CHAPTER FOURTEEN.
THE MORNING AFTER THE STORM.
On the fifth morning that succeeded the breaking of the storm, describedin the last chapter, the sun rose in gorgeous splendour and shone upon asea that was clear and burnished like a sheet of glass. The wind hadceased suddenly, and a perfect calm prevailed; but although no breath ofair ruffled the surface of the deep, the long swell rose and fell as ifthe breast of ocean were still throbbing from its recent agitation.
All along the east coast of England this swell met the shore in asuccession of slow-rolling waves, which curled majestically over, andappeared almost to pause for a moment ere they fell, with deep solemnroar, in a magnificent burst of foam.
Everywhere the effects of the storm were painfully evident. Wreckscould be counted by the dozen from some of the bold headlands thatcommanded an extensive view of the shore. The work of destruction wasnot yet over. The services of our lifeboats could not yet be dispensedwith although the fury of the winds had ceased.
It is a mistake to suppose that when a gale has ceased, all danger toman and destruction to his property is over. We are apt to attributetoo much influence to the winds. Undoubtedly they are the origin of theevil that befalls us in storms, but they are not the _immediate_ causeof the wholesale destruction that takes place annually among theshipping of the kingdom. It is the mighty hydraulic force of the sea,--the tremendous lifting power of the waves, that does it all.
Although the storm was over and the wind had gone down, the swell of theocean had not yet ceased to act. On many a headland, and in many arocky bay, brigs, schooners, barques, and ships of large size and stoutframe, were that day lifted and battered, rent, torn, riven, and splitby the sea as if they had been toys; their great timbers snapped likepipe-stems, and their iron bars and copper bolts twisted and gnarled asif they had been made of wire.
The hardy men of Deal were still out in those powerful boats, that seemto be capable of bidding defiance to most storms, saving property to thenation, and earning--hardly earning--salvage for themselves. Thelifeboats, too, were out,--in some cases saving life, in others, savingproperty when there were no lives in danger.
How inadequate are our conceptions of these things when formed from awritten account of one or two incidents, even although these begraphically described! How difficult it is to realise the actual scenesthat are presented all along the coast during and immediately after eachgreat storm that visits our shores.
If we could, by the exercise of supernatural power, gaze down at theseshores as from a bird's-eye point of view, and take them in, with alltheir stirring incidents, at one glance; if we could see the wrecks,large and small--colliers with their four or five hands; emigrant shipswith their hundreds of passengers--beating and grinding furiously onrocks that appear to rise out of and sink into a sea of foam; if wecould witness our lifeboats, with their noble-hearted crews, creepingout of every nook and bay in the very teeth of what seems to beinevitable destruction; if we could witness the hundred deeds ofindividual daring done by men with bronzed faces and rough garments, whocarry their lives habitually in their hands, and think nothing of it; ifwe could behold the flash of the rockets, and hear the crack of themortars and the boom of minute guns from John o' Groat's to the Land'sEnd, at the dead and dark hours of night, when dwellers in our inlanddistricts are abed, all ignorant, it may be, or thoughtless, in regardto these things; above all, if we could hear the shrieks of theperishing, the sobs and thanksgivings of the rescued, and the wildcheers of the rescuers; and hear and see all this at one single glance,so that our hearts might be more filled than they are at present with asense of the terrible dangers of our shores, and the heroism of our menof the coast, it is probable that our prayers for those who "go down tothe sea in ships" would be more frequent and fervent, and our respectfor those who risk life and limb to save the shipwrecked would bedeeper. It is also probable that we might think it worth our while tocontribute more largely than we do to the support of that nobleInstitution whose work it is to place lifeboats where they are wanted onour coasts, and to recognise, reward, and chronicle the deeds of thosewho distinguish themselves in the great work of saving human life.
Let us put a question to you, good reader. If France, or any otherfirst-rate Power, were to begin the practice of making a sudden descenton us about once a month, on an average, all the year round, slayingsome hundreds of our fishermen and seamen each time; occasionallycutting off some of our first-class emigrant ships, and killing all onboard--men, women, and children,--thus filling the land with repeatedwails of sorrow, with widows and with fatherless children: What wouldyou do?
What!--do you say that you "would fortify every island on the coast,plant Martello towers on every flat beach, crown every height withcannon, and station iron-clads in every harbour and bay, so that theentire coast should bristle with artillery?" That sounds well, but whatguarantee have we that you really would act thus if France were tobecome so outrageous?
"Common sense might assure me of it," you reply.
So it might, and so it would, if we had not evidence to the contrary inthe fact that our country _is_ thus assailed month after month--yearafter year--by a more inveterate enemy than France ever was or will be,and yet how little is done to defend ourselves against his attacks,compared with what might be, with what _ought_ to be, done!
This enemy is the storm; but, like France, he is not our _natural_enemy. We have only chosen in time past to allow him to become so. Thestorm has been wisely and beneficently ordained by God to purify theworld's atmosphere, and to convey health and happiness to every landunder heaven. If we will not take the obvious and quite possibleprecautions that are requisite to secure ourselves from his violence,have we not ourselves to blame?
There are far too few harbours of refuge on our exposed coasts; theconsequence is that our fishing-boats are caught by the storm andwrecked, and not unfrequently as many as a hundred lives are lost in afew hours: Who is to blame? A large vessel goes on the rocks becausethere is no lighthouse there to give warning of danger; a post has beenneglected and the enemy has crept in: Who neglected that post? Afterthe ship has got on the rocks, it is made known to the horrifiedpassengers that there are no ship's lifeboats aboard, neither are thereany life-belts: Whose blame is that? Still there seems hope, for theshore is not far off, and anxious people line it; but no ordinary boatcan live in such a sea. There is no rocket apparatus on this part ofthe coast; no mortar apparatus by which a line might be sent on board:Why not? The nearest lifeboat station is fifteen miles off: Whose faultis that? Is the storm our enemy here? Is not selfish, calculating,miserly man his own enemy in this case? So the ship goes to pieces, andthe result is that the loss of this single vessel makes 60 widows and150 fatherless children in one night! not to speak of thousands ofpounds' worth of property lost to the nation.
If you doubt this, reader, consult the pages of the _Lifeboat Journal_,in which you will find facts, related in a grave, succinct,unimpassioned way, that ought to make your hair stand on end!
Thoughts strongly resembling those recorded in the last few pages filledthe mind and the heart of Bax, as he stood on that calm bright morningon the sea-shore. It was a somewhat lonely spot at the foot of tallcliffs, not far from which the shattered hull of a small brig lay jammedbetween two rocks. Tommy Bogey stood beside him, and both man and boygazed long and silently at the wrack which lined the shore. Every nook,every crevice and creek at the foot of the cliff was filled choke fullof broken planks and spars, all smashed up into pieces so small that,with the exception of the stump of a main-mast and the heel of abowsprit, there was not a morsel that exceeded three feet in length, andall laid side by side in such regular order by the swashing of the seain and out of the narrower creeks, that it seemed as if they had beenpiled there by the hand of man.
They gazed silently, because they had just come upon a sight whichfilled their hearts with sadness. Close beside a large rock lay theform of an old white-haired man wi
th his head resting on a mass ofsea-weed, as if he were asleep. Beside him lay a little girl, whosehead rested on the old man's breast, while her long golden hair lay inwild confusion over his face. The countenances of both were deadlypale, and their lips blue. It required no doctor's skill to tell thatboth were dead.
"Ah's me! Tommy, 'tis a sad sight," said Bax.
Tommy made no reply for a few seconds, but after an ineffectual effortto command himself, he burst into tears.
"If we had only been here last night," he sobbed at length, "we mighthave saved them."
"So we might, so we might, Tommy; who knows? Some one should have beenhere anyhow. It seems to me that things ain't well managed in thesedays. They haven't half enough of appliances to save life, that's afact."
Bax said this somewhat sternly.
"Whose fault is it, Bax?" said Tommy, looking up in his friend's face.
"Ha, Tommy," replied the other with a smile, "it don't become the likeo' you or me to say who's to blame. You're too young to understand theouts and ins o' such matters, and I'm too ignorant."
The boy smiled incredulously. The idea of Bax being "ignorant" was toogross and absurd to be entertained for a moment, even although stated byhimself.
"Well, but," urged Tommy stoutly, "if things _are_ wrong, it's clearthat they ain't right, and surely I've a right to say so."
"True, lad, true," returned Bax, with an approving nod; "that's just thepoint which I'd like you and me to stick to: when we see things to bewrong don't let's shirk sayin' so as flat as we can; but don't let usgo, like too many shallow-pates, and say that we know _who's_ wrong and_why_ they're wrong, and offer to put them all right on the shortestnotice. Mayhap" (here Bax spoke in a soft meditative tone, as if he hadforgotten his young friend, and were only thinking aloud) "mayhap we maycome to understand the matter one of these days, and have a better rightto speak out--who knows?"
"That I'm certain of!" cried Tommy, in a tone and with an air that madeBax smile despite the sad sight before him.
"Come, lad," he said, with sudden energy, "we must get 'em removed.Away! and fetch a couple of men. I'll arrange them."
Tommy was off in a moment, and Bax proceeded with gentle care to arrangethe dress and limbs of the old man and the child. Two men soon arrived,and assisted to carry them away. Who they were no one knew and fewcared. They were only two of the many who are thus cast annually, andby no means _unavoidably_, on our stormy shores.
Do not misunderstand us, good reader. Compared with what is done byother lands in this matter, Britain does her duty well; but, comparedwith what is required by God at the hands of those who call themselvesChristians, we still fall far short of our duty, both as a nation and asindividuals.