R. M. Ballantyne
The Story of the Rock
Chapter One.
Wreck of Winstanleys Lighthouse
At mischief again, of course: always at it.
Mrs Potter said this angrily, and with much emphasis, as she seized her son by the arm and dragged him out of a pool of dirty water, into which he had tumbled.
Always at mischief of one sort or another, he is, continued Mrs Potter, with increasing wrath, morning, noon, and nighthe is; tumblin about an smashin things for ever he does; hell break my heart at lasthe will. There: take that!
That, which poor little Tommy was desired to take, was a sounding box on the ear, accompanied by a violent shake of the arm which would have drawn that limb out of its socket if the childs bones and muscles had not been very tightly strung together.
Mrs Potter was a woman of large body and small brain. In respect of reasoning power, she was little better than the wooden cuckoo which came out periodically from the interior of the clock that stood over her own fireplace and announced the hours. She entertained settled convictions on a few subjects, in regard to which she resembled a musical box. If you set her going on any of these, she would harp away until she had played the tune out, and then begin over again; but she never varied. Reasons, however good, or facts, however weighty, were utterly powerless to penetrate her skull: her settled convictions were not to be unsettled by any such means. Men might change their minds; philosophers might see fit to alter their opinions; weaklings of both sexes and all ages might trim their sails in accordance with the gales of advancing knowledge, but Mrs Potterno: never! her colours were nailed to the mast. Like most people who unite a strong will with an empty head, she was wiser in her own conceit than eleven men that can render a reason: in brief, she was obstinate.
One of her settled convictions was that her little son Tommy was as full of mischief as a hegg is full of meat. Another of these convictions was that children of all ages are tough; that it does them good to pull them about in a violent manner, at the risk even of dislocating their joints. It mattered nothing to Mrs Potter that many of her female friends and acquaintances held a different opinion. Some of these friends suggested to her that the hearts of the poor little things were tender, as well as their muscles and bones and sinews; that children were delicate flowers, or rather buds, which required careful tending and gentle nursing. Mrs Potters reply was invariably, Fiddlesticks! she knew better. They were obstinate and self-willed little brats that required constant banging. She knew how to train em up, she did; and it was of no manner of use, it wasnt, to talk to her upon that point.
She was right. It was of no use. As well might one have talked to the wooden cuckoo, already referred to, in Mrs Potters timepiece.
Come, Martha, said a tall, broad-shouldered, deep-voiced man at her elbow, dont wop the poor cheeld like that. What has he been doin
Mrs Potter turned to her husband with a half angry, half ashamed glance.
Just look at im, John, she replied, pointing to the small culprit, who stood looking guilty and drenched with muddy water from hands to shoulders and toes to nose. Look at im: see what mischief hes always gittin into.
John, whose dress bespoke him an artisan, and whose grave earnest face betokened him a kind husband and a loving father, said:
Tumblin into dirty water aint necessarily mischief. Come, lad, speak up for yourself. How did it happen
I felled into the water when I wos layin the foundations, faither, replied the boy; pointing to a small pool, in the centre of which lay a pile of bricks.
What sort o foundations dye mean, boy?
The lightouse on the Eddystun, replied the child, with sparkling eyes.
The man smiled, and looked at his son with interest.
Thats a brave boy, he said, quietly patting the childs head. Get ee into thouse, Tommy, an Ill show ee the right way to lay the foundations o the Eddystun after supper. Come, Martha, he added, as he walked beside his wife to their dwelling near Plymouth Docks, dont be so hard on the cheeld; its not mischief that ails him. Its engineerin that hes hankerin after. Depend upon it, that if he is spared to grow up hell be a credit to us.
Mrs Potter, being of the same opinion still, felt inclined to say Fiddlesticks! but she was a good soul, although somewhat highly spiced in the temper, and respected her husband sufficiently to hold her tongue.
John; she said, after a short silence, youre late to-night.
Yes, answered John, with a sigh. My work at the docks has come to an end, an Mr Winstanley has got all the men he requires for the repair of the lightouse. I saw him just before he went off to the rock to-night, an I offered to engage, but he said he didnt want me.
What? exclaimed Mrs Potter, with sudden indignation: didnt want youyou who has served im, off an on, at that lightouse for the last six year an more while it wor a buildin! Ah, thats gratitood, that is; thats the way some folk shows wot their consciences is made of; treats you like a pair of old shoes, they does, an casts you off wen youre not wanted: hah!
Mrs Potter entered her dwelling as she spoke, and banged the door violently by way of giving emphasis to her remark.
Dont be cross, old girl, said John, patting her shoulder: I hope you wont cast me off like a pair of old shoes when youre tired of me! But, after all, I have no reason to complain. You know I have laid by a good lump of money while I was at work on the Eddystone; besides, we cant expect men to engage us when they dont require us; and if I had got employed, it would not have bin for long, being only a matter of repairs. Mr Winstanley made a strange speech, by the way, as the boat was shoving off with his men. I was standin close by when a friend o his came up an said he thowt the lightouse was in a bad way an couldnt last long. Mr Winstanley, who is uncommon sure o the strength of his work, he replies, says he I only wish to be there in the greatest storm that ever blew under the face of heaven, to see what the effect will be. Thems his very words, anit did seem to me an awful wishall the more that the sky looked at the time very like as if dirty weather was brewin up somewhere.
I ope he may ave is wish, said Mrs Potter firmly, an that the waves may
Martha! said John, in a solemn voice, holding up his finger, think what youre sayin.
Well, I dont mean no ill; but, butfetch the kettle, Tommy, dye hear? an let alone the cats tail, you mischievous little
Thats a smart boy, exclaimed John rising and catching the kettle from his sons and, just as he was on the point of tumbling over a stool: there, now lets all have a jolly supper, and then, Tommy, Ill show you how the real foundation of the Eddystun was laid.
The building to which John Potter referred, and of which he gave a graphic account and made a careful drawing that night, for the benefit of his hopeful son, was the first lighthouse that was built on the wild and almost submerged reef of rocks lying about fourteen miles to the south-west of Plymouth harbour. The highest part of this reef, named the Eddystone, is only a few feet above water at high tide, and as it lies in deep water exposed to the full swell of the ocean, the raging of the sea over it in stormy weather is terrible beyond conception.