“I don't care a damn,” he shouted, so that all the women heard him. “I can only say I am devilish glad that I never let one of those houses.”
There was a little band of seamen, under the shelter of a garden wall, crouching, or sitting, or standing (or whatever may be the attitude, acquired by much voyaging and experience of bad weather, which can not be solved, as to centre of gravity, even by the man who does it), and these men were so taken with the Major's manifesto, clinched at once and clarified to them by strong, short language, that they gave him a loud “hurrah,” which flew on the wings of the wind over house-tops. So queer and sound is English feeling that now Major Hockin became in truth what hitherto he was in title only—the lord and master of Bruntsea.
“A boat! a boat!” he called out again. “We know not who are drowning. The bank still breaks the waves; a stout boat surely could live inside it.”
“Yes, a boat could live well enough in this cockle, though never among them breakers,” old Barnes, the fisherman, answered, who used to take us out for whiting; “but Lord bless your honor, all the boats are thumped to pieces, except yonner one, and who can get at her?”
Before restoring his hands to their proper dwelling-place—his pockets—he jerked his thumb toward a long white boat, which we had not seen through the blinding scud. Bereft of its brethren, or sisters—for all fluctuating things are feminine—that boat survived, in virtue of standing a few feet higher than the rest. But even so, and mounted on the last hump of the pebble ridge, it was rolling and reeling with stress of the wind and the wash of wild water under it.
“How nobly our Lyceum stands!” the Major shouted, for any thing less than a shout was dumb. “This is the time to try institutions. I am proud of my foundations.”
In answer to his words appeared a huge brown surge, a mountain ridge, seething backward at the crest with the spread and weight of onset. This great wave smote all other waves away, or else embodied them, and gathered its height against the poor worn pebble bank, and descended. A roar distinct above the universal roar proclaimed it; a crash of conflict shook the earth, and the shattered bank was swallowed in a world of leaping whiteness. When this wild mass dashed onward into the swelling flood before us, there was no sign of Lyceum left, but stubs of foundation, and a mangled roof rolling over and over, like a hen-coop.
“Well, that beats every thing I ever saw,” exclaimed the gallant Major. “What noble timber! What mortise-work! No London scamping there, my lads. But what comes here? Why, the very thing we wanted! Barnes, look alive, my man. Run to your house, and get a pair of oars and a bucket.”
It was the boat, the last surviving boat of all that hailed from Bruntsea. That monstrous billow had tossed it up like a school-boy's kite, and dropped it whole, with an upright keel, in the inland sea, though nearly half full of water. Driven on by wind and wave, it labored heavily toward us; and more than once it seemed certain to sink as it broached to and shipped seas again. But half a dozen bold fishermen rushed with a rope into the short angry surf—to which the polled shingle bank still acted as a powerful breakwater, else all Bruntsea had collapsed—and they hauled up the boat with a hearty cheer, and ran her up straight with, “Yo—heave—oh!” and turned her on her side to drain, and then launched her again, with a bucket and a man to bail out the rest of the water, and a pair of heavy oars brought down by Barnes, and nobody knows what other things.
“Naught to steer with. Rudder gone!” cried one of the men, as the furious gale drove the boat, athwart the street, back again.