And they are always modest of their achievements, as the letters I have received from some of them testify. It’s the hardest thing in the world to get them to talk about themselves; but, by dint of judicious questioning, I managed to get some of them to give me the plain stories of what really did happen.
The first concerns Lighthouseman William Hunter, of Flamborough Head, who, standing outside the lighthouse on a fine morning, talking with his superior officer, saw a gallant little band of boys of the Lads’ Brigade coming along. Presently there was a sharp command, and the lookers-on saw the boys disperse, and in a few minutes the laddies were scattered here, there, and everywhere, enjoying themselves to the full.
But suddenly there was the blare of bugles, the cries of boys, the hoarse shouts of men, and Hunter turned quickly to his officer and said:
“There’s something wrong!”
“Go and have a look,” was the reply; and off went the lighthouse-keeper. Following the sounds, he found himself down on the beach, just below the lighthouse. What a sight met his eyes! Before him was a group of boys staring up the cliff, fear writ large upon their faces as they saw one of their comrades clinging frenziedly to a shrub, able neither to go up nor to come down, while down on the beach, amongst the boulders, lay the huddled form of another boy.
The two boys had been engaged in a wild scramble up the cliff, seeing which could reach the top first. Half-way up the foremost boy had displaced a large stone, which hurtled down, hit his comrade, and sent him tumbling down to the beach, where he now lay with a broken arm.
As soon as the boy above realised what had happened, fear took possession of him; his wits left him, and he, finding that he had reached a position where it was impossible to move with safety either way, he sent up haunting screams for help! As though the call had been necessary! The boys on the beach had seen the accident, and instantly the bugles had blared out their calls for help. And so Hunter had arrived on the scene.
Like lightning he dashed across an intervening gut of water, slipping over seaweed as he went, and stumbling over rocks till he reached the foot of the cliff. Then, hand over hand, gingerly but quickly, Hunter made his way up the cliff, seizing anything that seemed likely to afford a handhold to help him up; now making a fierce grab for a shrub as the earth gave way beneath him. And at last, after a feverish few minutes, during which the watchers down below held their breath and the folk above sent for further help, he came almost within reach of the boy.
“Hold on, sonny!” he cried. “I’m coming!”
“Come quickly!” cried the boy, shaking with fear. “I can’t hold out much longer!”