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Stormy weather interrupted and delayed him, but he returned with his men again and again to the work, and succeeded in advancing it very considerably during the first year—that is to say, during the few weeks of the summer of that year, in which winds and waves permitted the work to go on.

Many adventures, both ludicrous and thrilling, had these enterprising men while they toiled, by snatches as it were, sometimes almost under water, and always under difficulties; but we are constrained to pass these by, in silence, in order to devote our space to the more important and stirring incidents in the history of this the second lighthouse on the Eddystone,—one of which incidents bade fair to check the progress of the building for an indefinite period of time, and well-nigh brought the career of our hero, John Potter, and his mates to an abrupt close.

Chapter Three.
A Violent Interruption

The incident referred to in our last chapter occurred on the afternoon of a calm summer day. Early that morning, shortly after daybreak, Mr Rudyerd, with his engineers and workmen, put off in the boat to resume operations on the rock after a lapse of nearly a week, during which period rough weather had stopped the work. They landed without difficulty, the calm being so complete that there was only a little sea caused by the heavy swell on the south-west side of the Eddystone Rock, the leeside being as quiet as a pond.

“It’s not often we have weather like this sir,” observed John Potter to Mr Rudyerd, as the heavily-laden boat approached the landing place.

“True, John; a few weeks like this would enable us almost to complete the courses,” replied the engineer. “Easy, lads, easy! If you run her up so fast you’ll stave in the planks. Stand by with the fender, Teddy!”

“Ay, ay, sir!” cried the man, springing up and seizing a stuffed canvas ball, which he swung over the gunwale just in time to prevent the boat’s side from grazing the rock. “There now: jump out wi’ the painter; man alive!” said Teddy, addressing himself to Isaac Dorkin, who was naturally slow in his movements, “you’ll go souse between the boat an’ the rock av ye don’t be smarter nor that.”

Dorkin made some grumbling reply as he stepped upon the rock, and fastened the painter to a ring-bolt. His comrades sprang after him, and while some began to heave the tools from the boat, others busied themselves round the base of the column, which had by that time risen to a considerable height. It looked massive enough to bid defiance to wind and waves, however fierce their fury. Some such thought must have passed through Mr Rudyerd’s mind just then, for a satisfied smile lighted up his usually grave features as he directed the men to arrange the tackle of the crane, by which the stones were to be removed from the boat to their place on the building. They were all quickly at work; for they knew from experience how suddenly their operations might be cut short by a gale.

In order that the reader may fully understand the details of the event which occurred that afternoon, it is necessary that he should know the nature of the structure, and the height to which, at that time, it had proceeded; and while we are on the subject, we may as well state a few facts connected with the foundation and superstructure, which cannot fail to interest all who take pleasure in contemplating man’s efforts to overcome almost insuperable difficulties.

As we have said, the sloping foundation of the building was cut into a series of terraces or steps. There were seven of these. The first operation was the cutting of thirty-six holes in the solid rock, into which iron hold-fasts were securely fixed. The cutting of these holes or sockets was ingeniously managed. First, three small holes were drilled into the rock; and then these were broken into one large hole, which was afterwards smoothed, enlarged, and undercut, so as to be of dovetail form; the size of each being 7 and a half inches broad and 2 and a half inches wide at the top, and an inch broader at the bottom. They were about sixteen inches deep. Thirty-six massive malleable iron hold-fasts were then inserted, and wedged into the places thus prepared for them, besides being filled up with lead, so that no force of any kind could draw them out. The next proceeding was to place beams of solid oak timber, lengthwise, on the first step, thus bringing it level with the second step. Timbers of the same kind were then placed above and across these, bringing the level up to the third step. The next “course” of timbers was again laid, lengthwise, bringing the level to the fourth step, and so on to the seventh, above which two completely circular timber courses were laid, thus making a perfectly flat and solid foundation on which the remainder of the column might rest. The building, therefore, had no tendency to slide, even although it had not been held in its place by the thirty-six hold-fasts before mentioned. In addition to this, the various courses of timber were fastened to the rock and to each other by means of numerous iron cramps and bolts, and wooden trenails.

It was well known to Mr Rudyerd, however, that it was not possible to fit his timbers so perfectly to the rock and to each other as to exclude water altogether; and that if the water should manage to find entrance, it would exert a tremendous lifting power, which, coupled with the weight of the falling billows, would be apt to sweep his foundation away. He resolved, therefore, to counteract this by means of weight; and, in order to do this, he next piled five courses of Cornish moor-stone above the timber courses. The stones were huge blocks, which, when laid and fastened in one solid stratum, weighed 120 tons. They were not laid in cement; but each block was fastened to its fellow by joints and similar to the first. The whole of this fabric was built round a strong central mast or pole, which rose from the rock. The two timber courses above described terminated the “solid” part of the lighthouse. It rose to the height of about fourteen feet from the rock, at the centre of the building.

At this point in the structure; namely, at the top of the “solid,” the door was begun on the east side; and a central “well-hole” was left, where the stair leading to the rooms above was ultimately built. The door itself was reached by a strong iron stair of open work, outside, through which the sea could easily wash.

After the solid was completed, other five courses of moor-stone were laid, which weighed about eighty-six tons. It was in these that the door-way and well-hole were made. Two more courses of wood followed, covering the door-head; and on these, four more courses of stone, weighing sixty-seven tons; then several courses of timber, with a floor of oak plank, three inches thick, over all, forming the floor of the first apartment, which was the store-room. This first floor was thirty-three feet above the rock.

The upper part of the column, containing its four rooms, was by no means so strong as the lower part, being composed chiefly of the timber uprights in which the building was encased from top to bottom. These uprights, numbering seventy-one, were massive beams; about a foot broad and nine inches thick at the bottom, and diminishing towards the top. Their seams were caulked like those of a ship, and they gave to the lighthouse when finished the appearance of an elegant fluted column. The top of the column, on which rested the lantern, rose, when finished, to about sixty-three feet above the highest part of the rock.

We have thought proper to give these details in this place, but at the time of which we write, none of the outside timbers had been set up, and the edifice had only reached that point immediately above the “solid,” where the doorway and the “well-hole” began. Here a large crane had been fixed, and two of the men were up there working the windlass, by which the heavy blocks of moor-stone were raised to their places.

The signal had been given to hoist one of these, when Isaac Dorkin, who stood beside the stone, suddenly uttered a loud cry, and shouted, “hold on! Ease off up there! Hold o-o-on! D’ye hear?”

“Arrah! howld yer noise, an’ I’ll hear better,” cried Teddy Maroon, looking over the top edge of the lighthouse.

“My thumb’s caught i’ the chain!” yelled Dorkin. “Ease it off.”

“Och! poor thing,” exclaimed Teddy, springing back and casting loose the chain. “Are ye aisy now?” he cried, again looking down at his friend.

“All right: hoist away!” shouted Stobbs, another of the men, who could scarce refrain from laughing at the rueful countenance of his comrade as he surveyed his crushed thumb.

Up went the stone, and while it was ascending some of the men brought forward another to follow it.

“There comes the boat,” observed Mr Rudyerd to one of his assistant engineers, as he shut up a pocket telescope with which he had been surveying the distant shore. “I find it necessary to leave you to-day, Mr Franks, rather earlier than usual; but that matters little, as things are going smoothly here. See that you keep the men at work as long as possible. If the swell that is beginning to rise should increase, it may compel you to knock off before dark, but I hope it won’t.”

“It would be well, sir, I think,” said Franks, “to make John Potter overseer in place of Williamson; he is a better and steadier man. If you have no objection—”

“None in the least,” replied Rudyerd. “I have thought of promoting Potter for some time past. Make the change by all means.”

“Please, sir,” said Williamson, approaching at that moment, “I’ve just been at the top of the building an’ observed a French schooner bearing down from the south-west.”

“Well, what of that?” demanded Rudyerd.

“Why, sir,” said Williamson with some hesitation in his manner, “p’raps it’s a man-of-war, sir.”

“And if it be so, what then?” said Rudyerd with a smile; “you don’t suppose they’ll fire a broadside at an unfinished lighthouse, do you? or are you afraid they’ll take the Eddystone Rock in tow, and carry you into a French port?”

“I don’t know, sir,” replied Williamson with an offended look; “I only thought that as we are at war with France just now, it was my duty to report what I had seen.”

“Quite right, quite right,” replied Rudyerd, good-humouredly, “I’ll record the fact in our journal. Meanwhile see that the men don’t have their attention taken up with it.”

By this time the small boat, which the chief engineer had ordered to come off to take him on shore, was alongside the rock. The swell had risen so much that although there was not a breath of wind, the surf was beating violently on the south-west side, and even in the sheltered nook, which was styled by courtesy the harbour, there was sufficient commotion to render care in fending off with the boat-hook necessary. Meanwhile the men wrought like tigers, taking no note of their chief’s departure—all, except Williamson, being either ignorant of, or indifferent to, the gradual approach of the French schooner, which drifted slowly towards them with the tide.

Thus work and time went on quietly. Towards the afternoon, Teddy Maroon wiped the perspiration from his heated brow and looked abroad upon the sea, while the large hook of his crane was descending for another stone. An expression of intense earnestness wrinkled his visage as he turned suddenly to Stobbs, his companion at the windlass, and exclaimed:—

“Sure that’s a Frenchman over there.”

“That’s wot it is, Ted, an’ no mistake,” said Stobbs. “I had a’most forgot about the war and the Mounseers.”

“Ah then, it’s not goin’ to attack us ye are, is it? Never!” exclaimed Teddy in surprise, observing that two boats had been lowered from the schooner’s davits into which men were crowding.

The question was answered in a way that could not be misunderstood. A puff of white smoke burst from the vessel’s side, and a cannon shot went skipping over the sea close past the lighthouse, at the same time the French flag was run up and the two boats, pushing off, made straight for the rock.

Teddy and his comrade ran down to the foot of the building, where the other men were arming themselves hastily with crowbars and large chips of stone. Marshalling the men together, the assistant engineer, who was a fiery little fellow, explained to them how they ought to act.

“My lads,” said he, “the surf has become so strong, by good luck, that it is likely to capsize the enemy’s boats before they get here. In which case they’ll be comfortably drowned, and we can resume our work; but if they manage to reach the rock, we’ll retire behind the lighthouse to keep clear of their musket balls; and, when they attempt to land, rush at ’em, and heave ’em all into the sea. It’s like enough that they’re more numerous than we, but you all know that one Englishman is a match for three Frenchmen any day.”

A general laugh and cheer greeted this address, and then they all took shelter behind the lighthouse. Meanwhile, the two boats drew near. The lightest one was well in advance. On it came, careering on the crest of a large glassy wave. Now was the time for broaching-to and upsetting, but the boat was cleverly handled. It was launched into the “harbour” on a sea of foam.

Most of the Englishmen, on seeing this, ran to oppose the landing.

“Surrender!” shouted an officer with a large moustache, standing up in the bow of the boat.

“Never!” replied Mr Franks, defiantly.

“Hooray!” yelled Teddy Maroon, flourishing his crowbar.

At this the officer gave an order: the Frenchmen raised their muskets, and the Englishmen scampered back to their place of shelter, laughing like school-boys engaged in wild play. Teddy Maroon, whose fertile brain was always devising some novelty or other, ran up to his old post at the windlass, intending to cast a large mass of stone into the boat when it neared the rock, hoping thereby to knock a hole through its bottom; but before he reached his perch, a breaker burst into the harbour and overturned the boat, leaving her crew to struggle towards the rock. Some of them were quickly upon it, grappling with the Englishmen who rushed forward to oppose the landing. Seeing this, Teddy hurled his mass of stone at the head of an unfortunate Frenchman, whom he narrowly missed, and then, uttering a howl, ran down to join in the fray. The French commander, a powerful man, was met knee-deep in the water, by Isaac Dorkin, whom he struck down with the hilt of his sword, and poor Isaac’s grumbling career would certainly have come to an end then and there, had not John Potter, who had already hurled two Frenchmen back into the sea, run to the rescue, and, catching his friend by the hair of the head, dragged him on the rock. At that moment Teddy Maroon dashed at the French officer, caught his uplifted sword-arm by the wrist, and pushed him back into the sea just as he was in the act of making a savage cut at John Potter. Before the latter had dragged his mate quite out of danger he was grappled with by another Frenchman, and they fell struggling to the ground, while a third came up behind Teddy with a boat-hook, and almost took him by surprise; but Teddy turned in time, caught the boat-hook in his left hand, and, flattening the Frenchman’s nose with his right, tumbled him over and ran to assist in repelling another party of the invaders who were making good their landing at the other side of the rock.

Thus the “skrimmage,” as John Potter styled it, became general. Although out-numbered, the Englishmen were getting the best of it, when the second boat plunged into the so-called harbour, and in a few seconds the rock was covered with armed men. Of course the Englishmen were overpowered. Their tools were collected and put into the boat. With some difficulty the first boat was righted. The Englishmen were put into it, with a strong guard of marines, and then the whole party were carried on board the French schooner, which turned out to be a privateer.

Thus were the builders of the Eddystone lighthouse carried off as prisoners of war to France, and their feelings may be gathered from the last remark of Teddy Maroon, who, as the white cliffs of England were fading from his view, exclaimed bitterly, “Och hone! I’ll never see owld Ireland no more!”

Note. It may be as well to state, at this point, that the incidents here related, and indeed all the important incidents of our tale, are founded on, we believe, well authenticated facts.

Chapter Four.
Unlooked-for Deliverance

Behold, then, our lighthouse-builders entering a French port; Teddy Maroon looking over the side of the vessel at the pier to which they are drawing near, and grumbling sternly at his sad fate; John Potter beside him, with his arms crossed, his eyes cast down, and his thoughts far away with the opinionated Martha and the ingenious Tommy; Mr Franks and the others standing near; all dismal and silent.

“You not seem for like ver moche to see la belle France,” said the French officer with the huge moustache, addressing Teddy.

“It’s little Teddy Maroon cares whether he sees Bell France or Betsy France,” replied the Irishman, impudently. “No thanks to you aither for givin’ me the chance. Sure it’s the likes o’ you that bring war into disgrace intirely; goin’ about the say on yer own hook, plunderin’ right an’ left. It’s pirate, and not privateers, ye should be called, an’ it’s myself that would string ye all at the yard-arm av I only had me own way.”

“Hah!” exclaimed the Frenchman, with a scowl: “but by goot fortune you not have your own vay. Perhaps you change you mind ven you see de inside of French prisons, ha!”

“Perhaps I won’t; ha!” cried Teddy, mimicking his captor. “Go away wid yez, an’ attind to yer own business.”

The Frenchman turned angrily away. In a few seconds more they were alongside the pier, and a gangway was run on board.

The first man who stepped on this gangway was a tall powerful gendarme, with a huge cocked hat, and a long cavalry sabre, the steel scabbard of which clattered magnificently as he stalked along. Now it chanced that this dignified official slipped his foot on the gangway, and, to the horror of all observers, fell into the water.

Impulsiveness was a part of Teddy Maroon’s enthusiastic nature. He happened to be gazing in admiration at the gendarme when he fell. In another moment he had plunged overboard after him, caught him by the collar, and held him up.

The gendarme could not swim. In the first agony of fear he threw about his huge limbs, and almost drowned his rescuer.

“Be aisy, won’t ’ee!” shouted Ted, holding him at arm’s length, and striving to keep out of his grasp. At the same time he dealt him a hearty cuff on the ear.

The words and the action appeared to have a sedative effect on the gendarme, who at once became passive, and in a few minutes the rescuer and the rescued stood dripping on the schooner’s deck.

“Thank ’ee, my friend,” said the gendarme in English, extending his hand.

“Och, ye’re an Irishman!” exclaimed Teddy eagerly, as he grasped the offered hand. “But sure,” he added, in an altered tone, dropping the hand and glancing at the man’s uniform, “ye must be a poor-spirited craitur to forsake yer native land an’ become a mounseer.”

“Ireland is not my native land, and I am not an Irishman,” said the gendarme, with a smile. “My mother was Irish, but my father was French, and I was born in Paris. It is true that I spent many years in Ireland among my mother’s relations, so that I speak your language, but I am more French than Irish.”

“Humph! more’s the pity,” said Teddy. “If there was but wan drop o’ me blood Irish an’ all the rest o’ me French, I’d claim to be an Irishman. If I’d known what ye was I’d have let ye sink, I would. Go along: I don’t think much of yez.”

“Perhaps not,” replied the gendarme, twirling his long moustache with a good-humoured smile; “nevertheless I think a good deal of you, my fine fellow. Farewell, I shall see you again.”

“Ye needn’t trouble yerself,” replied Teddy, flinging off, testily.

It was quite evident that the unfortunate Irishman found it hard to get reconciled to his fate. He could scarcely be civil to his mates in misfortune, and felt a strong disposition to wrench the sword from his captor’s hand, cut off his moustached head, and then, in the language of desperate heroes of romance, “sell his life dearly.” He refrained, however, and was soon after marched along with his mates to the stronghold of the port, at the door of which the French commander handed them over to the jailor, wishing Teddy all health and happiness, with a broad grin, as he bid him farewell.

Our unfortunates crossed a stone court with walls that appeared to rise into the clouds; then they traversed a dark stone passage, at the end of which stood an open door with a small stone cell beyond. Into this they were desired to walk, and as several bayonet points glittered in the passage behind them, they felt constrained to obey. Then locks were turned, and bars were drawn, and bolts were shot. The heavy heels of the jailer and guard were heard retiring. More locks and bars and bolts were turned and drawn and shot at the farther end of the stone passage, after which all remained still as the grave.

“Och hone!” groaned Teddy, looking round at his companions, as he sat on a stone seat, the picture of despair: “To be kilt is a trifle; to fight is a pleasure; to be hanged is only a little trying to the narves. But to be shut up in a stone box in a furrin land—”

Words failed him here, but another groan told eloquently of the bitterness of the spirit within.

“We must just try to be as cheery as we can, mates,” said John Potter. “The Lord can deliver us out o’ worse trouble than this if He sees fit.”

“Oh, it’s all very well for you to talk like that,” growled Isaac Dorkin, “but I don’t believe the Almighty is goin’ to pull down stone walls and iron gates to set us free, an’ you know that we haven’t a friend in all France to help us.”

“I don’t know that, Isaac. It certainly seems very unlikely that any one should start up to befriend us here, but with God all things are possible. At the worst, I know that if we are to remain here, it’s His will that we should.”

“Humph! I wish ye much comfort o’ the thought: it doesn’t give much to me,” remarked Stobbs.

Here, Mr Franks, who had hitherto sat in sad silence, brightened up, and said, “Well, well, lads, don’t let us make things worse by disputing. Surely each man is entitled to draw comfort from any source he chooses. For my part, I agree with John Potter, in this at all events,—that we should try to be as cheery as we can, and make the best of it.”

“Hear, hear!” exclaimed the others. Acting on this advice, they soon began to feel a little less miserable. They had straw to sleep on, and were allowed very poor fare; but there was a sufficiency of it. The first night passed, and the second day; after which another fit of despair seized some of the party. Then John Potter managed to cheer them up a bit, and as he never went about without a small Testament in his pocket, he was able to lighten the time by reading portions of it aloud. After that they took to relating their “lives and adventures” to each other, and then the inventive spirits among them took to “spinning long-winded yarns.” Thus a couple of weeks passed away, during which these unfortunate prisoners of war went through every stage of feeling between hope and despair over and over again.

During one of his despairing moods, Teddy Maroon declared that he had now given up all hope, and that the first chance he got, he would kill himself, for he was quite certain that nobody would ever be able to find out where they were, much less “get them out of that fig.”

But Teddy was wrong, as the sequel will show.

Let us leap now, good reader, to the Tuileries,—into the apartments of Louis XIV. From a prison to a palace is an unusual leap, no doubt, though the reverse is by no means uncommon! The old King is pacing his chamber in earnest thought, addressing an occasional remark to his private Secretary. The subject that occupies him is the war, and the name of England is frequently on his lips. The Secretary begs leave to bring a particular letter under the notice of the King. The Secretary speaks in French, of course, but there is a peculiarly rich tone and emphasis in his voice which a son of the Green Isle would unhesitatingly pronounce to be “the brogue.”

“Read it,” says the King hurriedly: “but first tell me, who writes?”

“A gendarme, sire: a poor relation of mine.”

“Ha: an Irishman?”

“No, sire: but his mother was Irish.”

“Well, read,” says the King.

The Secretary reads: “Dear Terrence, will you do me the favour to bring a matter before the King? The commander of a French privateer has done an act worthy of a buccaneer: he has attacked the men who were re-building the famous Eddystone lighthouse, and carried them prisoners of war into this port. I would not trouble you or the King about this, did I not know his Majesty too well to believe him capable of countenancing such a deed.”

“What!” exclaims the King, turning abruptly, with a flush of anger on his countenance, “the Eddystone lighthouse, which so stands as to be of equal service to all nations having occasion to navigate the channel?”

“The same, sire; and the officer who has done this expects to be rewarded.”

“Ha: he shall not be disappointed; he shall have his reward,” exclaims the King. “Let him be placed in the prison where the English men now lie, to remain there during our pleasure; and set the builders of the Eddystone free. Let them have gifts, and all honourable treatment, to repay them for their temporary distress, and send them home, without delay, in the same vessel which brought them hither. We are indeed at war with England, but not with mankind!”