THE “BLACK DRAGOON.”
By Sidney Daryl.
“Thro’ the black night that sits immense around,
Lash’d into foam the fierce contending brine,
Seems o’er a thousand raging waves to frown.”
Thomson.
Somewhere under the cliffs, on the South Coast, lay the little fishing village of Gunnerstone, at least, if some dozen ricketty huts and a tumble-down jetty deserve the appellation. Isolated and cut off from anything like familiar intercourse with the rest of the world, its inhabitants led a wild, precarious existence, and some ugly stories were told of their predilection for plunder and wrecking. Many vessels had been known to go upon the Gunnerstone reef in comparatively calm weather, when all hands might have been saved with little difficulty, but by some unaccountable mishap or other none were ever known to survive, and by the time the Coastguard men arrived they were astonished to find how quickly the ship herself had gone to pieces. Nature had made Gunnerstone almost inaccessible from the sea, save to the natives of the place, to whom alone a certain narrow passage was known through which they could navigate their boats in safety up to the jetty. From the very edge of the beach to some half mile out to sea stretched a long reef of sunken rocks, which the blue jackets on board the revenue cutter were wont to call the real Gunnerstone fishing nets. Many and fatal had been the wrecks in this particular locality, and Homeward and Outward bound always wished themselves well past it. It became obvious that the establishment of a lighthouse here was absolutely necessary, and after the usual amount of official circumlocution, and the preparation of a great many surveys and plans, things at length took a business-like turn, and the building of a lighthouse was commenced on a large rock at the extremity of the reef, which rose abruptly out of the water as if specially intended by nature to assist in the work of humanity. The construction proceeded but slowly, what with the caprices of the weather and the opposition offered by the inhabitants of Gunnerstone, who regarded the innovation much in the same way as a burglar would the establishment of a huge gas-lamp just in front of a house he contemplates robbing. It was many months before the revolving beacon sent its dazzling rays flashing out over the sea to warn passers by of their propinquity to the ill-omened reef. When thoroughly finished, the lighthouse presented an appearance of strength and solidity that did infinite credit to the architect who had planned, and the contractor who had built it. The interior was arranged so as to be as roomy as possible, in order to accommodate the two keepers and the boy who had charge of it; and the lower part was divided into a sitting and sleeping-room. Outside, a couple of substantial outbuildings had been erected, which in the summertime were used as residences; while all round the upper surface of the rock huge blocks of granite had been raised one on the other, making a wall of tremendous thickness, which shielded the outbuildings, and left a considerable space protected, which, with marvellous ingenuity, had been turned into a garden, though I fear its productive powers were not of a very high order. Down one side of the rock was cut a rough staircase, by means of which the keepers were enabled to get into their boat, whenever they had occasion to take a trip to the shore. Their life was a very uneventful, and yet withal, a very stirring one; for, in winter time, when the storm was at work, the waves came dashing up against their house in wild confusion and noise as of thunder, racing one with the other as if to see which would send its flecks of foam nearest the lighthouse lantern.
On the 24th of December, 18—, about five o’clock in the afternoon, three people were standing in the little yard at Gunnerstone Lighthouse, looking out towards the sea. Above them the bright glare shot forth into the darkness from the lantern, and disclosed the white crests on the waves as they came rolling in grandly from mid ocean.
“It will blow hard afore morning, Bill,” said old Seth Lawrence, wiping from his cheek a great drop of salt spray as cold as an icicle, “the wind’s been a chopping and shifting about the last eight and forty hours, but he seems to have come to anchor in the right quarter at last, and he’s going to give us a taste of his quality, or I’m a lubber. It aint very cheerful for Christmas folks, specially them’s as at sea. Hallo, that’s a damper,” he added, as one wave more daring than its fellows ran up the side of the rock and sent a deluge of salt water hissing over the granite wall into the yard.
“I tell you what it is, Uncle Seth,” interrupted the younger member of the two he had addressed, who had come in for his share of wetting, “I’m not going to stand out here to get soaked to the skin. I have a regard for my constitution, if you haven’t, so allow me to wish you a very good evening.” The speaker at once suited the action to the word, and disappeared through the door into the lighthouse, and his example was speedily followed by his two companions. The exchange from the cold and wet outside to the warmth and comfort within was in every way agreeable, and in a little while tea was ready, and the party sat down fully prepared to enjoy it. While they are so engaged just a word or two about them.
Seth Lawrence was a fine, muscular man, who had seen plenty of rough service in his time, but appeared none the worse for the buffeting. He was the very “beau ideal” of an Englishman, cool, resolute, and indomitable, and in every way suited for the post in which we find him. Neither chick nor child had Seth, but his nephew Charlie was to him as a son, and the lad in his turn looked upon him in the light of a father. Gunnerstone Reef was scarcely the spot on which to spend Christmas Day as a matter of preference, but with these two, who had no ties of kindred or relationship on shore, it was just as good as any other. Not so was it with Bill Marston, he was anything but satisfied with the arrangements that compelled him to eat his plum pudding in the lighthouse, and had been making himself miserable for some time past about the hardness of his lot. But all the sulking in the world could not alter the state of affairs, and so he himself began to think, as he sat down to tea on the evening when we first make his acquaintance. He was short and somewhat squat in figure, and by the side of Seth presented very much the same appearance as does a steam-tug in the company of a screw frigate. But though Bill Marston was short in stature, he was an awkward customer to get to close quarters with, as a certain cheeky jack tar, who came with the revenue cutter to the lighthouse on one occasion, had good cause to remember. He was a singularly good hand with a rifle, and when the sea was calm, and no craft were in the way, would amuse himself practising. He had lately been giving Charlie lessons in shooting, and his pupil progressed with a rapidity that excited his hearty admiration. Just a word or two of that young gentleman, and then “revenons à nos moutons.” Charlie Fairfield was an orphan; his mother, Seth’s sister, had died when he was quite a baby, never having quite recovered from the shock her husband’s being lost at sea in a storm had occasioned her. With her last breath she bequeathed her blue-eyed baby boy to Seth, and he, with tears coursing down his brown cheeks, swore “that he’d stick to the kid through foul and fair weather, and as long as he’d a shilling in the locker the “young un” should have half.” And, as I have said before, no oath was ever more religiously kept. Charlie was put out to school and received a good sound commercial education, for which Seth found the money, and, at length, when he thought that he had had enough of his books he made a strong representation to his employers, and persuaded them to give Charlie a berth at the lighthouse, where we now find him. Story tellers have a dreadful habit of always making their favourite character very handsome, in fact, an admirable Crichton of the most approved type; and I am afraid that if I attempt to sketch a portrait of mine I shall lay the paint on too thick and spoil the effect. Therefore I leave the task to the imagination of my hearers, merely adding that Charlie was brave and true as steel, and loved Seth with his whole heart.
Tea was over and cleared away, and Seth had been upstairs to see that the lights were all right, and was now taking it easy in a comfortable arm-chair.
“Look here, Bill,” he said, performing that process which is known as washing the hands with imaginary soap, “as it’s Christmas Eve, we’ll treat ourselves to a drop of grog, and make ourselves cosy.”
“All right, mate,” answered Bill, evidently quite ready to enjoy himself after the prescription suggested; “here’s the bacca jar, and presently, if Charlie don’t mind, we’ll get him to spell out a bit of reading.”
“So we will, so we will, mate,” echoed Seth. “Fetch out the groceries, lad, and then I’m blowed if we shan’t be as square and ship-shape this here festive season as any of your land lubbers.”
Charlie bustled about, got out the rum and all the other necessary etceteras, and then made himself excessively comfortable on one of the lockers with the book, from which he was to hold forth for the delectation of the company. It was the ever-green “Pickwick Papers,” and soon the roar of the wind and storm outside was almost lost in the shouts of laughter that Sam Weller’s eccentricities and witticisms excited.
Charlie had been reading uninterruptedly for about half-an-hour, when Seth suddenly jumped up from his chair, exclaiming, “I could swear I heard some one moving in the yard outside.”
“Lor, mate, you must be a dreaming,” answered Bill; “we’re not likely to be troubled with visitors, let alone on such a night as this; but, as I’m nearest the door, I’ll just take a look out.”
Bill Marston rose from his seat and did as he said. The wind came driving into the room, rude, bitter, and searching, threatening to put out their lamp.
“Bless your heart,” continued he, shutting the door quickly, “there arn’t nobody, it was only fancy;” and with that the two resumed their seats and the reading continued.
But presently Bill Marston in his turn cried to Charlie to stop, and, putting his finger on his lips, crept once again to the door, whispering as he did so:—
“Seth, you’re right, mate, there’s some mischief up, and we’ve got company on the rock that we don’t know about yet.”
Seth Lawrence was up in a moment like a lion.
“Hold, Bill, a moment,” he cried, “don’t open the door till we’ve put the light out, and we’d best take a six-shooter a-piece, for we don’t quite know how many friends we may have to receive.”
“Ten to one it’s some of those thieving scoundrels from Gunnerstone, come to see if they can catch us asleep in order to play tricks with the lights, but they’ll find we’re up to their little games.”
Seth and Bill hastily pulled on their rough pea-jackets, invested their heads in their sou-westers, and, having looked at their revolvers to see that they were properly loaded, put out the lamp and opened the door. As they did so a dark object slid away from before it and was lost in the gloom.
“That cove’s been listening through the key-hole,” whispered Bill to his companion.
“Well, he didn’t hear much good of himself,” replied Seth; and then he added in a louder tone, “Now then, you skulks, come out and let’s see what you’re made of. I’ve got a nice taste of cold lead for each of you.”
“Two can play at that game, Seth Lawrence,” answered a deep voice from out of the darkness, “look to yourself.”
There was a flash, a report, and Bill Marston was standing by himself.
“You murdering dogs,” he cried, firing in the direction whence the voice had come, “good luck send this through one of your ugly heads.”
This wish seemed to have been fulfilled, for there was a yell of some one in pain. Meanwhile Charlie had run out at the first sound of fire-arms, and found his uncle lying on the ground. Seth whispered hoarsely to Bill when he fell:—
“Get back into the lighthouse, lad, their game is to douse the lights, and get some ship ashore in this storm; leave me here, they can’t do worse with me. Get thee back, get thee back, or there will be more lives lost before the morning.”
But Bill was not to be thus defeated, he would not go and leave his mate alone, but remained resolutely by him, prepared to fall by his side if necessary.
“Charlie, lad, go you inside,” he said hurriedly to the boy, “take you care of the lights, stick to them to the last, and die rather than give in.”
To hear was to obey; Charlie ran inside the lighthouse, closed the door, and turned the key. Not a minute too soon, for a moment after a strange hand was laid upon the latch, and a rough voice called for admission. He was startled for a moment, and his heart thumped against his side; but then he thought of his Uncle Seth, and how he would have behaved under like circumstances, while Bill Marston’s words rang in his ears: “Stick to them to the last, and die rather than give in.” In an instant fear was forgotten, and he was prepared to fight to the last, come what might. This he knew, that he had to contend with enemies who would show him no mercy. They were bent on extinguishing the lights, and they would not stop at murder if it were necessary to secure the successful prosecution of their nefarious enterprise.
It was for Charlie to defend them as long as life and strength were his! His eyes turned to the clock; it was only eight. What an age till daybreak!
To thoroughly barricade and fasten the door was his first consideration. It was well and strongly built of oak, strengthened here and there with iron ribs, and secured by three bolts and a huge bar that passed immediately across the centre. All these were duly pushed into their places by Charlie, regardless of the hammering and knocking that was going on outside. This done, he hurried up-stairs to see that the lights were burning all right; wick, oil, and reflectors, were all in perfect order, and might in the emergency be left to themselves. They would do their duty till morning if only the wreckers’ fingers could be kept at a respectful distance. Satisfied as to these particulars, Charlie hurried downstairs again to defend the door. How thankful did he now feel to Bill for the lessons he had given him in shooting! There was another revolver lying at the bottom of the locker, he took it up, loaded it carefully, and then prepared himself for the siege.
The wind still howled and whistled, while the thunder of the waves upon the rock was almost deafening, still Charlie was just able to catch the sound of voices outside during the intervals of cessation from knocking on the part of his besiegers. “Blow up,” and “pistol,” he distinctly heard, and then a hoarse cry from some one, evidently intended for him.
“If you don’t open the door we’ll blow it up.”
“Blow away, my hearties,” shouted he in reply, “and take care how you play with gunpowder, for it’s dangerous.”
A sound very much like a laugh followed this: and then the same voice that had addressed him before screamed out:—
“If you’ll give in, young ’un, we won’t hurt you. It’s no use your fighting against odds; we’ve cobbled your mates, and we shall have to do the same for you if you keep us out here much longer.”
To this Charlie vouchsafed no answer, and the battering at the door was resumed. The threat to blow him up was evidently an empty one, as nothing of the sort was attempted, but presently there was a loud report, and a bullet came crashing through the woodwork, passing disagreeably near to the lad’s head. Through the opening that had thus been made, five other bullets followed one another in close succession, evidently fired not so much with an intention of hitting as of alarming him. Charlie crept on his hands and knees up to the door, and, when the discharge had ended, quietly raised himself up, and, placing the muzzle of his revolver in the aperture, pulled the trigger. There was a groan, a smothered curse, and a heavy fall, and immediately after the hammering was resumed more savagely than ever. Charlie reloaded the empty chamber of his revolver, and drew himself a little on one side. Just then his eye noticed that the top bolt was giving way. At the same moment the sound as of blows dealt by an axe upon the door made itself audible, and warned him that, with an instrument such as that, his assailants would soon be able to cut their way through to him.
How slowly the hours, or, more properly speaking, minutes, dragged on. The hands of the clock seemed glued upon its face. The atmosphere of the room was stifling. “God help me,” murmured Charlie to himself: “the door wont stand much longer, and then there’s no help for it. They’d soon do for me. Oh! if I only had Uncle Seth or Bill Marston with me.” Alas! Charlie, you might as well have wanted the whole battalion of guards at your back; they whom you called were lying out in the storm and rain, sore stricken, and motionless!
By this time the wreckers were evidently infuriated at the resistance they had met with, and redoubled their efforts upon the door, which slowly but surely was giving way. The axe was doing its work only too well, and already a huge piece of the wooden framework had fallen in.
The barrier was now nearly broken down that protected him, and in a moment more the enemy would be upon him. In those few seconds that ensued the boy’s lips moved rapidly. With the shadow of death almost upon him, he had yet time to remember Him whose omnipotent arm could snatch him from out the jaws of death. Like the Puritan soldier of old, Charlie paused in the conflict to whisper a prayer. Then, resolute and undaunted, he prepared to meet the fate that he felt must inevitably fall upon him.
He had not to wait long; there was a crash, and then a rush of dark forms through the doorway; he had but time to aim his revolver and pull the trigger, then some heavy body fell against him and brought him to the ground. The darkness had saved him, for the wreckers did not wait to look for him, but hurried upward to the light room to extinguish the lights.
Charlie did not remain long where he was, but aroused himself, and found that there was a human body lying on the top of him. It was with difficulty he managed to push it off, and then he crept stealthily out into the yard. Upstairs, the seekers were evidently at their work of spoliation, the sound of crashing glass, mingled with shouts, might be heard amid the rushings of the wind. As he found himself outside, a deep “boom, boom,” from the direction of the sea, startled him. It was clear that there was some vessel in difficulties.
Little hope for her now. The Gunnerstone lights were dead, and in vain might those on board of her look eagerly through the mist and scud for the guiding beacon. Charlie groped his way across the yard, and as he did so stumbled over a prostrate form; he bent down by it, and passed his hand over the face. He knew then that it was his Uncle Seth. He knelt by his side and whispered—
“Are you better, Uncle?”
A feeble voice murmured in reply—
“Good lad, good lad!” and then it ceased, as if from exhaustion.
Still “boom, boom,” went the guns, each report sounding nearer and nearer than the last. Charlie knew, as certainly as if he had seen it with his eyes, that the labouring ship was driving straight on for the reef.
By this time the wreckers had accomplished their work of destruction, and now they came hurrying out of the lighthouse and made for the landing stairs, which were situated on the more sheltered side of the rock. Charlie crouched into a corner of one of the outhouses, was gnashing his teeth at being unable to communicate its danger to the ill-fated ship.
Suddenly he was startled by a ruddy glare from the direction of the shore, shooting up towards the skies, and in a few seconds a bright flame burnt there steadily. Some one had improvised a beacon on the cliffs above Gunnerstone. Charlie was gazing intently on this welcome apparition, when he heard a loud exclamation of rage. The wreckers found that their boat was gone, and that they were caught in a trap. No lock, or bolt, or bar, could hold them in closer imprisonment than did the green waves, rolling ceaselessly round the rock. Retribution had come at last, and not a bit too soon!
It was dangerous work for Charlie to be thus shut up in the midst of his enemies, but I am bound to say that, instead of being in the least put out, he rubbed his hands together with pleasure to think that villainy had thus met its reward. And they, like cravens and cowards as they were, seemed utterly defeated by the blow.
It was a strange beginning for a Christmas Day, thought Charlie, as, cowering under the rocks, worn out and exhausted with the events of the night, he saw the daylight rising out of the sea, and thanked God for his preservation. Likely enough, could the wreckers have seen him, they would have disposed of him, in order to preclude any possibility of his turning up hereafter at some disagreeable moment. But he was hidden from their view, and most of them believed that he was “knocked on the head,” as one of their number elegantly expressed it.
But now the dawn had come, and these midnight marauders and murderers looked one another in the face—some pale, others haggard, but all seemed impressed with the danger of their position. And thus the morning of this Christmas Day broke upon the rock whereon stood Gunnerstone Lighthouse. The storm had gone to rest now, and the glorious sun already made a golden pathway over the waters, slumbering peacefully after their riot and revelry. Its brightness fell on the granite sides of the lighthouse, and glanced back on to a pale face lying still and motionless, as stony in look as the walls themselves, while it lit up a white sail that was disappearing on the horizon. Brave, honest, noble Seth Lawrence knew not that the day was up and that the world was already stirring to celebrate its great festival, its feast of feasts. A messenger had come to him, whose summons none could disobey, and he fled away with him on the wings of the wind, to stand in the presence of the Master who had sent for him.
And the good ship the “Black Dragoon,” with its living freight, bound for the west, passed on its way; but there were many, indeed most of those on board of her, offering up a thanksgiving for their preservation, when the world awoke from its slumbers. On, on, brave vessel, into the open sea, towards the new country; the sacrifice that has gained thee thy safety would not have been grudged by the victim; for, like a true English heart, unselfish to the end, he would have gladly bartered his life to save a fellow-man.
I must now venture to assert my privilege as chronicler, and dispose of certain important events in a somewhat summary manner. The wreckers were captured immediately, upon the scene of their crime, by the revenue cutter, which had come round on the information given by Bill Marston, who had launched the lighthouse boat, and with great difficulty made his way in it to the shore, when he was supposed to be lying safe and quiet with a bullet through his head. He had first taken the precaution to cut the painter with which the wreckers had secured the big galley that had brought them, and thus shut off from them the only means of escape. His first care on landing had been to make his way to a farmhouse on the cliffs, where he obtained the assistance that enabled him to light the beacon that warned the “Black Dragoon” of her danger just in time. It was all due to his indomitable pluck and energy that the machinations of these banditti of the sea had been defeated, and the emigrant ship saved from destruction.
It was some time before Charlie recovered from the very severe struggle to which he had been subjected, but youth and a strong constitution gained the victory, and he was well enough to appear at the assizes, where the “Great Wrecking Case at Gunnerstone” excited an immense amount of attention. He gave his evidence with much modesty, and in a way that called forth the hearty commendation of the learned judge who presided. The two ringleaders of the wreckers perished on the scaffold, and the rest were sent to expiate their crime by various terms of penal servitude, and thus Seth Lawrence’s death was avenged.
The owners of the “Black Dragoon” presented Bill Marston with a gold watch and £100, while Charlie was rewarded with a silver one and £30, whereat the two recipients were highly delighted.
A turn of the pen, and behold another Christmas Eve has come round. Bill and Charlie are sitting in the room in the lighthouse, but a stranger is in their company, a jovial, genial fellow, but not Seth Lawrence. There was a big salt tear rolling down Bill Marston’s cheek, forced out by the tide of recollection that was flooding on him.
“Aye, lad,” he murmured, in a strangely choky tone, “he was made of the right stuff, he was. Let’s hope to do our duty as he did.”
And the lad’s sobbing voice said, “Amen.”