 | CHAPTER II. The two admirals |  |
2. CHAPTER II.
And dizzy 't is, to cast one's eyes so low!
The crows, and choughs, that wing the midway air,
Show scarce so gross as beetles: Half-way down
Hangs one that gathers samphire: dreadful trade!”
King Lear.
This digression on the family of Wychecombe has led us
far from the signal-station, the head-land, and the fog, with
which the tale opened. The little dwelling connected with
the station stood at a short distance from the staff, sheltered,
by the formation of the ground, from the bleak winds of the
channel, and fairly embowered in shrubs and flowers. It
was a humble cottage, that had been ornamented with more
taste than was usual in England at that day. Its whitened
walls, thatched roof, picketed garden, and trellised porch,
bespoke care, and a mental improvement in the inmates,
that were scarcely to be expected in persons so humbly employed
as the keeper of the signal-staff, and his family.
All near the house, too, was in the same excellent condition;
for while the headland itself lay in common, this portion of
it was enclosed in two or three pretty little fields, that were
grazed by a single horse, and a couple of cows. There were
no hedges, however, the thorn not growing willingly in a
situation so exposed; but the fields were divided by fences,
neatly enough made of wood, that declared its own origin,
having in fact been part of the timbers and planks of a
wreck. As the whole was whitewashed, it had a rustic, and
in a climate where the sun is seldom oppressive, by no means
a disagreeable appearance.
The scene with which we desire to commence the tale,
opens about seven o'clock on a July morning. On a bench
at the foot of the signal-staff, was seated one of a frame
that was naturally large and robust, but which was sensibly
beginning to give way, either by age or disease. A glance
at the red, bloated face, would suffice to tell a medical man,
that the habits had more to do with the growing failure of
organs. The face too, was singularly manly, and had once
been handsome, even; nay, it was not altogether without
claims to be so considered still; though intemperance was
making sad inroads on its comeliness. This person was
about fifty years old, and his air, as well as his attire, denoted
a mariner; not a common seaman, nor yet altogether
an officer; but one of those of a middle station, who in navies
used to form a class by themselves; being of a rank
that entitled them to the honours of the quarter-deck, though
out of the regular line of promotion. In a word, he wore
the unpretending uniform of a master. A century ago,
the dress of the English naval officer was exceedingly simple,
though more appropriate to the profession perhaps, than
the more showy attire that has since been introduced.
Epaulettes were not used by any, and the anchor button,
with the tint that is called navy blue, and which is meant to
represent the deep hue of the ocean, with white facings,
composed the principal peculiarities of the dress. The person
introduced to the reader, whose name was Dutton, and
who was simply the officer in charge of the signal-station,
had a certain neatness about his well-worn uniform, his
linen, and all of his attire, which showed that some person
more interested in such matters than one of his habits was
likely to be, had the care of his wardrobe. In this respect,
indeed, his appearance was unexceptionable; and there was
an air about the whole man which showed that nature, if
not education, had intended him for something far better
than the being he actually was.
Dutton was waiting, at that early hour, to ascertain, as
the veil of mist was raised from the face of the sea, whether
a sail might be in sight, that required of him the execution
of any of his simple functions. That some one was near
by, on the head-land, too, was quite evident, by the occasional
interchange of speech; though no person but himself
was visible. The direction of the sounds would seem to indicate
that a man was actually over the brow of the cliff,
perhaps a hundred feet removed from the seat occupied by
the master.
“Recollect the sailor's maxim, Mr. Wychecombe,” called
out Dutton, in a warning voice; “one hand for the king,
really it does seem a little unnatural that a sea-faring person
like yourself, should have so great a passion for flowers, as
to risk his neck in order to make a posy!”
“Never fear for me, Mr. Dutton,” answered a full, manly
voice, that one could have sworn issued from the chest of
youth; “never fear for me; we sailors are used to hanging
in the air.”
“Ay, with good three-stranded ropes to hold on by, young
gentleman. Now His Majesty's government has just made
you an officer, there is a sort of obligation to take care of
your life, in order that it may be used, and, at need, given
away, in his service.”
“Quite true—quite true, Mr. Dutton—so true, I wonder
you think it necessary to remind me of it. I am very grateful
to His Majesty's government, and—”
While speaking the voice seemed to descend, getting at
each instant less and less distinct, until, in the end, it became
quite inaudible. Dutton looked uneasy, for at that instant
a noise was heard, and then it was quite clear some heavy
object was falling down the face of the cliff. Now it was
that the mariner felt the want of good nerves, and experienced
the sense of humiliation which accompanied the consciousness
of having destroyed them by his excesses. He
trembled in every limb, and, for the moment, was actually
unable to rise. A light step at his side, however, drew a
glance in that direction, and his eye fell on the form of a
lovely girl of nineteen, his own daughter, Mildred.
“I heard you calling to some one, father,” said the latter,
looking wistfully but distrustfully at her parent, as if wondering
at his yielding to his infirmity so early in the day;
“can I be of service to you?”
“Poor Wychecombe?” exclaimed Dutton. “He went over
the cliff in search of a nosegay to offer to yourself, and —
and—I fear—greatly fear—”
“What, father?” demanded Mildred, in a voice of horror,
the rich colour disappearing from a face which it left of the
hue of death. “No—no—no—he cannot have fallen.”
Dutton bent his head down, drew a long breath, and then
seemed to gain more command of his nerves. He was about
to rise, when the sound of a horse's feet was heard, and then
slowly up to the signal-staff. It was a common thing for
the baronet to appear on the cliffs early in the morning, but
it was not usual for him to come unattended. The instant
her eyes fell on the fine form of the venerable old man,
Mildred, who seemed to know him well, and to use the familiarity
of one confident of being a favourite, exclaimed—
“Oh! Sir Wycherly, how fortunate—where is Richard?”
“Good morrow, my pretty Milly,” answered the baronet,
cheerfully; “fortunate or not, here I am, and not a bit flattered
that your first question should be after the groom, instead
of his master. I have sent Dick on a message to the
vicar's. Now my poor brother, the judge, is dead and gone,
I find Mr. Rotherham more and more necessary to me.”
“Oh! dear Sir Wycherly—Mr. Wychecombe—Lieutenant
Wychecombe, I mean—the young officer from Virginia
—he who was so desperately wounded—in whose recovery
we all took so deep an interest—”
“Well—what of him, child?—you surely do not mean to
put him on a level with Mr. Rotherham, in the way of religious
consolation—and, as for anything else, there is no
consanguinity between the Wychecombes of Virginia and
my family. He may be a filius nullius of the Wychecombes
of Wychecombe-Regis, Herts, but has no connection
with those of Wychecombe-Hall, Devonshire.”
“There—there—the cliff!—the cliff!” added Mildred,
unable, for the moment, to be more explicit.
As the girl pointed towards the precipice, and looked the
very image of horror, the good-hearted old baronet began to
get some glimpses of the truth; and, by means of a few words
with Dutton, soon knew quite as much as his two companions.
Descending from his pony with surprising activity
for one of his years, Sir Wycherly was soon on his feet, and
a sort of confused consultation between the three succeeded.
Neither liked to approach the cliff, which was nearly perpendicular
at the extremity of the headland, and was always
a trial to the nerves of those who shrunk from standing on
the verge of precipices. They stood like persons paralyzed,
until Dutton, ashamed of his weakness, and recalling the
thousand lessons in coolness and courage, he had received
in his own manly profession, made a movement towards advancing
state of the case. The blood returned to the cheeks of Mildred,
too, and she again found a portion of her natural spirit
raising her courage.
“Stop, father,” she said, hastily; “you are infirm, and
are in a tremour, at this moment. My head is steadier—let
me go to the verge of the hill, and learn what has happened.”
This was uttered with a forced calmness that deceived her
auditors, both of whom, the one from age, and the other
from shattered nerves, were certainly in no condition to assume
the same office. It required the all-seeing eye, which
alone can scan the heart, to read all the agonized suspense
with which that young and beautiful creature approached the
spot, where she might command a view of the whole of the
side of the fearful declivity, from its giddy summit to the
base where it was washed by the sea. The latter, indeed,
could not literally be seen from above, the waves having so
far undermined the cliff, as to leave a projection that concealed
the point where the rocks and the water came absolutely
in contact; the upper portion of the weather-worn rocks
falling a little inwards, so as to leave a ragged surface that
was sufficiently broken to contain patches of earth, and
verdure, sprinkled with the flowers peculiar to such an exposure.
The fog, also, intercepted the sight, giving to the
descent the appearance of a fathomless abyss. Had the life
of the most indifferent person been in jeopardy, under the
circumstances named, Mildred would have been filled with
deep awe; but a gush of tender sensations, which had hitherto
been pent in the sacred privacy of her virgin affections,
struggled with natural horror, as she trod lightly on the very
verge of the declivity, and cast a timid but eager glance beneath.
Then she recoiled a step, raised her hands in alarm,
and hid her face, as if to shut out some frightful spectacle.
By this time, Dutton's practical knowledge and recollection
had returned. As is common with seamen, whose
minds contain vivid pictures of the intricate tracery of their
vessel's rigging in the darkest nights, his thoughts had
flashed athwart all the probable circumstances, and presented
a just image of the facts.
“The boy could not be seen had he absolutely fallen, and
he said, eagerly, unconsciously using a familiar
nautical phrase to express his meaning. “He must be clinging
to the side of the precipice, and that, too, above the
swell of the rocks.”
Stimulated by a common feeling, the two men now advanced
hastily to the brow of the hill, and there, indeed, as
with Mildred herself, a single look sufficed to tell them the
whole truth. Young Wychecombe, in leaning forward to
pluck a flower, had pressed so hard upon the bit of rock
on which a foot rested, as to cause it to break, thereby
losing his balance. A presence of mind that amounted almost
to inspiration, and a high resolution, alone saved him
from being dashed to pieces. Perceiving the rock to give
way, he threw himself forward, and alighted on a narrow
shelf, a few feet beneath the place where he had just stood,
and at least ten feet removed from it, laterally. The shelf
on which he alighted was ragged, and but two or three feet
wide. It would have afforded only a check to his fall, had
there not fortunately been some shrubs among the rocks
above it. By these shrubs the young man caught, actually
swinging off in the air, under the impetus of his leap.
Happily, the shrubs were too well rooted to give way; and,
swinging himself round, with the address of a sailor, the
youthful lieutenant was immediately on his feet, in comparative
safety. The silence that succeeded was the consequence
of the shock he felt, in finding him so suddenly thrown into
this perilous situation. The summit of the cliff was now
about six fathoms above his head, and the shelf on which he
stood, impended over a portion of the cliff that was absolutely
perpendicular, and which might be said to be out of
the line of those projections along which he had so lately
been idly gathering flowers. It was physically impossible
for any human being to extricate himself from such a situation,
without assistance. This Wychecombe understood at
a glance, and he had passed the few minutes that intervened
between his fall and the appearance of the party above him,
in devising the means necessary to his liberation. As it
was, few men, unaccustomed to the giddy elevations of the
mast, could have mustered a sufficient command of nerve to
maintain a position on the ledge where he stood. Even
form by the aid of the bushes.
As soon as the baronet and Dutton got a glimpse of the
perilous position of young Wychecombe, each recoiled in
horror from the sight, as if fearful of being precipitated on
top of him. Both, then, actually lay down on the grass,
and approached the edge of the cliff again, in that humble
attitude, even trembling as they lay at length, with their
chins projecting over the rocks, staring downwards at the
victim. The young man could see nothing of all this; for,
as he stood with his back against the cliff, he had not room
to turn, with safety, or even to look upwards. Mildred,
however, seemed to lose all sense of self and of danger, in
view of the extremity in which the youth beneath was placed.
She stood on the very verge of the precipice, and looked
down with a steadiness and impunity that would have been
utterly impossible for her to attain under less exciting circumstances;
even allowing the young man to catch a
glimpse of her rich locks, as they hung about her beautiful
face.
“For God's sake, Mildred,” called out the youth, “keep
further from the cliff—I see you, and we can now hear each
other without so much risk.”
“What can we do to rescue you, Wychecombe?” eagerly
asked the girl. “Tell me, I entreat you; for Sir Wycherly
and my father are both unnerved!”
“Blessed creature! and you are mindful of my danger!
But, be not uneasy, Mildred; do as I tell you, and all will
yet be well. I hope you hear and understand what I say,
dearest girl?”
“Perfectly,” returned Mildred, nearly choked by the effort
to be calm. “I hear every syllable—speak on.”
“Go you then to the signal-halyards—let one end fly
loose, and pull upon the other, until the whole line has come
down—when that is done, return here, and I will tell you
more—but, for heaven's sake, keep farther from the cliff.”
The thought that the rope, small and frail as it seemed,
might be of use, flashed on the brain of the girl; and in a
moment she was at the staff. Time and again, when liquor
incapacitated her father to perform his duty, had Mildred
bent-on, and hoisted the signals for him; and thus, happily,
had unrove them, and the long line lay in a little pile at her
feet.
“'T is done, Wycherly,” she said, again looking over the
cliff; “shall I throw you down one end of the rope?—but,
alas! I have not strength to raise you; and Sir Wycherly
and father seem unable to assist me!”
“Do not hurry yourself, Mildred, and all will be well.
Go, and put one end of the line around the signal-staff, then
put the two ends together, tie them in a knot, and drop them
down over my head. Be careful not to come too near the
cliff, for—”
The last injunction was useless, Mildred having flown to
execute her commission. Her quick mind readily comprehended
what was expected of her, and her nimble fingers
soon performed their task. Tying a knot in the ends
of the line, she did as desired, and the small rope was soon
dangling within reach of Wychecombe's arm. It is not easy
to make a landsman understand the confidence which a
sailor feels in a rope. Place but a frail and rotten piece of
twisted hemp in his hand, and he will risk his person in
situations from which he would otherwise recoil in dread.
Accustomed to hang suspended in the air, with ropes only
for his foothold, or with ropes to grasp with his hand, his
eye gets an intuitive knowledge of what will sustain him,
and he unhesitatingly trusts his person to a few seemingly
slight strands, that, to one unpractised, appear wholly unworthy
of his confidence. Signal-halyards are ropes smaller
than the little finger of a man of any size; but they are
usually made with care, and every rope-yarn tells. Wychecombe,
too, was aware that these particular halyards were
new, for he had assisted in reeving them himself, only the
week before. It was owing to this circumstance that they
were long enough to reach him; a large allowance for wear
and tear having been made in cutting them from the coil.
As it was, the ends dropped some twenty feet below the
ledge on which he stood.
“All safe, now, Mildred!” cried the young man, in a
voice of exultation, the moment his hand caught the two
ends of the line, which he immediately passed around his
body, beneath the arms, as a precaution against accidents.
me.”
Mildred drew back, for worlds could not have tempted her
to witness the desperate effort that she knew must follow.
By this time, Sir Wycherly, who had been an interested
witness of all that passed, found his voice, and assumed the
office of director.
“Stop, my young namesake,” he eagerly cried, when he
found that the sailor was about to make an effort to drag his
own body up the cliff; “stop; that will never do; let Dutton
and me do that much for you, at least. We have seen
all that has passed, and are now able to do something.”
“No—no, Sir Wycherly—on no account touch the halyards.
By hauling them over the top of the rocks you will
probably cut them, or part them, and then I 'm lost, without
hope!”
“Oh! Sir Wycherly,” said Mildred, earnestly, clasping
her hands together, as if to enforce the request with prayer;
“do not—do not touch the line.”
“We had better let the lad manage the matter in his own
way,” put in Dutton; “he is active, resolute, and a seaman,
and will do better for himself than I fear we can do for him.
He has got a turn round his body, and is tolerably safe
against any slip, or mishap.”
As the words were uttered, the whole three drew back a
short distance and watched the result, in intense anxiety.
Dutton, however, so far recollected himself, as to take an
end of the old halyards, which were kept in a chest at the
foot of the staff, and to make an attempt to stopper together
the two parts of the little rope on which the youth depended,
for should one of the parts of it break, without this precaution,
there was nothing to prevent the halyards from running
round the staff, and destroying the hold. The size of
the halyards rendered this expedient very difficult of attainment,
but enough was done to give the arrangement a little
more of the air of security. All this time young Wychecombe
was making his own preparations on the ledge, and
quite out of view; but the tension on the halyards soon announced
that his weight was now pendent from them. Mildred's
heart seemed ready to leap from her mouth, as she
noted each jerk on the lines; and her father watched every
the final catastophe. It required a prodigious effort in the
young man to raise his own weight for such a distance, by
lines so small. Had the rope been of any size, the
achievement would have been trifling for one of the frame
and habits of the sailor, more especially as he could slightly
avail himself of his feet, by pressing them against the rocks;
but, as it was, he felt as if he were dragging the mountain
up after him. At length, his head appeared a few inches
above the rocks, but with his feet pressed against the cliff,
and his body inclining outward, at an angle of forty-five
degrees.
“Help him—help him, father!” exclaimed Mildred, covering
her face with her hands, to exclude the sight of Wychecombe's
desperate struggles. “If he fall now, he will be
destroyed. Oh! save him, save him, Sir Wycherly!”
But neither of those to whom she appealed, could be of
any use. The nervous trembling again came over the father;
and as for the baronet, age and inexperience rendered
him helpless.
“Have you no rope, Mr. Dutton, to throw over my
shoulders,” cried Wychecombe, suspending his exertions in
pure exhaustion, still keeping all he had gained, with his
head projecting outward, over the abyss beneath, and his
face turned towards heaven. “Throw a rope over my
shoulders, and drag my body in to the cliff.”
Dutton showed an eager desire to comply, but his nerves
had not yet been excited by the usual potations, and his
hands shook in a way to render it questionable whether he
could perform even this simple service. But for his daughter,
indeed, he would hardly have set about it intelligently.
Mildred, accustomed to using the signal-halyards, procured
the old line, and handed it to her father, who discovered
some of his professional knowledge in his manner of using
it. Doubling the halyards twice, he threw the bight over
Wychecombe's shoulders, and aided by Mildred, endeavoured
to draw the body of the young man upwards and towards
the cliff. But their united strength was unequal to the task,
and wearied with holding on, and, indeed, unable to support
his own weight any longer by so small a rope, Wychecombe
felt compelled to suffer his feet to drop beneath him, and slid
shook with its prodigious exertions; and he was compelled
to seat himself on the shelf, and rest with his back against
the cliff, to recover his self-command and strength. Mildred
uttered a faint shriek as he disappeared, but was too
much horror-stricken to approach the verge of the precipice
to ascertain his fate.
“Be composed, Milly,” said her father, “he is safe, as
you may see by the halyards; and to say the truth, the stuff
holds on well. So long as the line proves true, the boy
can't fall; he has taken a double turn with the end of it round
his body. Make your mind easy, girl, for I feel better now,
and see my way clear. Don't be uneasy, Sir Wycherly;
we'll have the lad safe on terra firma again, in ten minutes.
I scarce know what has come over me, this morning; but
I've not had the command of my limbs as in common. It
cannot be fright, for I've seen too many men in danger to be
disabled by that; and I think, Milly, it must be the rheumatism,
of which I've so often spoken, and which I've inherited
from my poor mother, dear old soul. Do you know,
Sir Wycherly, that rheumatism can be inherited like gout?”
“I dare say it may—I dare say it may, Dutton—but
never mind the disease, now; get my young namesake back
here on the grass, and I will hear all about it. I would give
the world that I had not sent Dick to Mr. Rotherham's this
morning. Can't we contrive to make the pony pull the
boy up?”
“The traces are hardly strong enough for such work, Sir
Wycherly. Have a little patience, and I will manage the
whole thing, `ship-shape, and Brister-fashion,' as we say at
sea. Halloo there, Master Wychecombe—answer my hail,
and I will soon get you into deep water.”
“I'm safe on the ledge,” returned the voice of Wychecombe,
from below; “I wish you would look to the signal-halyards,
and see they do not chafe against the rocks, Mr.
Dutton.”
“All right, sir; all right. Slack up, if you please, and
let me have all the line you can, without casting off from
your body. Keep fast the end, for fear of accidents.”
In an instant the halyards slackened, and Dutton, who by
this time had gained his self-command, though still weak
the bight along the edge of the cliff, until he had brought it
over a projection of the rocks, where it fastened itself. This
arrangement caused the line to lead down to the part of the
cliffs from which the young man had fallen, and where it was
by no means difficult for a steady head and active limbs to
move about and pluck flowers. It consequently remained
for Wychecombe merely to regain a footing on that part of
the hill-side, to ascend to the summit without difficulty. It
is true he was now below the point from which he had fallen;
but by swinging himself off laterally, or even by springing,
aided by the line, it was not a difficult achievement to reach
it, and he no sooner understood the nature of the change
that had been made, than he set about attempting it. The
confident manner of Dutton encouraged both the baronet
and Mildred, and they drew to the cliff, again; standing near
the verge, though on the part where the rocks might be descended,
with less apprehension of consequences.
As soon as Wychecombe had made all his preparations,
he stood on the end of the ledge, tightened the line, looked
carefully for a foothold on the other side of the chasm, and
made his leap. As a matter of course, the body of the
young man swung readily across the space, until the line
became perpendicular, and then he found a surface so
broken, as to render his ascent by no means difficult, aided
as he was by the halyards. Scrambling upwards, he soon
rejected the aid of the line, and sprang upon the head-land.
At the same instant, Mildred fell senseless on the grass.
| CHAPTER II. The two admirals | |