The Floating Light of the Goodwin Sands

At this there was a burst of loud and prolonged applause which terminated in a roar of laughter, owing to the fact that Mr Queeker, cheering and waving his hands in a state of wild enthusiasm, knocked the neck off a bottle of wine and flooded the table in his immediate vicinity! Covered with confusion, Queeker sat down amid continued laughter and rapturous applause.

The chairman then went on to say that the event to which he had referred—the rescue of the crew and passengers of the Wellington on the night of the great storm—had been eclipsed by some of the more recent doings of the same boat; and, after touching upon some of these, said that, although they had met there to do honour to the crews of their own lifeboat, they must not forget other and neighbouring lifeboats, which did their work nobly—the brave crews of which were represented by the coxswains of the Margate and Broadstairs lifeboats, who sat at that board that night as honoured guests (loud cheers, during which several of the men nearest to them shook hands with the coxswains referred to). He could not—the chairman went on to say—sit down without making special reference to the steam-tug, without which, and the courage as well as knowledge of her master, mate, and crew (renewed cheers), the lifeboat could not overtake a tenth part of the noble work which she annually accomplished. He concluded by praying that a kind Providence would continue to watch over and bless the Ramsgate lifeboat and her crew.

We need scarcely add that this toast was drunk with enthusiastic applause, and that it was followed up by the amateur minstrels with admirable effect.

Many songs were sung, and many toasts were proposed that night, and warm was the expression of feeling towards the men who were ever so ready to imperil their lives in the hope of saving those of their fellow-creatures, and who had already, oftentimes, given such ample proof that they were thoroughly able to do, as well as to dare, almost anything. Several singers with good, and one or two with splendid, voices, gave a variety of songs which greatly enhanced the brilliancy of the evening, and were highly appreciated in the gallery; and a few bad singers with miserable voices (who volunteered their songs) did really good service by impressing upon the audience very forcibly the immense differences between good and bad music, and thus kindly acted as shadows to the vocal lights of the evening—as useful touches of discord in the general harmony which by contrast rendered the latter all the sweeter.

But of all the solos sung that night none afforded such delight as a national melody sung by our friend Jerry MacGowl, in a voice that rang out like the voices of three first-class bo’s’ns rolled into one. That worthy son of the Emerald Isle, and Dick Moy, and Jack Shales, happened to be enjoying their month on shore when the supper to the lifeboat-men was planned, and they were all there in virtue of their having been instrumental in saving life on more than one occasion during their residence in Ramsgate. Jerry’s song was, as we have said, highly appreciated, but the applause with which it was greeted was as nothing compared with the shouts and cheers that shook the roof of Saint James’s Hall, when, on being asked to repeat it, Jerry modestly said that he “would prefer to give them a duet—perhaps it was a trayo—av his mates Jack Shales and Dick Moy would only strike in wid bass and tenor.”

The men of the floating light then sang “The Minute-Gun at Sea” magnificently, each taking the part that suited him best or struck his fancy at the moment, and Jerry varying from tenor to bass and bass to treble according to taste.

“Now, Mister Chairman,” said the bold Jerry MacGowl, when the cheers had subsided, “it’s my turn to call for a song, so I ax Mr Queeker to favour the company wid—” Thunders of applause drowned the remainder of the sentence.

Poor Queeker was thrown into great confusion, and sought to explain that he could not sing, even in private—much less in public.

“Oh yes, you can, sir. Try it, sir, no fear of ’ee. Sure it’s yourself as can do it, an’ no mistake,” were the remarks with which his explanation was interrupted.

“I assure you honestly,” cried Queeker, “that I cannot sing, but” (here breathless silence ensued) “if the chairman will kindly permit me, I will give you a toast.”

Loud cheers from all sides, and a good-humoured nod from the chairman greeted this announcement.

“Mr Chairman and Friends,” said Queeker, “the ladies have—” A perfect storm of laughter and cheers interrupted him for at least two minutes.

“Yes,” resumed Queeker, suddenly blazing up with enthusiasm, “I repeat—the ladies—”

“That’s the girls, blissin’s on the swate darlints,” murmured Jerry in a tone which set the whole table again in a roar.

“I echo the sentiment; blessings on them,” said Queeker, with a good-humoured glance at Jerry. “Yes, as I was going to say, I propose the Ladies, who are, always were, and ever will be, the solace of man’s life, the sweet drops in his otherwise bitter cup, the lights in his otherwise dark dwelling, the jewels in his—in his—crown, and the bright stars that glitter in the otherwise dark firmament of his destiny (vociferous cheering). Yes,” continued Queeker, waxing more and more energetic, and striking the table with his fist, whereby he overturned his neighbour’s glass of grog, “yes, I re-assert it—the ladies are all that, and much more! (Hear, hear.) I propose their health—and, after all, I may be said to have some sort of claim to do so, having already unintentionally poured a whole bottle of wine on the tablecloth as a libation to them! (Laughter and applause.) What, I ask,” continued Queeker, raising his voice and hand at the same moment, and setting his hair straight upon end, “what, I ask, would man be without the ladies?” (“What indeed?” said a voice near the foot of the table, which called forth another burst of laughter.) “Just try to think, my friends, what would be the hideous gloom of this terrestrial ball if there were no girls! Oh woman! softener of man’s rugged nature! What—in the words of the poet.” He carefully refrained from saying what poet!

 
“What were earth and all its joys;
what were wealth with all its toys;
what the life of men and boys
        But for lovely woman?
 
 
“What if mothers were no more;
If wives and sisters fled our shore,
And left no sweethearts to the fore—
        No sign of darling woman?
 
 
“What dreary darkness would ensue—
what moral wastes devoid of dew—
If no strong hearts of men like you
        Beat for charming woman?
 
 
“Who would rise at duty’s call;
Who would fight to win or fall;
Who would care to live at all,
        Were it not for woman?”
 

Prolonged and rapturous cheers greeted this effusion, in the midst of which the enthusiastic Jerry MacGowl sprang to his feet, waved his glass above his head—spilling half of its contents on the pate of a bald skipper who sat next to him—and cheered lustily.

“Men of the Ramsgate lifeboat,” shouted Queeker, “I call on you to pledge the ladies—with all the honours!”

It is unnecessary to say that the call was responded to with a degree of enthusiasm that threatened, as Dick Moy said to Jack Shales, “to smash all the glasses an’ blow the roof off.” In the midst of the noise and confusion Queeker left the hall, ascended to the gallery, and sat himself down beside Fanny Hennings, with an air of intense decision.

“Oh, Mr Queeker!” exclaimed Fanny.

“Listen, Fanny,” said the tall uncle at that moment, “they are giving one of the most important toasts of the evening—The Royal National Lifeboat Institution.”

Fanny tried to listen, and had caught a few words, when she felt her hand suddenly seized and held fast. Turning her head quickly, she beheld the face of Queeker turned to bright scarlet.

What more she heard or saw after that it would be extremely difficult to tell. Perhaps the best way of conveying an idea of it is to lay before the reader the short epistle which Fanny penned that same night to her old friend Katie Hall. It ran thus:—

“Ramsgate.

“Oh, Katie! Darling Katie!—He has done it at last! Dear fellow! And so like himself too—so romantically, so poetically! They were toasting the Lifeboat Institution at the time. He seized my hand. ‘Fanny,’ he said, in the deep manly tones in which he had just made the most brilliant speech of the evening, ‘Fanny, my love—my life—my lifeboat—will you have me? will you save me?’ There was a dreadful noise at the time—a very storm of cheering. The whole room seemed in a whirl. My head was in a whirl too; and oh! how my heart beat! I don’t know what I said. I fear I burst into a fit of laughter, and then cried, and dear uncle carried me out—but it’s all over now. That darling Lifeboat Institution, I shall never forget it; for they were sounding its praises at the very moment when my Queeker and I got into the same boat—for life!—Your happy Fanny.”

To this the next post brought the following reply:—

“Yarmouth.”

“My Dearest Fanny,—Is it necessary for me to say that your last short letter has filled my heart with joy? It has cleared up a mystery too! On Tuesday last, in the forenoon, Mr Queeker came by appointment to take lunch with us, and Stanley happened to mention that a supper was to be given to the Ramsgate lifeboat-men, and that he had heard you were to be there. During lunch, Mr Queeker was very absent and restless, and appeared to be unhappy. At last he started up, made some hurried apology about the train for the south, and having urgent business to transact, looked at his watch, and rushed out of the house! We could not understand it at the time, but I knew that he had only a few minutes left to catch the train for the south, and I now know that he caught it—and why! Ah, Fanny, did I not always assure you that he would do it in desperation at last! My earnest prayer is, that your wedded life may be as happy as mine has hitherto been.

“When your honeymoon is over, you must promise to pay us a visit. You know that our villa is sufficiently far out of town to warrant your regarding us in the light of country friends; and Stanley bids me say that he will take no denial. Papa—who is at present romping round the room with my eldest boy on his shoulders, so that I scarce know what I write—bids me tell you, with his kind love and hearty congratulations, that he thinks you are ‘not throwing yourself away, for that Queeker is a first-rate little fellow, and a rising man!’ Observe, please, that I quote papa’s own words.

“I must stop abruptly, because a tiny cry from the nursery informs me that King Baby is awake, and demands instant attention!—With kindest love and congratulations, your ever affectionate, Katie Hall.”

Chapter Twenty Four.
Conclusion

Once again, and for the last time, we visit the floating light.

It was a calm sunny evening, about the end of autumn, when the Trinity tender, having effected “the relief” of the old Gull, left her in order to perform the same service for her sister light-vessels.

“Good-bye, Welton, good-bye, lads,” cried the superintendent, waving his hand as the tender’s boat pushed off and left them, for another period of duty, in their floating home.

“Good-bye, sir,” replied the mate and men, touching their caps.

“Now, sir,” said Dick Moy to the mate, shortly after, when they were all, except the watch, assembled below round the galley stove, “are you goin’ to let us ’ave a bit o’ that there letter, accordin’ to promise?”

“What letter?” inquired Jack Shales, who having only accomplished half of his period of service on board—one month—had not come off with his comrades, and knew little or nothing of what had occurred on shore.

“A letter from the lighthouse from Jim,” said the mate, lighting his pipe, “received it this forenoon just as we were gettin’ ready to come off.”

“All well and hearty, I hope?” asked Jerry MacGowl, seating himself on a bench, and rolling some tobacco between his palms, preparatory to filling his pipe.

“All well,” replied the mate, pulling out the letter in question, and regarding the address with much interest; “an’ strange news in it.”

“Well, then, let’s ’ear wot it’s all about,” said Dick Moy; “there’s time to read it afore sunset, an it ain’t fair to keep fellers in all the hagonies of hexpectation.”

“That’s true enough,” said Jerry with a grin. “Arrah! it’s bustin I am already wid kooriosity. Heave ahead, sir, an’ be marciful.”

Thus entreated, Mr Welton glanced at his watch, sat down, and, opening his letter, read as follows:—

“Dear Father,—Here we are, thank God, comfortably settled in the new lighthouse, and Nora and I both agree that although it is more outlandish, it is much more cheerful in every way than our last abode, although it is very wild-like, and far from the mainland. Billy Towler, my assistant,—who has become such a strapping fellow that you’d scarce know him,—is also much pleased with it. The children, too, give a decided opinion in favour of the place, and even the baby, little Morley, seems to know that he has made a change for the better!

“Baby’s name brings me to the news that I’ve got to tell you. Morley Jones has come back! You’ll be surprised to hear that, I daresay, but it’s a fact. He got a ticket-of-leave, and never rested till he found out where Nora was. He came to us one evening some time ago, and fell down in a sort of fit close to the lighthouse-door, while Nora was sitting in front of it, and the children were romping with Neptune beside her. Poor fellow! he was so changed, so old, and so white-haired and worn, that we did not know him at first; but after we had washed the blood off his face—for he had cut himself when he fell—I recognised the old features.

“But he is changed in other respects too, in a way that has filled my dear wife’s heart with joy. Of course you are aware that he got no drink during the seven years of his imprisonment. Now that he is free he refuses to let a drop of anything stronger than water pass his lips. He thinks it is his only chance, and I believe he is right. He says that nothing but the thought of Nora, and the hope of one day being permitted to return to ask her forgiveness on his knees, enabled him to endure his long captivity with resignation. I do assure you, father, that it almost brings tears to my eyes to see the way in which that man humbles himself before his daughter. Nora’s joy is far too deep for words, but it is written plainly in her face. She spent all her spare time with him at first, reading the Bible to him, and trying to convince him that it was not the thought of her, but God’s mercy and love that had put it into his heart to repent, and desire to reform. He does not seem quite inclined to take that view of it, but he will come to it, sooner or later, for we have the sure promise that the Lord will finish the good work He has begun. We have hired a room for him in a little village within half a mile of us. It is small, but comfortable enough, and he seems to be quite content with it—as well he may be, with Nora and the children going constantly about him!

“I tell you what, father, the longer I live with Nora, the more I feel that I have got the truest-hearted and most loveable wife in all the wide world! The people of the village would go any length to serve her; and as to their children, I believe they worship the ground she walks on, as Jerry MacGowl used to say.”

“Och, the idolatrous haythens!” growled Jerry.

“And the way she manages our dear youngsters,” continued the mate, reading on, without noticing Jerry’s interruption, “would do your heart good to see. It reminds me of Dick Moy’s wife, who is about the best mother I ever met with—next to Nora, of course!”

“Humph!” said Dick, with a grim smile; “wery complimentary. I wonder wot my old ooman will say to that?”

“She’ll say, no doubt, that she’ll expect you to take example by Jim Welton when speaking of your wife,” observed Jack Shales. “I wonder, Dick, what ever could have induced Mrs Moy to marry such a fellow as you?”

“I s’pose,” retorted Dick, lighting his pipe, “that it was to escape the chance o’ bein’ tempted, in a moment of weakness, to marry the likes o’ you.”

“Hear, hear,” cried MacGowl, “that’s not unlikely, Dick. An’, sure, she might have gone farther an’ fared worse. You’re a good lump of a man, anyhow; though you haven’t much to boast of in the way of looks. Howsever, it seems to me that looks don’t go far wid sensible girls. Faix, the uglier a man is, it’s the better chance he has o’ gittin’ a purty wife. I have a brother, myself, who’s a dale uglier than the figurhead of an owld Dutch galliot, an’ he’s married the purtiest little girl in Ireland, he has.”

“If ye want to hear the end of Jim’s letter, boys, you’d better shut up your potato-traps,” interposed Mr Welton.

“That’s true—fire away,” said Shales.

The mate continued to read.

“You’ll be glad to hear that the old dog Neptune is well and hearty. He is a great favourite here, especially with the children. Billy Towler has taught him a number of tricks—among other things he can dive like a seal, and has no objection whatever to let little Morley choke him or half punch out his eyes. Tell mother not to be uneasy on that point, for though Neptune has the heart of a lion he has the temper of a lamb.

“There is an excellent preacher, belonging to the Wesleyan body, who comes here occasionally on Sundays, and has worship in the village. He is not much of a preacher, but he’s an earnest, God-fearing man, and has made the name of Jesus dear to some of the people here, who, not long ago, were quite careless about their souls. Careless about their souls! Oh, father, how often I think of that, now. How strange it seems that we should ever be thus careless! What should we say of the jeweller who would devote all his time and care to the case that held his largest diamond, and neglect the gem itself? Nora has got up a Sunday school at the village, and Billy helps her with it. The Grotto did wonders for him—so he says himself.

“I must close this letter sooner than I intended, for I hear Nora’s voice, like sweet music in the distance, singing out that dinner is ready; and if I keep the youngsters waiting long, they’ll sing out in a sharper strain of melody!

“So now, father, good-bye for the present. We all unite in sending our warmest love to dear mother and yourself. Kindest remembrances also to my friends in the floating light. As much of my heart as Nora and the children can spare is on board of the old Gull. May God bless you all.—Your affectionate son, James Welton.”

“The sun will be down in a few minutes, sir,” said the watch, looking down the hatchway, while the men were engaged in commenting on Jim’s letter.

“I know that,” replied the mate, glancing at his timepiece, as he went on deck.

The upper edge of the sun was just visible above the horizon, gleaming through the haze like a speck of ruddy fire. The shipping in the Downs rested on a sea so calm that each rope and mast and yard was faithfully reflected. Ramsgate—with the exception of its highest spires—was overshadowed by the wing of approaching night. The Goodwin Sands were partially uncovered; looking calm and harmless enough, with only a snowy ripple on their northern extremity, where they were gently kissed by the swell of the North Sea, and with nothing, save a riven stump or a half-buried stem-post, to tell of the storms and wrecks with which their name is so sadly associated.

All around breathed of peace and tranquillity when the mate, having cast a searching glance round the horizon, leaned over the hatchway and shouted—“Lights up!”

The customary “Ay, ay, sir,” was followed by the prompt appearance of the crew. The winch was manned, the signal given, and, just as the sun went down, the floating light went up, to scatter its guiding and warning beams far and wide across the darkening waste of water.

May our little volume prove a truthful reflector to catch up a few of those beams, and, diverting them from their legitimate direction, turn them in upon the shore to enlighten the mind and tickle the fancy of those who dwell upon the land—and thus, perchance, add another thread to the bond of sympathy already existing between them and those whose lot it is to battle with the winds, and live upon the sea.