The Story of the Rock Read online

  Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

  The Story of the Rock, by R.M. Ballantyne.

  ________________________________________________________________________In this book Ballantyne has brilliantly woven the story of a family thatworked on the building of the Eddystone lighthouse, with the story ofthe actual building. Three successive attempts were made to build alighthouse on this dangerous rock which lies several miles off the southcoast of Devon, and on which so many fine ships making their way up theEnglish Channel to the North Sea ports of Europe had been wrecked.

  The first attempt was made in the early years of the eighteenth century,but that lighthouse did not last long. The second was made by Rudyerd,and was very well made and strong, but its upperworks were made oftimber, and the whole thing was destroyed by fire, after having shown alight for over a third of a century. There was an amusing episodeduring the construction of the Rudyerd lighthouse when a French warshiptook all the construction workers prisoner, and made off with them toFrance. Luckily Louis, the King of France, heard of this and was quiteincensed, ordering the British prisoners to be released and treated ashospitably as possible, while the captain of the warship was to be castinto the prison.

  The final construction was by a mathematical instrument maker, of allpeople, called Smeaton. His lighthouse was even more soundly foundedthan even Rudyerd's had been, and he used the fact that stone is heavierthan timber to add weight to the building, thus rendering it moreresistant to the forces of wind and water. It was not only succesful asa lighthouse, but it has lasted to this day, well over two centuries,and has ever since it was completed been a highly-regarded example ofthe art of lighthouse building.

  ________________________________________________________________________THE STORY OF THE ROCK, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE.

  CHAPTER ONE.

  WRECK OF WINSTANLEY'S LIGHTHOUSE.

  "At mischief again, of course: always at it."

  Mrs Potter said this angrily, and with much emphasis, as she seized herson by the arm and dragged him out of a pool of dirty water, into whichhe had tumbled.

  "Always at mischief of one sort or another, he is," continued MrsPotter, with increasing wrath, "morning, noon, and night--he is;tumblin' about an' smashin' things for ever he does; he'll break myheart at last--he will. There: take that!"

  "That," which poor little Tommy was desired to take, was a sounding boxon the ear, accompanied by a violent shake of the arm which would havedrawn that limb out of its socket if the child's bones and muscles hadnot been very tightly strung together.

  Mrs Potter was a woman of large body and small brain. In respect ofreasoning power, she was little better than the wooden cuckoo which cameout periodically from the interior of the clock that stood over her ownfireplace and announced the hours. She entertained settled convictionson a few subjects, in regard to which she resembled a musical box. Ifyou set her going on any of these, she would harp away until she hadplayed the tune out, and then begin over again; but she never varied.Reasons, however good, or facts, however weighty, were utterly powerlessto penetrate her skull: her "settled convictions" were not to beunsettled by any such means. Men might change their minds; philosophersmight see fit to alter their opinions; weaklings of both sexes and allages might trim their sails in accordance with the gales of advancingknowledge, but Mrs Potter--no: never! _her_ colours were nailed to themast. Like most people who unite a strong will with an empty head, shewas "wiser in her own conceit than eleven men that can render a reason:"in brief, she was obstinate.

  One of her settled convictions was that her little son Tommy was "asfull of mischief as a hegg is full of meat." Another of theseconvictions was that children of all ages are tough; that it does themgood to pull them about in a violent manner, at the risk even ofdislocating their joints. It mattered nothing to Mrs Potter that manyof her female friends and acquaintances held a different opinion. Someof these friends suggested to her that the hearts of the poor littlethings were tender, as well as their muscles and bones and sinews; thatchildren were delicate flowers, or rather buds, which required carefultending and gentle nursing. Mrs Potter's reply was invariably,"Fiddlesticks!" she knew better. They were obstinate and self-willedlittle brats that required constant banging. She knew how to train 'emup, she did; and it was of no manner of use, it wasn't, to talk to _her_upon that point.

  She was right. It was of no use. As well might one have talked to thewooden cuckoo, already referred to, in Mrs Potter's timepiece.

  "Come, Martha," said a tall, broad-shouldered, deep-voiced man at herelbow, "don't wop the poor cheeld like that. What has he been doin'--"

  Mrs Potter turned to her husband with a half angry, half ashamedglance.

  "Just look at 'im, John," she replied, pointing to the small culprit,who stood looking guilty and drenched with muddy water from hands toshoulders and toes to nose. "Look at 'im: see what mischief he's alwaysgittin' into."

  John, whose dress bespoke him an artisan, and whose grave earnest facebetokened him a kind husband and a loving father, said:--

  "Tumblin' into dirty water ain't necessarily mischief. Come, lad, speakup for yourself. How did it happen--"

  "I felled into the water when I wos layin' the foundations, faither,"replied the boy; pointing to a small pool, in the centre of which lay apile of bricks.

  "What sort o' foundations d'ye mean, boy?"

  "The light'ouse on the Eddystun," replied the child, with sparklingeyes.

  The man smiled, and looked at his son with interest.

  "That's a brave boy," he said, quietly patting the child's head. "Get'ee into th'ouse, Tommy, an' I'll show 'ee the right way to lay thefoundations o' the Eddystun after supper. Come, Martha," he added, ashe walked beside his wife to their dwelling near Plymouth Docks, "don'tbe so hard on the cheeld; it's not mischief that ails him. It'sengineerin' that he's hankerin' after. Depend upon it, that if he isspared to grow up he'll be a credit to us."

  Mrs Potter, being "of the same opinion still," felt inclined to say"Fiddlesticks!" but she was a good soul, although somewhat highly spicedin the temper, and respected her husband sufficiently to hold hertongue.

  "John;" she said, after a short silence, "you're late to-night."

  "Yes," answered John, with a sigh. "My work at the docks has come to anend, an' Mr Winstanley has got all the men he requires for the repairof the light'ouse. I saw him just before he went off to the rockto-night, an' I offered to engage, but he said he didn't want me."

  "What?" exclaimed Mrs Potter, with sudden indignation: "didn't wantyou--you who has served 'im, off an' on, at that light'ouse for the lastsix year an' more while it wor a buildin'! Ah, that's gratitood, thatis; that's the way some folk shows wot their consciences is made of;treats you like a pair of old shoes, they does, an' casts you off w'enyou're not wanted: hah!"

  Mrs Potter entered her dwelling as she spoke, and banged the doorviolently by way of giving emphasis to her remark.

  "Don't be cross, old girl," said John, patting her shoulder: "I hope_you_ won't cast me off like a pair of old shoes when you're tired ofme! But, after all, I have no reason to complain. You know I have laidby a good lump of money while I was at work on the Eddystone; besides,we can't expect men to engage us when they don't require us; and if Ihad got employed, it would not have bin for long, being only a matter ofrepairs. Mr Winstanley made a strange speech, by the way, as the boatwas shoving off with his men. I was standin' close by when a friend o'his came up an' said he thowt the light'ouse was in a bad way an'couldn't last long. Mr Winstanley, who is uncommon sure o' thestrength of his work, he replies, says he--`I only wish to be there inthe greatest storm that ever blew under the face of heaven, to see whatthe effect will be.
' Them's his very words, an'it did seem to me anawful wish--all the more that the sky looked at the time very like as ifdirty weather was brewin' up somewhere."

  "I 'ope he may 'ave 'is wish," said Mrs Potter firmly, "an' that thewaves may--"

  "Martha!" said John, in a solemn voice, holding up his finger, "thinkwhat you're sayin'."

  "Well, I don't mean no ill; but, but--fetch the kettle, Tommy, d'yehear? an' let alone the cat's tail, you mischievous little--"

  "That's a smart boy," exclaimed John rising and catching the kettle fromhis son's and, just as he was on the point of tumbling over a stool:"there, now let's all have a jolly supper, and then, Tommy, I'll showyou how the real foundation of the Eddystun was laid."

  The building to which John Potter referred, and of which he gave agraphic account and made a careful drawing that night, for the benefitof his hopeful son, was the _first_ lighthouse that was built on thewild and almost submerged reef of rocks lying about fourteen miles tothe south-west of Plymouth harbour. The highest part of this reef,named the Eddystone, is only a few feet above water at high tide, and asit lies in deep water exposed to the full swell of the ocean, the ragingof the sea over it in stormy weather is terrible beyond conception.

  Lying as it does in the track of vessels coasting up and down theEnglish Channel, it was, as we may easily believe, a source of terror,as well as of danger, to mariners, until a lighthouse was built upon it.

  But a lighthouse was talked of long before any attempt was made to erectone. Important though this object was to the navies of the world, thesupposed impossibility of the feat, and the danger apprehended in themere attempt, deterred any one from undertaking the task until the year1696, when a country gentleman of Essex, named Henry Winstanley, cameforward, and, having obtained the necessary legal powers, began thegreat work of building on the wave-lashed rock.

  Winstanley was an eccentric as well as a bold man. He undoubtedlypossessed an ingenious mechanical mind, which displayed itself very muchin practical joking. It is said of him that he made a machine, thespring of which was attached to an old slipper, which lay (apparently bychance) on the floor of his bedroom. If a visitor kicked this out ofhis way, a phantom instantly arose from the floor! He also constructeda chair which seized every one who sat down in it with its arms, andheld them fast; and in his garden he had an arbour which went afloat ina neighbouring canal when any one entered it! As might have beenexpected, Winstanley's lighthouse was a curious affair, not well adaptedto withstand the fury of the waves. It was highly ornamented, andresembled a Chinese pagoda much more than a lighthouse. Nevertheless itmust be said to the credit of this bold man, that after facing andovercoming, during six years, difficulties and dangers which up to thattime had not been heard of, he finished his lighthouse, proved herebythe possibility of that which had been previously deemed impossible, andgave to mankind a noble example of enterprise, daring, and perseverance.

  Our friend John Potter had, from the commencement, rendered ableassistance in the dangerous work as a stone cutter, and he could nothelp feeling as if he had been deserted by an old friend that night whenthe boat went off to the rock without him.

  It was in November 1703, when Winstanley expressed the wish that hemight experience, in his lighthouse, the greatest storm that ever blew.On the 26th of that month his wish was granted! That night there aroseone of the fiercest gales that ever strewed our shores with wrecks andcorpses. The day before the storm, there were indications of itsapproach, so John Potter went down to the shore to look with someanxiety at the lighthouse. There it stood, as the sun went down, like astar on the horizon, glimmering above the waste of foaming water. Whenthe dark pall and the driving sprays of that terrible night hid it fromview, John turned his back on the sea and sought the shelter of hishumble home.

  It was a cheery home though a poor one, for Mrs Potter was a goodhousewife, despite her sharp temper; and the threatening aspect of theweather had subdued her somewhat.

  "You wouldn't like to be a lighthouse-keeper on a night like this, John,would you?" asked Mrs Potter, as she busied herself with supper.

  "May be not: but I would be content to take things as they are sent.Anyhow, I mean to apply for the situation, because I like the notion ofthe quiet life, and the wage will be good as well as sure, which will bea matter of comfort to you, old girl. You often complain, you know, ofthe uncertainty of my present employment."

  "Ay, but I'd rather 'ave that uncertainty than see you run the risk ofbein' drownded in a light'ouse," said Mrs Potter, glancing uneasily atthe window, which rattled violently as the fury of the gale increased.

  "Oh, faither," exclaimed Tommy, pausing with a potato halfway to hismouth, as he listened partly in delight and partly in dread to theturmoil without: "I wish I was a man that I might go with 'ee to live inthe light'ouse. Wot fun it would be to hear the gale roarin' out_there_, an' to see the big waves _so close_, an' to feel the houseshake, and--oh!"

  The last syllable expressed partly his inability to say more, and partlyhis horror at seeing the fire blown almost into the room!

  For some time past the smoke had poured down the chimney, but the lastburst convinced John Potter that it was high time to extinguish the firealtogether.

  This accomplished, he took down an old family Bible from a shelf, andhad worship, for he was a man who feared and loved God. Earnestly didhe pray, for he had a son in the coasting trade whom he knew to be outupon the raging sea that night, and he did not forget his friends uponthe Eddystone Rock.

  "Get thee to bed, lass," he said when he had concluded. "I'll sit upan' read the word. My eyes could not close this night."

  Poor Mrs Potter meekly obeyed. How strangely the weather had changedher! Even her enemies--and she had many--would have said there was somegood in her after all, if they had seen her with a tear trickling downher ruddy cheek as she thought of her sailor boy.

  Day broke at last. The gale still raged with an excess of fury that wasabsolutely appalling. John Potter wrapped himself in a tarpaulin coatand sou'wester preparatory to going out.

  "I'll go with 'ee, John," said his wife, touching him on the shoulder.

  "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 whenit 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 upin one prolonged roar. On gaining the beach they could see nothing atfirst but the heavings of the maddened sea, whose billows mingled theirthunders with the wind. Sand, gravel, and spray almost blinded them,but as daylight increased they caught glimpses of the foam above therock.

  "God help us!" said John, solemnly, as he and his wife and child soughtshelter under the lee of a wall: "_the light'ouse is gone_!"

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