A TERRIBLE NIGHT

Although there had been plenty of wind, and a heavy sea running for the greater part of the winter, Pat had not seen what Jim called a "real storm" until Christmas had been several weeks old, and January had nearly run its course. The child called any rough bout of windy weather a storm, and did not quite believe that Jim could be right in declaring that it was "only a capful of wind," or that it was "only half a gale, after all." But there came one night late on in January when he began to understand very well what Jim had meant, and to realise that he had not really understood before what a real winter storm could be like.

All day there had been a strange new sound in the moaning and the shrieking of the wind. His father had looked often at the glass, and had remarked almost every time he did so that "they were going to get it this time, and no mistake." Jim had been so busy up aloft that Pat had hardly seen him since breakfast-time; and even the sea-gull seemed to partake in the general uneasiness, for he flapped his wings, and screamed and cried in a way that was quite unusual for him; and when Jim came downstairs about dinner-time, he walked out to the side of the cage where the child stood watching his favourite, and said—

"I'd bring him indoors to-night, Pat. I'd not answer for it but that the water will be over here before morning. Anyway, there's be sheets of spray flying about enough to drown the bird, if he's left where he is."

Pat looked up wonderingly, for though one end of the great caged-in place ran down towards the lower rocks, the upper end was against the lighthouse itself, and it seemed impossible to the child that the waves should ever reach as high as that. He had lived seven or eight months in his new home by this time, and had never seen the sea as high as that yet. But of course Jim must know best.

"I'll bring him in," he answered readily. "Mother won't mind if you tell me to, and he does come in sometimes. He hardly ever pecks at anybody now. See how tame he is when I go to take him!"

Pat was rather proud of the conquest he had made of the bird, and certainly the wild creature made no resistance to being lifted by his little master and carried within doors. Eileen looked up as Pat brought the captive in with him.

"Poor thing! so he wants shelter to-night, does he! Put him there in that bit of a cupboard, Pat dear, with a wire netting in front of him to keep him from cluttering up my clean kitchen. There, he can see you now, and you can see him. What a pretty bird he's growing! I'm sure he's welcome to a place within doors. God help all those poor souls who will be out at sea to-night!"

The woman spoke with so much earnestness and feeling, that Pat looked up in her face with wide-open, questioning eyes.

"What makes you say that, mother? Is it going to be what Jim would call a real big storm? I rather wanted to see one. Is it naughty to feel so? I won't, if it is; but I thought a lighthouse boy ought to know what a real storm was like. Are we going to have one to-night, mother?"

"I fear we are, my child. And terrible it will be for those who are afloat, exposed to the mercy of the wind and the waves. We must pray to God for them, my little son; for in times like these only God can help them, and perhaps there are some in peril to-night, who will never pray for themselves—though in the hour of danger it is wonderful how the human heart turns to the God of heaven, however hard at any other time."

Pat's eyes were open wide, and a new look had crept into them.

"Mother, shall we pray now?—you and I together?" he asked; and Eileen took his little hand in hers, and knelt down then and there on the kitchen floor, praying aloud in very simple words for those in peril on the deep that night, that God would be with them in every danger, and bring them safe at last to the haven whither they would be. And Pat shut his eyes tight, and clasped his hands, and said "Amen" softly, several times, adding, as his mother ceased, "And if there are any little boys like me, please keep them quite safe, dear Lord Jesus, and bring them safe back to their mothers again."

And then, when the child opened his eyes, and rose from his knees, he saw that Jim had crept in, all unknown to them, and that he was kneeling, too, his head down-bent, and a tear slowly trickling down his weather-beaten face. Pat had never seen him on his knees before. He had never been able to get Jim to tell him whether he ever said his prayers at all. But he was sure now that he did, and he ran across to him before he had had time to rise to his feet, and throwing his arms about his neck, he cried out—

"Now we have all prayed to God together, so I'm sure He'll hear us. He likes there to be two or three gathered together—it says so, somewhere in the Bible. I shan't be so unhappy about the poor people in the ships now, because we've asked God to take care of them, and He always hears what we say—doesn't He, mother?"

"Yes, dear, He always hears," answered Eileen, with a smile and a sigh. "But He does not always answer us quite in the way we would have."

"But, then, He knows best," said Pat, with sudden thoughtfulness. "So if He does it differently from what we meant, we needn't mind, need we? You don't always do just what I want, mother dear; but afterwards I always know you decided best. It's like that with God and us, I suppose."

Eileen stooped with a tear in her eye to kiss the child, and Jim went out to help Nat to haul up the boat, and place it in the greatest security the rock offered, to leeward of the wind, well braced at both ends to keep it steady. Pat watched these operations with great interest.

"But why do you take it out of the water?" he asked. "I should have thought you'd want it there in case any ship in distress should go by. You might want to send a boat out to them, and if it was up here you wouldn't be able to get it out at all quickly."

"No boat could live in such a sea as we'll have to-night, sonny," answered the father gravely. "Nothing but a life-boat, anyhow, and then it could not be launched here amongst these rocks. Look at those waves, now. Do you think there would be any putting out to sea amongst such rollers as those? No, my little son. Please God we'll keep our light burning brightly—which is the duty given us to do—and that will help the big ships to keep clear of this cruel reef, where the best of them would be dashed to pieces. But more than that we cannot do, and may God grant that no vessel comes nigh these rocks to-night. None will, unless she be disabled; but, if she did, we could do almost nothing to help her. God alone could direct her course that she should not be dashed in pieces on this treacherous coast."

So Pat went indoors, looking very grave, and feeling sobered by the shadow of peril resting upon some lives; and already the dark lowering clouds seemed to be driving faster and faster along the sky, and the shrieking of the wind grew ever angrier and angrier as the daylight waned.

Bang! bang! bang! It was only the waves flinging themselves in wild fury against the rocks upon which the lighthouse was built, but Pat felt the tower shudder beneath the shock, and looked into his mother's face as though to ask if they themselves were in any danger. Her face was grave and a little pale, but there was no personal fear in her steady eyes as she met the child's look, and answered it by a thoughtful smile.

"The walls of our home have stood through many a winter's storm, Pat. It's not ourselves we need fear for to-night, but for those at sea, in disabled vessels; and I fear me there will be many such upon a night like this. Hark at the wind! It is rising every moment!"

It was indeed, and Pat soon became too excited to do anything but wander up and down the stairs, watching the wild strife of the wind and waves, first from one place and then from another, not knowing whence the best view was obtained. He might not open the door upon the gallery to go out there, as he would have liked. Jim told him he would not be able to stand there in such a night; and that the air rushing and sweeping in would be bad for the lamp; and to-night, above all nights, she must be studied and thought of. Many, many lives might depend upon her light, and she was the object of the most scrupulous care on the part of both the men in charge of her.

"It seems as if she was trying to shine as bright as possible," said the child, with fond pride, as he looked up into the great ball of white flame above him. "Do you think she knows that there is a storm to-night, Jim, and is trying to throw the light as far as ever it will go?"

"I shouldn't wonder," answered Jim. "Her knows a power of things by this time, her does;" but he spoke absently, as though his thoughts were far away, and he kept moving across to one of the small windows which looked out over the wild tossing sea, as though to make sure that there was no indication of the presence of any vessel in distress on the horizon. Pat grew nervous at the silence of the man, and the furious noises of the raging storm without, and crept downstairs to his mother again.

By this time it was getting very dark. The tide was rising—a high spring tide—and the waves seemed to come thundering against the very walls of the lighthouse itself, making them shake to their foundations. Pat often looked anxiously into his father's face to know what he thought about it; but he knew the tower was safe, and was only thinking of the perils of others, like his wife.

"It is going to be a fearful night," he said, as he rose from the tea-table. "There will be no sleep for either of us to-night, wife. We must both watch whilst the gale blows like this. I'll send Jim down now to get a bite and sup, and then he can join me up aloft. You and the child can go to bed when you will. Only leave us a good fire here, and something hot to take if we get chilled and wet."

"I shall not go to bed, Nat," answered Eileen. "I could not sleep, and I shall keep my vigil for those poor souls who are in deadly peril to-night. There be times when it seems heartless to lie down and sleep. If we were in fearful danger ourselves, we should like to know that there were those ashore praying for us, even though they knew not our names."

Nat kissed his wife and child, and his weather-beaten face looked tender.

"Well, well, my lass, please yourself, please yourself. It will make the fireside brighter for a man to come to if you are there to-night."

"Mother," said Pat, coming up and laying a small hand on her knee, "may I stay with you? May I keep a vigil, too? I know I could not sleep in my bed with all this noise of wind and waves. Please let me stop up too."

"Very well, my child; until you grow sleepy you may. We will watch together, and be ready to help the men, if help is needed. In such a storm as this one never knows what will befall. We will be ready whatever betide."

Jim came down to his tea next, and Pat eagerly asked him whether he had ever known such a storm before. He was surprised that Jim was not more filled with wonder at it than he was; but supposed that he had grown used to such tempests, as indeed was the case, for no winter ever went by without some such storm as the present one.

When mother and child were together again, Pat occupied himself for a while in feeding and playing with his bird, who was a good deal disturbed by his new surroundings, but was content to be coaxed and quieted by his little master's hand and voice. By-and-by he retired to the back of the cupboard where it was dark, and seemed to settle himself down for sleep. By this time the tea-things had been washed up, and the room made bright and tidy. There was little more to do that night, save to see that there was food and something hot for the watchers at intervals, when they should be able to come down for it; and at Pat's suggestion his mother got out her needlework, whilst Pat brought out the big Bible from which his father generally read a chapter aloud every day, and laying it on the table, drew his high chair up to it, and began turning over the leaves to find all the places where it told of the sea, and especially of any storms; which passages he then read aloud to his mother, and they discussed them afterwards together to the sound of the stormy voices from without, which made a fitting accompaniment.

As the night wore on the gale seemed rather to rise than fall. There were times when the child's voice could not be heard for the wild shrieking of the wind without. Now and again Pat would creep up the stairs to the lamp house, and report to his mother, with an awed face, that the spray was dashing right over the top of the tower. Sometimes one or other of the men would come down to sit awhile by the fire, and refresh himself with the good cheer Eileen had ready. Now and again Pat would doze off into a little light sleep, leaning against his mother's knee. But he would not hear of going to bed, and, indeed, there was no chance of continuous sleep, even for those used to the sounds of the winds and waters; for it was one continual battle without of raging strife, and Pat never slept long without waking up with a start at some crash of water against the wall, or some wilder shriek of the furious gale sweeping round the tower.

But, hitherto, there had been no sight or sound of human peril or distress. Each time that a watcher had come down, Eileen had anxiously asked if he had seen any vessel in peril, or had heard any signals of distress, and each time the answer had been that nothing of the kind had been seen or heard. Eileen breathed a sigh of thankfulness each time the report was made, and as the night wore away, and the storm did not seem to be increasing, she began to try and coax Pat to be put to bed, for he was growing very sleepy at last, and had kept his vigil very bravely and well.

Her persuasion seemed just about to triumph over the child's reluctance to own himself sleepy, when a new sound suddenly smote upon their ears, causing Eileen's hand suddenly to fall to her side, whilst her face put on a look of white dismay and terror. For a moment she stood as rigidly as though she had been turned into stone, and Pat woke up wide in his surprise, for he had not understood the sound he had heard, and could not account for the change which had come over his mother. And then he heard again the faint new sound—only a distant report—the sound as of a gun.

"What is it, mother?" he asked in his perplexity.

"God help them—that is the signal gun. That is a ship in distress! There it is again! Oh, dear Lord Jesus, be with those poor souls in their hour of peril, 'for vain is the help of man!'"

Pat was wide awake now. His heart was beating fast and hard. Something of his mother's awe had communicated itself to him; but inaction was not possible in this time of excitement. He must be doing something, and without another word or question he darted up the stairs to go and find his father and Jim, and ask them what they knew about this ship in distress.

They were both at a look-out hole. His father had the telescope, and Jim was shading his eyes with his hand, and gazing out into the night too intently to be aware of the presence of the child. The moon was full, and in spite of the wrack of clouds in the sky, the night was not wholly dark, and from time to time a shaft of light would stream out upon one portion of the sea or another, showing to the watchers something of the dismasted vessel beating helplessly in the trough of the raging sea.

"The Lord help her, for she cannot help herself!" exclaimed Nat, as he handed the glass to Jim. "She's a fine vessel—a steamer; but her fires are out—may be her screw is broken—and the mast is snapped clean in half. It may be they will reach the lee of yon promontory before they are beaten to pieces. That is what they are making for plainly, and the vessel is well handled. But what can any helmsman do with such a crippled log? There is another gun! Would God we could help them, poor souls. But there is nothing we can do, and she is a good mile from the rocks, thank Heaven! If she can but weather it out for another half-hour, and keep the course she is making, she may get in safely yet. Or the life-boat may see her, and take her passengers ashore. But 'tis a fearful thing to see her labouring like that in such a sea. Every wave seems as though it would swallow her up!"

"Daddy, let me see," pleaded Pat, and Jim adjusted the telescope so that the child could see the great disabled vessel lying rolling helplessly in the trough of the angry water, driven along almost at the mercy of the winds and waves, yet gallantly striving to keep such a course as should give her her only chance of safety. Pat was not seaman enough to estimate her chances of escape, and cried out every moment that she must sink.

Jim was afraid rather she would be driven in and dashed upon the rocks; but that she was under able management both men saw; and when Nat carried the child down to his mother, and saw Eileen's white face and straining eyes, he was able to kiss her, and place the boy in her arms, saying, "Please God, they will weather it yet; but 'tis a fearful thing to see. They have escaped being driven on this reef; and if they can get round the next point, they may find shelter from the gale. Pray for them, my lass, for it is all we may do. We will watch while you pray, and may be they will be safe yet!"