin on my way to the docks this mornin’, an’ he says to me, says he, ‘John, I met a gentleman who is makin’ very partikler inquiries about the Eddystone Rock: his name he says is Rudyerd, and he wants to hire a lot o’ first-rate men to begin a new—’”

“A noo light’ouse!” exclaimed Mrs Potter, with sudden energy, bringing her fist down on the table with such force that the dishes rattled again. “I know’d it: I did. I’ve ’ad a settled conviction that if ever they begun to put up another ’ouse on that there rock, you would ’ave your finger in it! And now it’ll be the old story over again: out in all weathers, gettin’ yer limbs bruised, if yer neck ain’t broke; comin’ ’ome like a drownded rat, no regular hours or meals! Oh John, John!”

Mrs Potter stopped at this point to recover breath and make up her mind whether to storm or weep. Heaving a deep sigh she did neither, but went on with her supper in sad silence.

“Don’t take on like that, duckey,” said John, stretching his long arm across the table and patting his wife’s shoulder. “It won’t be so bad as that comes to, and it will bring steady work, besides lots o’ money.”

“Go on with the story, faither,” said Tommy, through a potato, while his eyes glittered with excitement.

“It ain’t a story, lad. However, to make it short I may come to the pint at once. Isaac got engaged himself and mentioned my name to Mr Rudyerd, who took the trouble to ferret me out in the docks and—and in fact engaged me for the work, which is to begin next week.”

“Capital!” exclaimed Tommy. “Oh, how I wish I was old enough to go too!”

“Time enough, lad: every dog shall have his day, as the proverb says.”

Mrs Potter said nothing, but sighed, and sought comfort in another cup of tea.

Meanwhile John continued his talk in an easy, off hand sort of way, between bite.

“This Mr Rudyerd, you must know (pass the loaf, Tommy: thank ’ee), is a Cornish man—and fine, straightforward, go-ahead fellows them Cornish men are, though I’m not one myself. Ah, you needn’t turn up your pretty nose, Mrs Potter; I would rather have bin born in Cornwall than any other county in England, if I’d had my choice. Howsever, that ain’t possible now. Well, it seems that Mr Rudyerd is a remarkable sort of man. He came of poor an’ dishonest parents, from whom he runned away in his young days, an’ got employed by a Plymouth gentleman, who became a true father to him, and got him a good edication in readin’, writin’, an’ mathematics. Ah, Tommy, my son, many a time have I had cause for to regret that nobody gave me a good edication!”

“Fiddlesticks!” exclaimed Mrs Potter, rousing up at this. “You’ve got edication enough for your station in life, and a deal more than most men in the same trade. You oughtn’t for to undervally yourself, John. I’d back you against all your acquaintance in the matter of edication, I would, so don’t talk any more nonsense like that.”