Saved at Sea - Mrs. O.F. Walton
'Take her out a bit, Alick,' said Mrs. Millar. 'Stop a minute, though;
I'll fetch her Polly's hood.' So, to her great delight, we dressed her
in Polly's hood, and put a warm shawl round her, and I took her out.
Oh! how she ran, and jumped, and played in the garden. I never saw such
a merry little thing. Now she was picking up stones, now she was
gathering daisies ('day days, she called them), now she was running down
the path and calling to me to catch her. She was never still a single
instant!
[Illustration: AFTER THE STORM.]
But every now and then, as I was playing with her, I looked across the
sea to Ainslie Crag. The sea had not gone down much, though the wind had
ceased, and I saw the waves still dashing wildly upon the rocks.
And I thought of what lay beneath them, of the shattered ship, and of
the child's mother. Oh! if she only knew, I thought, as I listened to
her merry laugh, which made me more ready to cry than her tears had
done.
CHAPTER V.
THE UNCLAIMED SUNBEAM.
My grandfather and Jem Millar were sitting over the fire in the little
watchroom in the lighthouse tower, and I sat beside them with the child
on my knee. I had found an old picture-book for her, and she was turning
over the leaves, and making her funny little remarks on the pictures.
'Well, Sandy,' said Millar, 'what shall we do with her?'
'_Do_ with her?' said my grandfather stroking her little fair head.
'We'll keep her! Won't we, little lassie?'
'Yes,' said the child, looking up and nodding her head, as if she
understood all about it.
'We ought to look up some of her relations, it seems to me,' said Jem.
'She's sure to have some, somewhere.'
'And how are we to find them out?' asked my grandfather.
'Oh, the captain can soon make out for us what ship is missing, and we
can send a line to the owners; they'll know who the passengers was.'
'Well,' said my grandfather, 'maybe you're right, Jem; we'll see what
they say. But, for my part, if them that cares for the child is at the
bottom of that sea, I hope no one else will come and take her away from
us.'
'If I hadn't so many of them at home--'began Millar.
'Oh yes, my lad, I know that,' said my grandfather, interrupting him;
'but thy house is full enough already. Let the wee lassie come to Alick
and me. She'll be a nice little bit of company for us; and Mary will see
to her clothes and such like, I know.'
'Yes, that she will,' said her husband. 'I do declare she has been
crying about that child the best part of the day! She has indeed!'
My grandfather followed Jem's advice, and told Captain Sayers, when he
came in the steamer the next Monday, the whole story of the shipwreck,
and asked him to find out for him the name and address of the owners of
the vessel.
Oh, how I hoped that no one would come to claim my little darling. She
became dearer to me every day, and I felt as if it would break my heart
to part with her. Every night, when Mrs. Millar had undressed her, she
knelt beside me in her little white nightgown to 'talk to God,' as she
called praying. She had evidently learnt a little prayer from her
mother, for the first night she began of her own accord
'Jesus, Eppy, hear me.'
I could not think at first what it was that she was saying; but Mrs.
Millar said she had learnt the hymn when she was a little girl, and she
wrote out the first verse for me. And every night afterwards I let the
child repeat it after me,--
'Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me,
Bless Thy little lamb to-night,
Through the darkness be Thou near me,
Keep me safe till morning light.'
I thought I should like her always to say the prayer her mother had
taught her. I never prayed myself--my grandfather had never taught me. I
wondered if my mother would have taught me if she had lived. I thought
she would.
I knew very little in those days of the Bible. My grandfather did not
care for it, and never read it. He had a large Bible, but it was always
laid on the top of the chest of drawers, as a kind of ornament; and
unless I took it down to look at the curious old pictures inside, it was
never opened.
Sunday on the island was just the same as any other day. My grandfather
worked in the garden, or read the newspaper, just the same as usual, and
I rambled about the rocks, or did my lessons, or worked in the house, as
I did every other day in the week. We had no church or chapel to go to,
and nothing happened to mark the day.
I often think now of that dreadful morning when we went across the
stormy sea to that sinking ship. If our boat had capsized then, if we
had been lost, what would have become of our souls? It is a very solemn
thought, and I cannot be too thankful to God for sparing us both a
little longer. My grandfather was a kind-hearted, good-tempered, honest
old man; but I know now that that is not enough to open the door of
heaven. Jesus is the only way there, and my grandfather knew little of,
and cared nothing for, _Him_.
Little Timpey became my constant companion, indoors and out of doors.
She was rather shy of the little Millars, for they were noisy and rough
in their play, but she clung to me, and never wanted to leave me. Day
by day she learnt new words, and came out with such odd little remarks
of her own, that she made us all laugh. Her great pleasure was to get
hold of a book, and pick out the different letters of the alphabet,
which, although she could hardly talk, she knew quite perfectly.
Dear little pet! I can see her now, sitting at my feet on a large flat
rock by the seashore, and calling me every minute to look at A, or B, or
D, or S. And so by her pretty ways she crept into all our hearts, and we
quite dreaded the answer coming to the letter my grandfather had written
to the owners of the _Victory_, which, we found, was the name of the
lost ship.
It was a very wet day, the Monday that the answer came. I had been
waiting some time on the pier, and was wet through before the steamer
arrived. Captain Sayers handed me the letter before anything else, and
I ran up with it to my grandfather at once. I could not wait until our
provisions and supplies were brought on shore.
Little Timpey was sitting on a stool at my grandfather's feet, winding a
long piece of tape round and round her little finger. She ran to meet me
as I came in, and held up her face to be kissed.
What if this letter should say she was to leave us, and go back by the
steamer! I drew a long breath as my grandfather opened it.
It was a very civil letter from the owners of the ship, thanking us for
all we had done to save the unhappy crew and passengers, but saying they
knew nothing of the child or her belongings, as no one of the name of
Villiers had taken a cabin, and there was no sailor on board of that
name. But they said they would make further inquiries in Calcutta, from
which port the vessel had sailed. Meanwhile they begged my grandfather
to take charge of the child, and assured him he should be handsomely
rewarded for his trouble.
'That's right!' I said, when he had finished reading it. 'Then she
hasn't to go yet!'
'No,' said my grandfather; 'poor wee lassie! we can't spare her yet. I
don't want any of their rewards, Alick, not I! That's reward enough for
me,' he said, as he lifted up the child to kiss his wrinkled forehead.
CHAPTER VI.
THE OLD GENTLEMAN'S QUESTION.
The next Monday morning Timpey and I went down together to the pier, to
await the arrival of the steamer. She had brought a doll with her, which
Mrs. Millar had given her, and of which she was very proud.
Captain Sayers sent for me, as soon as the steamer came up to the pier,
to tell me that two gentlemen had come to see my grandfather. I held
the child's hand very tightly in mine, for I had felt sure they had come
for her.
The gentlemen came up the steps a minute or two afterwards. One of them
was a middle-aged man, with a very clever face, I thought. He told me he
had come to see Mr. Alexander Fergusson, and asked me if I could direct
him which way to go to the house.
'Yes, sir,' I said; 'Mr. Fergusson is my grandfather.' So we went up
towards the lighthouse, Timpey and I walking first to lead the way, and
the gentlemen following. The other gentleman was quite old, and had
white hair and gold spectacles, and a pleasant, kindly face.
Timpey could not walk very fast, and she kept running first to one side
and then to another, to gather flowers or pick up stones, to I took her
in my arms and carried her.
'Is that your little sister?' asked the old gentleman.
'No, sir,' I said; 'this is the little girl who was on board the
_Victory_!
'Dear me! dear me!' said both gentlemen at once. 'Let me look at her,'
said the old man, arranging his spectacles.
But Timpey was frightened, and clung to me, and began to cry. 'Never
mind, never mind,' said the old gentleman kindly; 'we'll make friends
with one another by-and-by.'
By this time we had reached the house, and the middle-aged gentleman
introduced himself as Mr. Septimus Forster, one of the owners of the
lost vessel, and said that he and his father-in-law, Mr. Davis, had come
to hear all particulars that my grandfather could give them with regard
to the shipwreck.
My grandfather begged them to sit down, and told me to prepare
breakfast for them at once. They were very pleasant gentlemen, both of
them, and were very kind to my grandfather. Mr. Forster wanted to make
him a handsome present for what he had done; but my grandfather would
not take it. They talked much of little Timpey, and I kept stopping to
listen as I was setting out the cups and saucers. They had heard nothing
more of her relations; and they said it was a very strange thing that no
such name as Villiers was to be found on the list of passengers on
board. They offered to take her away with them till some relation was
found; but my grandfather begged to keep her. The gentlemen, seeing how
happy and well cared for the child was, gladly consented.
After breakfast Mr. Forster said he should like to see the lighthouse,
so my grandfather went up to the top of the tower with him, and showed
him with great pride all that was to be seen there. Old Mr. Davis was
tired, and stayed behind with little Timpey and me.
'This is a strong house, my lad,' he said, when the others had gone.
'Yes, sir,' I said, 'it ought to be strong; the wind is fearful here
sometimes.'
'What sort of a foundation has it?' said the old man, tapping the floor
with his stick.
'Oh, it's all rock, sir,' I answered, 'solid rock; our house and the
lighthouse tower are all built into the rock; they would never stand if
they weren't'
'And are _you_ on the Rock, my lad?' said Mr. Davis, looking at me
through his spectacles.
'I beg your pardon, sir,' I said, for I thought I had not heard him
rightly.
'Are _you_ on the Rock?' he repeated.
'On the rock, sir? oh, yes,' I said, thinking he could not have
understood what I said before. 'All these buildings are built into the
rock, or the wind and sea would carry them away.'
'But _you_,' said the old gentleman again, 'are _you_ on the Rock?'
'I don't quite understand you, sir,' I said.
'Never mind,' he said; 'I'll ask your grandfather when he comes down.'
So I sat still, wondering what he could mean, and almost thinking he
must have gone out of his mind.
As soon as my grandfather returned, he put the same question to him; and
my grandfather answered it as I had done, by assuring him how firmly and
strongly the lighthouse and its surroundings were built into the solid
rock.
'And you yourself,' said Mr. Davis 'how long have you been on the Rock?'
'I, sir?' said my grandfather. 'I suppose you mean how long have I lived
here; forty years, sir--forty years come the twelfth of next month I've
lived on this rock.'
'And how much longer do you expect to live here?' said the old
gentleman.
'Oh, I don't know, sir,' said my grandfather. 'As long as I live, I
suppose. Alick, here, will take my place by-and-by; he's a fine, strong
boy is Alick, sir.'
'And where will you live when you leave the island?' asked Mr. Davis.
'Oh, I never mean to leave it,' said my grandfather; 'not till I die,
sir.'
'And _then_; where will you live _then_?'
'Oh, I don't know, sir,' said my grandfather. 'In heaven, I suppose.
But, dear me, I'm not going there just yet,' he said, as if he did not
like the turn the conversation was taking.
'Would you mind answering me one more question?' said old Mr. Davis.
'Would you kindly tell me _why_ you think you'll go to heaven? You won't
mind my asking you, will you?'
'Oh dear, no,' said my grandfather, 'not at all, sir. Well, sir, you see
I've never done anybody any harm, and God is very merciful, and so I've
no doubt it will be all right at last.
'Why, my dear friend,' said the old gentleman, 'I thought you said you
were on the Rock. You're not on the Rock at all, you're on the sand!' He
was going to add more, when one of Captain Sayer's men ran up to say
the steamer was ready to start, and would they kindly come at once, as
it was late already. So the two gentlemen jumped up, and prepared
hastily to go down to the beach.
But as old Mr. Davis took leave of my grandfather, he said earnestly,--
'My friend, you are building on the sand; you are indeed, and it won't
stand the storm; no, it won't stand the storm!' He had no time to say
more, the sailor hastened him away.
I followed them down to the pier, and stood there watching the steamer
preparing to start.
There was a little delay after the gentlemen went on board, and I saw
Mr. Davis sit down on a seat on deck, take out his pocket-book, and
write something on one of the leaves. Then he tore the leaf out, and
gave it to one of the sailors to hand to me as I stood on the pier, and
in another moment the steamer had started.
CHAPTER VII.
A THICK FOG.
That little piece of paper which was given me that day, I have it still,
put by amongst my greatest treasures. There was not much written on it,
only two lines of a hymn:
'On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand,
All other ground is sinking sand.'
I walked slowly up to the house thinking. My grandfather was out with
Jem Millar, so I did not show him the paper then, but I read the lines
many times over as I was playing with little Timpey, and I wondered very
much what they meant.
In the evening, my grandfather and Jem Millar generally sat together
over the fire in the little watchroom upstairs, and I used to take
little Timpey up there, until it was time for her to go to bed. She
liked climbing up the stone steps in the lighthouse tower. She used to
call out, 'Up! up! up!' as she went along, until she reached the top
step, and then she would run into the watchroom with a merry laugh.
As we went in this evening, my grandfather and Jem were talking together
of the visit of the two gentlemen 'I can't think what the old man meant
about the rock,' my grandfather was saying. 'I couldn't make head or
tail of it, Jem; could you, my lad?'
'Look there, grandfather,' I said, as I handed him the little piece of
paper, and told him how I had got it.
'Well, to be sure!' said my grandfather 'So he gave you this, did he?'
and he read aloud:
'On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand,
All other ground is sinking sand.'
'Well now, Jem, what does he mean? He kept on saying to me, "You're on
the sand, my friend; you're on the sand, and it won't stand the storm!"
What do you make of it, Jem? did you hear him, my lad?'
'Yes,' said Jem thoughtfully; 'and it has set me thinking, Sandy; I know
what he meant well enough.'
'And pray what may that be?'
'He meant we can't get to heaven except we come to Christ; we can't
get no other way. That's just what it means, Sandy!'
'Do you mean to tell me,' said my grandfather, 'that I shan't get to
heaven if I do my best?'
'No, it won't do, Sandy; there's only one way to heaven; I know that
well enough.'
'Dear me, Jem!' said my grandfather, 'I never heard you talk like that
before.'
'No,' said Jem, 'I've forgot all about it since I came to the island. I
had a good mother years ago; I ought to have done better than I have
done.'
He said no more, but he was very silent all the evening. Grandfather
read his newspaper aloud, and talked on all manner of subjects, but Jem
Millar's thoughts seemed far away.
The next day was his day for going on shore. My grandfather and Jem took
it in turns, the last Friday in every month; it was the only time they
were allowed to leave the island. When it was my grandfather's turn, I
generally went with him, and much enjoyed getting a little change. But
whichever of them went, it was a great day with us on the island, for
they bought any little things that we might be needing for our houses or
gardens, and did any business that had to be done on shore.
We all went down to the pier to see Jem Millar start; and as I was
helping him to get on board some empty sacks and some other things he
had to take with him, he said to me, in an undertone,--
'Alick, my lad, keep that bit of paper; it's all true what that old
gentleman said. I've been thinking of it ever since; and, Alick,' he
whispered, 'I believe I _am_ on the Rock now.'
He said no more, but arranged his oars, and in a minute more he was
off. But as he rowed away, I heard, him singing softly to himself:
'On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand,
All other ground is sinking sand.'
We watched the boat out of sight, and then went home, wishing that it
was evening and that Jem was back again with all the things that we had
asked him to get for us.
That was a very gloomy afternoon. A thick fog came over the sea and
gradually closed us in, so that we could hardly see a step before us on
the beach.
Little Timpey began to cough, so I took her indoors, and amused her
there with a picture-book. It grew so dark that my grandfather lighted
the lighthouse lamps soon after dinner. There was a dull, yellow light
over everything.
I never remember a more gloomy afternoon; and as evening came on, the
fog grew denser, till at length we could see nothing outside the
windows.
It was no use looking out for Jem's return, for we could not see the
sea, much less any boat upon it. So we stayed indoors, and my
grandfather sat by the fire smoking his pipe.
'I thought Jem would have been here before now,' he said at length, as I
was putting out the cups and saucers for tea.
'Oh, he'll come before we've finished tea, I think, grandfather,' I
answered. 'I wonder what sort of a spade he'll have got for us.'
When tea was over, the door opened suddenly, and we looked up, expecting
to see Jem enter with our purchases. But it was not Jem; it was his
wife.
'Sandy,' she said, 'what time do you make it? My clock's stopped!'
'Twenty minutes past six,' said my grandfather, looking at his watch.
'Past six!' she repeated. 'Why, Jem's very late!'
'Yes,' said my grandfather; 'I'll go down to the pier, and have a look
out.'
But he came back soon, saying it was impossible to see anything; the fog
was so thick, he was almost afraid of walking over the pier. 'But he's
bound to be in at seven, he said (for that was the hour the
lighthousemen were required to be on the island again), 'so he'll soon
be up now.'
The clock moved on, and still Jem Millar did not come. I saw Mrs. Millar
running to her door every now and then with her baby in her arms, to
look down the garden path. But no one came.
At last the clock struck seven.
'I never knew him do such a thing before!' said my grandfather, as he
rose to go down to the pier once more.
CHAPTER VIII.
WAITING FOR THE BOAT.
Poor Mrs. Millar went out of her house, and followed my grandfather down
to the pier. I waited indoors with little Timpey, straining my ears to
listen for the sound of their footsteps coming back again.
But the clock struck half-past seven, and still no sound was to be
heard. I could wait no longer; I wrapped the child in a shawl, and
carried her into the Millars' house, and left her under the care of Mrs.
Millar's little servant. And then I ran down, through the thick,
smothering fog, to the pier.
My grandfather was standing there with Mrs. Millar. When I came close to
them he was saying, 'Cheer up, Mary, my lass; he's all right; he's only
waiting till this mist has cleared away a bit. You go home, and I'll
tell you as soon as ever I hear his boat coming. Why, you're wet
through, woman; you'll get your death of cold!'
Her thin calico dress was soaked with the damp in the air, and she was
shivering, and looked as white as a sheet. At first she would not be
persuaded to leave the pier; but, as time went on, and it grew darker
and colder, she consented to do as my grandfather told her, and he
promised he would send me up to the lighthouse to tell her as soon as
Jem arrived.
When she was gone, my grandfather said 'Alick, there's something wrong
with Jem, depend upon it! I didn't like to tell her so, poor soul! If we
only had the boat, I would go out a bit of way and see.'
We walked up and down the pier, and stopped every now and then to listen
if we could hear the sound of oars in the distance, for we should not be
able to see the boat till it was close upon us, so dense had the fog
become.
'Dear me,' my grandfather kept saying anxiously, 'I wish he would come!'
My thoughts went back to the bright sunny morning when Jem Millar had
started, and we had heard him singing, as he went, those two lines of
the hymn,--
'On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand,
All other ground is sinking sand.'
The time passed on. Would he never come? We grew more and more anxious.
Mrs. Millar's servant-girl came running down to say her mistress wanted
to know if we could hear anything yet.
'No,' my grandfather said, 'nothing yet, my lass; but it can't be long
now.'
'Missis is so poorly,' said the girl; 'I think she's got a cold: she
shakes all over, and she keeps fretting so.'
'Poor soul! well, perhaps it's better so.'
'Whatever do you mean, grandfather?' I asked.
'Why, if aught's amiss, she won't be so taken aback as if she wasn't
afraid; and if Jem's all right, why, she'll only be the better pleased.'
The girl went back, and we still waited on the pier. 'Grandfather,' I
said at length, 'I think I hear a boat.'
It was a very still night; we stood and listened. At first my
grandfather said he heard nothing; but at length he distinguished, as I
did, the regular plash--plash--plash--of oars in the distance.
'Yes, it _is_ a boat,' said my grandfather.
I was hastening to leave the pier, and run up to the house to tell Mrs.
Millar, but my grandfather laid his hand on my shoulder.
'Wait a bit, Alick, my lad,' he said; 'let us hear what it is first;
maybe it isn't Jem, after all!'
'But it's coming here, grandfather; I can hear it better now.'
'Yes,' he said, 'it's coming here;' but he still kept his hand on my
shoulder.
The boat had been a long way off when we first heard it, for it was many
minutes before the sound of the oars seemed to become much more
distinct. But it came nearer, and nearer, and nearer. Yes, the boat was
evidently making for the island.
At last it came so near that my grandfather called out from the end of
the pier,--
'Hollo, Jem! You're late, my lad!'
'Hollo!' said a voice from the boat; but it wasn't Jem's voice.
'Whereabouts is your landing-place?' said the voice; 'it's so thick, I
can't see.'
'Why, Jem isn't there, grandfather!' I said, catching hold of his arm.
'No,' said my grandfather; 'I knew there was something wrong with the
lad.'
He called out to the man in the boat the direction in which he was to
row, and then he and I went down the steps together, and waited for the
boat to come up.
There were four men in the boat. They were sailors, and strangers to me.
One of them, the one whose voice we had heard, got out to speak to my
grandfather.
'Something's wrong,' said my grandfather, before he could begin;
'something's wrong with that poor lad.'
'Yes,' said the man, 'we've got him here; and he pointed to the boat.
A cold shudder passed over me as he said this, and I caught sight of
something lying at the men's feet at the bottom of the boat.
'What's wrong with him? Has he had an accident? Is he much hurt?'
'He's dead,' said the man solemnly.
'Oh dear!' said my grandfather, in a choking voice. 'However shall we
tell his wife? However shall we tell poor Mary?'
[Illustration: 'HOW DID IT HAPPEN?' I ASKED.]
'How did it happen?' I asked at length, as soon as I could speak.
'He was getting a sack of flour on board, over yonder' said one of the
men in the boat, 'and it was awful thick and foggy, and he missed his
footing on the plank, and fell in; that's how it happened!'
'Yes,' said another man, 'and it seems he couldn't swim, and there was
no boat nigh at hand to help him. Joe Malcolmson was there and saw him
fall in; but before he could call any of us, it was all over with him.
We got him out at last, but he was quite gone; we fetched a doctor, and
took him into a house near, and rubbed him, and did all we could; but it
wasn't of no good at all! Shall we bring him in?'