A NIGHT ON THE GOODWIN SANDS.
"God help the poor fellows at sea!"
Far away inland, when tempests blow
Wild through the dark'ning night,
We list to the roar of the winds as they go
On their hurricane steeds to the fight;
For the hosts of the storm-king are gathering fast
Where the white-crested waters flee,
And our heart breathes this prayer, as he rushes past,
On the wings of the northern howling blast,--
"God help the poor fellows at sea!"
_C. T._
"God have mercy upon the poor fellows at sea!" Household words these, in
English homes, however far inland the homes may be; and although near
these homes the sea may have no better representative than a sedge
choked river, or canal, along which slow barges urge a lazy way.
For when the storm-wrack darkens the sky, and gales are abroad, seaward
fly the sympathies of English hearts, and the prayer is uttered, and in
many cases, in this sea-loving island of ours, with very special
reference to some loved and absent sailor. It is those, however, who
live near the sea-shore, and watch the warfare going on in all its
terrible reality, that learn the more truly to realize the fearful
nature of the struggles for life that go on round our coasts; and who
learn as the wild gales rave to find an answer to the murmurings of the
fierce blast, in the prayer, "God have mercy upon the poor fellows at
sea;" and this especially as they welcome ashore, as wrested from death,
some rescued sailor, or mourn over those who have found a sudden grave
almost within call of land.
It is a pretty picture enough from Ramsgate Pier, when fifty or a
hundred sail are in sight within two or three miles of land, and the day
is sunny, and the sea bright, and a good wholesome breeze is bowling
along; but anxious withal, when the clouds are gathering, and the fleet
of vessels are seeking to make the best of their way to find shelter in
the Downs: and a south-westerly gale moans up, and the last of the fleet
are caught by it, and have to anchor in exposed places, and you watch
them riding heavily, making bad weather, the seas every now and then
flying over them. It is winter time, and the weather stormy; day after
day brings into the harbour fresh evidences of the deadly contest that
rages out at sea--vessels towed in disabled, with bulwarks washed away,
masts over the side, bows stove in, or leaky, having been in collision,
touched the ground or been struck by a sea; who at such times can
withhold their interest or sympathy? the veriest landsmen grow excited,
and make daily pilgrimages to the pier, to see how the vessels under
repairs are getting on, or what new disasters have occurred.
But it is at night-time especially that your thoughts take a more
solemn and anxious turn. As you settle down by the fireside for a quiet
evening, you remember the ugly appearance the sky had some two or three
hours before, when you stood watching the scene from the end of the
pier. You felt that mischief was brewing, as the gusts of wind swept by
with increasing force, and you looked out upon a troubled sea that every
minute seemed to grow more white and raging.
The Downs anchorage was full of shipping; a few vessels had parted their
cables, and had to run for it, while the luggers, heavily laden with
chains and anchors, staggered out of the harbour to supply them: other
ships made for the harbour; you almost shuddered as you looked down upon
them from the pier, and saw them in the grasp of the sea, rolling and
plunging, with the waves surging over their bows. Another minute's
battle with the tide, you heard the orders shouted out, you saw the men
rushing to obey them--the pilot steady at the wheel, and you could
scarce forbear a cheer as ship after ship shot by the pier-head and
found refuge in the harbour.
Altogether it was a wild exciting scene, and you cannot shake off the
effect--the wind rushes and moans by, a minute before it was raging over
the sea.
The muffled roaring sound that is heard, is that of the waves breaking
at the foot of the cliff. From the windows can be seen, gleaming out in
the darkness, the bright lights of the Goodwin light-ships, which guard
those fatal sands--sands so fatal, that when the graves give up their
dead, few churchyards will render such an account as theirs, not only
as to the number of the dead, but also that the Sands are a battle-field
which entombs the brave and strong, who go down quick to their grave,
quick from the full tide of life and strength, from the eager stern
deadly contest in which, to the last, all their strong energies were
fully engaged.
Men who, a few hours before, were reckless and merry, anticipating no
danger and ready to laugh at the thought of death; who, if homeward
bound, were full of joy as they seemed almost to stand upon the
threshold of their homes; or by whom, if outward bound, the kisses of
their wives, which seemed still to linger on their cheeks, and the soft
clasping arms of their little ones, which seemed still to hang about
their necks, were only to be forgotten in the few hours of terrible life
struggle with the storm, and then again to be keenly remembered in the
last gasping moment, ere the Goodwin Sands should find them a grave
almost within the shadow of their homes.
There is a sudden report; surely the firing of a gun, a wreck, a vessel
on the Sands--watch, yes, there! A rocket streams up from one of the
light-vessels, and the gun and the rocket five minutes after, form the
signal that calls to the life-boat for assistance. The breakers on the
Sands could be clearly seen from the shore during the day, as they rose
and fell like fitful volumes of white eddying smoke, breaking up the
clear line of the horizon, and tracing the Sands in broken broad leaping
outlines of foam.
Yes! and now, amid those terrible breakers, somewhere out in the
darkness, within five or six miles, near that bright light, there are
twenty, thirty, fifty, you know not how many, of your fellow-creatures,
struggling for their lives.
Ah! listen to the storm blast, with what dread force it rushes by, what
a dirge it seems to moan; and well it may, for if the gale lasts only a
few hours, and there is no rescue, the morning may be bright and fair
and calm, and the sea as smooth as a lake, but nothing of either ship or
crew shall any more be seen.
But, thank God! there will be a rescue! You know that already brave
hearts have determined to attempt it; that strong ready hands are
already at work in cool, quick, preparation; that, almost before you
could urge your way against the tempest down to the head of the pier,
the steamer and life-boat will have fought their way out against the
storm and darkness upon their errand of mercy.
"God have mercy upon the poor fellows at sea; upon the shipwrecked in
their dismal peril; upon the brave Storm Warriors speeding out in danger
and hardship!" this is the prayer that indeed often finds utterance,
when the sleeper is awakened in the dark hours of the night by the
howling of the wind or the boom of the signal gun. And at Ramsgate the
prayer may be uttered fervently indeed by those, who, when they hear the
signal of distress, know that the endangered vessel is experiencing all
the dread dangers of the Goodwin Sands, for the vessels wrecked upon
them have indeed, if the weather is bad, but a poor prospect of ever
sailing the broad seas again.
The Goodwin is a quick-sand, and it is this, as well as the tremendous
sea that beats upon it in heavy weather, that makes it so terribly fatal
to vessels that get stranded on it.
At low tide a portion of the sand is dry, and hard, and firm, and can be
walked on for a distance of about four or five miles; but as the water
again flows over any part of it, that part becomes, as the sailors say,
"all alive," soft and quick, and ready to suck in anything that lodges
upon it. Suppose a vessel to run on with a falling tide, where the sand
shelves, or is steep, the water leaves the bow and the sand there gets
hard; the water still flows under the stern, and the sand there remains
soft a longer time; down the stern sinks lower and lower; the vessel
soon breaks her back, or works herself deeper and deeper by the stern;
as the water rises she fills and works and still sinks deeper in the
sand every roll she gives, until at high tide she is, perhaps,
completely buried, or only her topmasts are seen above water.
Other vessels, if the sea is heavy, begin to beat heavily, and soon
break up.
Lifted up on the swell of a huge wave, as it breaks and flies away in
surf and foam, the vessel thumps down with all its weight upon the
sands, the timbers give and strain, the seams open; she soon ceases, as
she fills with water, to rise upon the wave; great gaps are torn from
the bulwarks; the decks burst open with the air seeking to escape from
the hold, and as the sea rushes over the vessel, each roll she gives
wrenches her more and more; the masts fall over the side; her cargo
floats and washes away, and speedily, even in a few hours, she is in a
torn and shattered condition, completely wrecked and destroyed. The
broken hull is full of water and lurches heavily to and fro with each
wave, rolls and slightly lifts and works, until it has made a deep bed
in the Sands in which it is soon completely buried--so that many vessels
have run upon the Sands in the early night, and scarcely a vestige of
them been seen in the morning.
By way of illustration, let me tell what happened one dark stormy night
some few years back. The harbour steam-tug _Aid_ and the life-boat had
started from Ramsgate early in the day, to try and get to the _Northern
Belle_, a fine American barque, which was ashore not far from Kingsgate;
but the force of the gale and tide was so tremendous, that they could
not make way against it, and were driven back to Ramsgate--there to wait
until the tide turned, or the wind moderated.
About two in the morning, while they were making ready for another
attempt to reach the _Northern Belle_, rockets were fired from one of
the Goodwin light-vessels, showing that some vessel was in distress on
the Sands. They hastened at once to afford assistance, and got to the
edge of the Sands shortly after three in the morning. Up and down they
cruised, but could see no signs of any vessel.
They waited until it was daylight, and then saw the upper portion of the
lower mast of a steamer standing out of the water. They made towards it,
but found no one was left, and no signs of any wreck floating about to
which a human being could cling.
They concluded, that almost immediately upon striking, the vessel must
have broken up, sunk, and been buried in the quick-sand. Poor fellows!
poor fellows! a sharp, sudden death: would that the vessel had held
together a little longer. Away, then, now for the _Northern Belle_.
They had not made much way ahead when the captain of the _Aid_ sees a
large life-buoy floating near. "Ease her," he cries, and the way of the
steamer slackens. "God knows but what that life-buoy may be of use to
some of us." The helmsman steers for it; a sailor makes a hasty dart at
it with a boat-hook, misses it, and starts back appalled from a vision
of staring eyes, and matted hair, and wildly tossed arms. They shout to
the life-boat crew, and they in turn steer for the buoy; the bowman
grasps at it, catches it, but cannot lift it, his cry of horror startles
the whole crew, and some spring to his help; they lift the buoy and
bring to the surface three dead bodies that are tied to it by ropes
round their waists. Slowly and carefully, one by one, the crew lift them
on board, and lay them out under the sail.
The _Violet_, passenger steamer, had left Ostend about eleven the
previous night; at two in the morning she struck on the Goodwin Sands; a
little after three there was no one left on board to answer the signals
of the steam-boat that had come to their rescue, and show their
position; at seven there was nothing to be seen of the steamer, crew, or
passengers, but a portion of one mast, the life-buoy, and the three
pale corpses sleeping their long last sleep under the life-boat sail.
Such are the Goodwin Sands.
It was a storm-ridden November day, the weather was very threatening
throughout; it was blowing hard, with occasional squalls from the
east-north-east, and a heavy sea running. At high tide the sea broke
over the east pier. As the waves beat upon it and dashed over in clouds
of foam, the pier looked from the east cliff like a heavy battery of
guns in full play. The boatmen had been on the look-out all day, but
there had been no signs of their services being required; still, they
hung about the pier until long after dark.
At last they were straggling home, leaving only those on the pier who
had determined to watch during the night, when suddenly some thought
that they saw a flash of light. A few seconds of doubt, and the report
of the gun decided the matter.
At once there was a rush for the life-boat. She was moored in the stream
about thirty yards from the pier. In a few minutes they had unmoored
her, and got her alongside; her crew was already more than made up; some
had put off to her in small boats, others had sprung into her when she
came within a few feet of the pier. She was over-manned, and the two
last in had to turn out.
In the meantime, a rocket had been fired from the light-vessel. Many had
been on the look-out for it, to decide beyond all doubt, which of the
three light-vessels had fired the gun. It proved to have been the North
Sands Head vessel that had signalled. The cork jackets were thrown into
the boat, the oars and ropes overhauled, all things seen to be right,
and the men in their places and ready for their start in a comparatively
few minutes. The crew of the steam-tug _Aid_ had not been less active.
Immediately upon the first signal, her shrill steam-whistle resounded
through the harbour, calling on board those of her crew who were on
shore, and her steam, which is always up, was rapidly got to full power,
and in less than half an hour from the time of the firing of the first
gun she was gallantly steaming out of the harbour with the life-boat in
tow. As she went out a rocket streamed up from the pier head. It was the
answer to the signal of the light vessel, and told that assistance was
on the way.
Off they went, ploughing their way through a heavy cross sea, which
frequently swept completely over the boat.
The tide was running strongly, and the wind right ahead; it was hard
work breasting both sea and wind in the face of such a gale; but they
bravely persevered, and gradually made head-way.
They steered right for the Goodwin, and having approached it, as near as
they dare take the steamer, they worked their way through a heavy sea
along the edge of the Sands, on the look-out for the vessel in distress.
At last they make her out, and, as they approach, find two Broadstairs
luggers riding at anchor outside the Sands.
The Broadstairs men had heard the signal, and the wind and tide being
in their favour, they soon ran down to the neighbourhood of the wreck.
On making to the vessel, the Ramsgate men find her to be a fine-looking
brig, almost high and dry upon the Sands.
Her masts and rigging are all right; the moon, which has broken through
the clouds, shines upon her clean new copper; and, so far, she seems to
have received but little damage.
A grand thing for all hands, for owners, underwriters, crew and boatmen,
the men think, if they can only get her safely off when the tide rises,
and bring her into harbour; a fine vessel and perhaps valuable cargo
saved, and a pretty bit of salvage, which will be well earned and nobody
should grudge, for the boatmen have to live, as well as to save life.
Efforts have already been made for the vessel's relief. The
_Dreadnought_ lugger had brought with her a small twenty-five feet
life-boat. The _Little Dreadnought_, and this boat with five hands, had
succeeded in getting alongside the brig.
The steamer slips the hawser of the Ramsgate boat, and anchors almost
abreast of the vessel, with sixty fathom of chain out.
There is a heavy rolling sea, but much less than there has been, as the
tide has fallen considerably. The life-boat makes in for the brig,
carries on through the surf and breakers, and when within forty fathoms
of the vessel, lowers the sail, throws the anchor overboard, and veers
alongside. The captain and some of the men remain in the boat, to fend
her off from the sides of the vessel, for although it is shallow water,
the tide is running over the Sands like a sluice, and it requires great
care to prevent the boat getting her side stove in. The rest of her crew
climb on board the brig. Her captain had, until then, hoped to get his
vessel off, as the tide rose, without assistance, and had refused the
aid of the Broadstairs men; but now he realizes the danger that his
vessel is in, and very gladly accepts the assistance that is offered.
One of his crew speaks a little English, and through him the captain
employs the crew of the life-boat and the Broadstairs men, to get his
ship off the Sands.