“James Lambert worked in Somerville’s Mill. Like most of the hands, he must cross the water to get home. For that purpose a small ferry-boat was provided: it lay at a little quay near the mill. One Andrew had charge of it ashore, and used to shove it off with a lever, and receive it on its return. He often let more people go into it than Lambert thought safe, and Lambert had remonstrated, and had even said, ‘Ye’ll hae an accident some day that ye’ll rue but ance, and that will be a’ your life.’ Andrew, in reply to him, told him to mind his own business.
“Well, one evening James Lambert wanted to get away in the first boat-load. This was somehow connected with his having bought a new hat: perhaps he wished to avoid the crowd of workpeople—here I am not very clear. However, he watched the great wheel, and the moment it began to waver, previous to stopping, he ran for his hat and darted down the stairs. But as he worked in an upper storey full a dozen got into the boat before him. He told Andrew to put off, but Andrew would not till the boat should be full; and soon it was crammed. James Lambert then said it was a shame of him to let so many on board. This angered the man, and when the boat was so crowded that her gunwale was not far above water, he shoved her violently off into the tideway, and said words which, if he had not prayed God to forgive them in this world, will perhaps hang heavy round his neck in the next.... ‘ye beggars!’ he cried.
“This rough launching made the overladen boat wobble. The women got frightened, and before the boat had gone twenty yards she upset in dark, icy water, ten feet deep. It was night.
“Before the boat coupit[76] athegither they a’ flew to me that could, for they a’ kenned me. I’ the water, them that hadna a hand o’ me, had a hand o’ them that had a hand o’ me, and they carried me doon like leed. * * *
“Sirr, when yeve twa feet i’ the grave, your mind warks hard. I didna struggle, for it was nae mair use than to wrastle wi’ a kirk. I just strauchtened myself oot like a corp, and let them tak’ me doon to the bottom of the Clyde, and there I stude upright and waited; for I kenned the puir souls would droon afore me, and I saw just ae wee-wee chance to save them yet. Ye shall understond, sirr, that when folk are drooning, they dinna settle doon till the water fills their lungs and drives the air oot. At first they waver up and doon at sairtain intervals. Aweel, sirr, I waited for that, on the grund. I was the only ane grunded, you’ll obsairve. A slight upward movement commenced. I took advantage, and gieda vi’lent spang [pg 271]wi’ my feet against the bottom, and wi’ me, choosing my time, up we a’ came. My arms were grippit; but I could strike oot wi’ my feet and before ever we reached the surface, I lashed oot like a deevil, for the quay. Aweel, sirr, wi’ all I could do, we didna wend abune a yard, or may be a yard and a hauf and doone they carried me like leed. I strauchtened myself as we sank, and I grunded. The lave were a’ roond me like a fon.[77] I bides my time, and, when they are inclining upward I strikes fra the grund; an’ this time, maur slanting towards the quay. That helpit us, and in a dozen vi’lent strokes we maybe gained twa yards this time. Then doon like leed. Plays the same game again, up, and doon again. And noo, sirr, there was something that turned sair against us; but then there was something for us, to bollance it. It was against us that they had swallowed their pint o’ water by this time, and were nae sae buoyant; it was for us that the water was shallower noo, maybe not more than twa feet ower head. This wad droon us as weel as twanty; but wi’ nae mair nor twa feet water abune us I could spring up fra the grun by mere force; for the grun gies ye an awfu’ poower for a foot or twa. Sae noo I’m nae suner doon than up again, and still creeping for the quay, and the water aye a wee bit shallower. The next news is, I get sair spent, and that was bad; but to bollance that, some folk on the quay gat rapes and boat-hooks, and pickit off ane or twa that was the nearest; and now ilka time I cam’ up, they pickit ane off, and that lightened my burden; and bymby I drave a couple into shallow water mysel’, wi’ my feet. When I was in seven fut water mysel’, and fewer folk hauding me doon, I got to be maister, and shovit ane, and pu’d anither in, till we landed the whole saxteen or seventeen. But my wark was na’ done, for I kenned there were mair in the river. I saw the last o’ my ain band safe, and then oot into the Clyde, wherever I heerd cries, and sune I fund twa lasses skirling, takes ’em by their lang hair, and tows them to the quay in a minute. Just as I’m landing thir[78] twa, I hear a cry in the vara middle of the river, and in I splash. It was a strapping lass—they caed her Elizabeth Whitelaw. ‘C’way, ye lang daftie,’ says I, and begins to tow her. Lo an’ behold, I’m grippit wi’ a man under the water. It was her sweetheairt. She was hauding him doon. The hizzy was a’ reicht, but she was drooning the lad; pairts these[79] twa lovers—for their gude—and taks ’em ashore, one in each hand. Aweel, sirr, I saved just ane mair, and then I plunged in and sairched, but there was nae mair to be seen noo: three puir lasses were drooned, but I didna ken that at the time. And noo I’ll tell ye a farce. I’m seized wi’ a faintness, and maks for the shore. But I gat weaker, and dazed-like, and the lights o’ Glasgee begins to flecker afore my een: and, thinks I, ‘I’ll no see ye again; I’m done this time.’ It was all I could do for the bare life, to drift to the hinder part of the quay. I hadna the power to draw mysel’ oot. I just grippit the quay and sobbit. The folk were a’ busy wi’ them I had saved; nane o’ them noticed me, and I would ha’ been drooned that nicht: but wha d’ye think saved me, that had saved sae many?—an auld decrepit man: haw! haw! haw! He had a hookit stick, and gied me the handle, and towed me along the quay into shallow water, and I gat oot, wi’ his help, and swooned deed away. I’m tauld I lay there negleckit awhile; but they fand me at last, and then I had fifty nurses for ane.”
The story of the cause of this hero’s blindness is very sad. He had dived in [pg 272]the river to save another while perspiring freely. It was winter, and the water icy cold. Soon after a great dazzling seized him, followed by darkness. This occurred again and again, until at last the darkness settled on him, and the light fled for ever.
When Mr. Reade first saw him, the single public honour paid him was that he had the right, with one Bailie Harvey, to pass over a certain suspension bridge gratis till his death, while the rest of mankind paid a halfpenny! His only pension was one of three-and-sixpence a week from the Barony Parish, Glasgow. Mr. Reade’s efforts gained him an annuity, which he unfortunately did not live long to enjoy.