SIGNALS OF DISTRESS--OUT IN THE STORM.
"And the coming wind did roar more loud,
And the sails did sigh like sedge;
And the rain poured down from one black cloud,
The moon was at its edge.
The thick black cloud was cleft, and still
The moon was at its side;
Like water shot from some high crag,
The lightning fell with never a jag,
A river steep and wide."
_Coleridge._
Wild weather on land! wild weather at sea! fear and trembling, and
earnest prayers, in many a quiet home, for loved ones at sea, who must
be within reach of the gale that hurries so fiercely by.
How impressive it is to lie awake listening to the storm--to hear the
rush of the wind, now moaning in the chimney, now thundering at the
windows against which the rain beats and hurtles; to fancy or to feel
that the house trembles shaken in the rude power of the blast, or, if
near the sea-shore, to hear the waves breaking on the beach, a
half-suppressed tumultuous uproar, like the faintly heard riot of a
distant angry mob. To get farther to sea in one's thoughts, and to
picture a noble ship with close-reefed topsails running before the gale,
or beating away from the dread neighbourhood of dangerous sands or
coast, while the pilot, anxious and watchful, and the crew, eager and
alert, peer through the darkness to catch the welcome guidance of some
bright warning light, or are on the watch to detect the fainter light of
some ship that is steering her course perilously near; the passengers
all the time wistful and anxious, asking many questions, and receiving
cheering answers, but given with that unreality of tone that makes the
hearer fear the sound, more than he can believe the sense; or to imagine
a vessel at anchor, the cables swinging out at their full length, the
sails all closely furled, but the gale beating against the hull, and
masts, and yards, with a power that threatens to sweep the ship and her
living freight to a speedy destruction; to picture the ship lifting, and
pitching, and surging, in a cloud of spray, the hungry waves leaping at
it, as if to devour it before its time, the anchors yielding foot by
foot, or the cable giving, and the hungry sands waiting in a terrible
rage of foam and sea under the lee.
In the morning to look from tall cliffs upon a golden beach, upon the
fretting surf that lines it, upon the sea bright with sunshine, smooth
browed, but like a great giant rolling his huge limbs in uneasy sleep;
quick with great billows rising and falling in restless heavy long lines
of waves. Then to look at the distant Goodwin Sands, and to watch the
white leaping surf, fangs in the jaws of death, still gnashing and
mumbling after their midnight meal, in which they ravened perhaps on a
goodly ship, and mangled many brave sailors, and weeping women and
trembling wondering children; unless their victims were snatched from
their grasp by the brave Storm Warriors who rush into their midst in the
very fiercest of their strife, and wrestle with them for their prey.
Such pictures are often suggested by the midnight gale, and such
after-scenes are witnessed in the morning's calm at Ramsgate, as at many
another spot on the bold coast of our sea-girt island home, where each
howling wind that rushes on breathes the trumpet-blast that calls to the
struggle of life and death.
It was a tempestuous wintry day early in December, a few years ago, when
the scenes occurred which the following will be an attempt to describe:
During the whole of the day the wind has been blowing hard from the
west-north-west. The weather has been very unsettled for some little
time, squally with the cloud-scud low, and swiftly flying past; now the
weather is becoming worse, and the blasts are more frequent and more
fierce, rapidly growing into a heavy gale. The Fitzroy's signal hangs
ominously from the flag-staff, giving a warning of the dangerous winds
which may be expected.
The Downs anchorage is crowded with shipping, so much so, that the
lights of the vessels anchored there throw a glare upon the darkness of
the night, such as is shed by the lights of a populous town.
Every now and then a vessel leaves the fleet, and, running before the
gale, seeks surer refuge; or perhaps a homeward-bound ship swiftly
threads her way through the crowd of vessels, the crew half rejoicing in
the gale, which at every blast bears them nearer home.
On Ramsgate Pier rumours of disasters at sea, bring the watchful lookers
on together in anxious gossip; many partially disabled vessels have
already found refuge in the harbour, and now a schooner is brought in by
some Broadstairs boatmen. When they boarded her in answer to her signals
of distress, they found that the mate with a woman and child alone
remained on board. The schooner had been in collision during the
previous night, and whether the rest of her crew had escaped to the
other vessel, or had been lost overboard, was left a matter of dread
uncertainty.
As it is a stirring sight to see the vessels making through the heavy
seas for the harbour, so it is an exciting, and withal a gallant, sight
to watch the luggers heavily freighted with anchors and chains, to
supply vessels that have slipped their cables, bearing away bravely in
all the rush of the storm, upon their errands of daring enterprise.
The afternoon creeps on; it is half-past three, a puff of smoke is seen
coming from the Gull light-ship, but the wind is too strong, and in the
wrong direction, for the report of the gun to be heard. The signal is,
however, at once accepted, and soon the steamer and the life-boat are
away in the storm.
They make for the light-vessel to learn for what, and in which direction
their services are required. A squall of thick rain hides the Downs and
the south end of the Goodwin Sands from view. Suddenly the squall
clears away, passing rapidly to windward, and now from the pier and
cliff, although not yet from the lower level of the steamer's deck, or
from the life-boat, the vessel that is in danger is seen.
A large light schooner has driven from her anchorage, and is now
dragging perilously near the Goodwin Sands. She is too near, with the
wind as it is, to have any chance of escaping by slipping her cable and
sailing clear of the Sands; she is driving fast, and the large flag,
that she has hoisted as a signal of distress, can be very distinctly
seen from the cliff. The watchers on shore, by taking her bearings, see
how rapidly she is dragging her anchors and nearing her doom; and the
nature of the tremendous sea she is in is also very evident.
She is light, buoyant, and lifts to every wave; she looks like a gallant
charger taking a succession of desperate leaps, as first her bow is
thrown high in the air, and she then rides for a moment high upon the
top of the wave, and then again her stern is thrown high, and her bow is
almost buried as the huge short wave passes under her. Repeatedly those
who are watching her from the shore, have their fears aroused that her
straining cables have at last parted, and that she is in full career for
the waiting deadly Sands. It is an alarming sight. The lookers-on from
the cliff only take their eyes off her to look occasionally at the
steamer and life-boat as they are making their way to her rescue.
The steamer rolls and plunges on--nothing daunted, nothing disturbed,
by all the buffeting she gets; the life-boat rises like a cork to every
wave, and plunges through the crests as she feels the drag of the
steamer, while the foam spreads out on either side like a fan, and the
scud and spray fly over her in a cloud.
The steamer and life-boat make their way to the Gull Lightship, where
they learn that a schooner has been seen in distress, bearing
south-south-west, supposed to be on the South Sand Head.
On through the giant seas and driving surf, in the very teeth of the
gale, they make gallant way, and are about to take up a position from
which the life-boat can dash in through the broken water to the rescue
of the crew.
A large Deal lugger is beating up to windward from the neighbourhood of
the Sands, they speak her, and learn that she has rescued the crew of
the schooner.
The lugger, one of the finest of all the noble boats that sail from Deal
beach, had, some time before the schooner got into such a dangerous
position, sheered alongside her, at no slight risk, and as she shot by,
the crew had jumped into her, forgetting in their hurry and excitement
the flag of distress which they had left flying high, pleading still,
and not in vain, for help that was no longer needed. Nothing can be done
for the schooner; driving fast, she soon begins to thump on the Sands;
darkness settles down upon her, the fierce waves have her for their
prey, and in the morning not one remaining fragment of her is to be
seen; she has been torn utterly to pieces, and what the tide has not
swept away, the Sands have completely buried.
The steamer and life-boat, when they leave the schooner to her fate,
make for a barque, which, with main and mizen masts cut away, seems,
although she is in great danger, to have a chance of weathering the
storm.
The wind is too heavy, and the tide too strong, for the steamer to be
able to tow her into a safer position; her crew have already made their
escape, and she is left in turn, but not, as it proves, to meet the fate
of the schooner, for she successfully rides out the gale.
A further cruise round the Sands, to see if their services are required
by any distressed vessel, and they make again for Ramsgate, which they
reach about half-past six. The steamer and life-boat are moored, ready
for any fresh call which may be made for their services, the probability
of which seems very great, and all the men remain on the alert.
In such a storm anxious watchers are on the look-out at all the stations
round the coast. Boatmen under the protection of boat-houses, or boats,
or grouped together at friendly corners, are keeping a steadfast watch
upon the seas. One or two every now and then take a few strides into the
open for a wider range of view, and then back again to cover. The
coastguard-men, sheltered in nooks of the cliff, or behind rocks, or
breasting the storm on the drear Sands as they walk their solitary beat,
peer out into the darkness watching for those signals from the sea--the
gun flash, or the gleam of the rocket, which while they speak hope to
the imperilled, tell to those on shore of lives in danger--of those who
must speedily be rescued, or must die.
Or the watchers listen for the dull throb of the signal gun, the sign of
wild warfare, and struggles for life mid the charges and conflicts of
breaking waves and dashing seas, a signal that the waiting Storm
Warriors instantly accept, and rush into the contest to snatch their
dying brethren from the arms of the enemy that is too strong for them.
Sometimes the telegraph wires speed the message of distress along the
coast, as happened one stormy New Year's Eve, when a ship was seen off
Deal beach in almost a blaze of light, burning tar-barrels, and firing
rockets to tell of her distress; an intervening fog seemed to prevent
the look-out on board the light-vessel seeing her, and some boatmen on
Deal beach, who could not possibly get their boats off the sands in the
face of the strong gale blowing straight on shore, put their halfpence
together to pay for a telegraph message--the messages were dearer then
than they are now--and sent their swiftest runner to telegraph to
Ramsgate; and after all, there was some unfortunate mistake, and fatal
delay, and a telegram at last sent for further particulars, which was
answered with a demand for urgent speed, and away then flew steamer and
life-boat, and they neared the wreck, and rounded to, to send the
life-boat in, when some of the boatmen thought they heard an agonising
shriek, and others thought it was only the wail of the storm; but they
looked, and the great green seas swept over the wreck, turned her right
over, and she was seen no more, and twenty-eight lives went to their
account. A piteous New Year's tale it was that was told next morning; a
boat's crew got away from the ship soon after she struck, and battling
through the broken seas, made way before the wind to Dover, and they
told the story, that the lost vessel had picked up a shipwrecked crew,
who were thus a second time wrecked, and at the second time lost; and
that more of the crew would have come away in the boat, and in other
boats, but it was a great risk, and there was a Deal pilot on board who
pointed out the danger; and said that the Ramsgate life-boat was certain
to be out to their rescue, they might be sure of her; and so they stayed
and lighted tar-barrel after tar-barrel, and fired rocket after rocket;
and when the sea washed their signal fires out, and swept the decks,
they took to the rigging, and waited for the life-boat; and as they
waited the poor Deal pilot could watch the light on the beach, by the
house where slept his wife and eight children, who were to call him
husband--father--no more.
The life-boat men scarcely liked to speak of the agony and
disappointment it was to them to be thus just too late; no fault of
theirs, poor fellows; they would, if they could, have sooner swum to the
wreck, if that were of any use, than have been too late to save the poor
perishing lives.
There was an official inquiry into the matter made by the authorities in
London, and it was decided that no one was to blame; that it was one of
those unfortunate occurrences which never would have happened, like
many others, if people could only be as wise before an event as they are
after, and which no one could regret more than those who were in any way
the unfortunate, and of course most unintentional, agents of bringing it
about.
And now to proceed with the adventures of the life-boat on the night in
question.
About a quarter past eight in the evening, the harbour-master of
Ramsgate receives a telegram. It tells its tale in its own short way,
and the harbour-master learns that round the stormy North Foreland, some
miles to westward of Margate, the _Prince's_ light-ship is firing guns
and rockets, and that the _Tongue_ light-ship is repeating the signals.
The vigilant coastguard-man who had first noticed the signals hurried to
Margate with the tidings; but there the fine life-boats are powerless to
help. The wind is blowing a hurricane from west-north-west, and drives
such a tremendous sea upon the shore that no boat whatever could
possibly get off and work its way out to sea; it would merely be rolled
back upon the beach in the attempt.
The coastguard at Margate at once saw how impossible it would be to
render the required aid from Margate, and hastened to send a telegram to
Ramsgate calling for help. The harbour-master there receives it, and now
hurried action at once takes the place of wistful anxious waiting.
For hours the steamer and life-boat have quietly rested in the sheltered
harbour, lifting gently to the small waves that have been playing
against their sides. The men for hours have been gazing out into the
darkness, watching for signals, and listening to the roar of the gale,
and to the murmur and tumult of the tumbling waves. The expected
challenge comes. Ready! all ready! is the answer, and they rush to
action at once, without waiting for one moment to consider whether a
challenge to such strife should, or should not, be accepted.
They know the hardships and peril of the work upon which they are
called; but they know the other side of the question also; and it would
make many comparatively useless lives as noble as are the lives of many
of these poor boatmen, if all would only consider the result of good
work, as well as the labour, and forget the trouble, or personal
hardships of the labour, in the keen hope to realize the desired result.
And these boatmen, as they have been crouching down under shelter of the
pier wall, watching the progress of the storm, have had many a memory,
and many a vision, to occupy their thoughts and stir their anxious
courage; memories of brave fellows plucked from the very grasp of death;
and visions of that which they well know how to picture; brother sailors
perhaps clinging to the spars of a shattered wreck, while the wild waves
leap around and only a few fragments of creaking yielding timber shield
the poor men from their fury, and from death.
They know the power of the waves to tear the strongest ships to pieces
in a few hours, and are ready, all ready, for any stern deadly wrestle
with the fury of the storm, for the rescue of those who stand in such
dread need of help.
The order is given, and the usual rush to the life-boat takes place.
The regular Ramsgate boatmen have not, this time, the race for the boat
all to themselves; the _Adder_ revenue-cutter is in the harbour, and two
of her men get into the life-boat, and with ten boatmen and the
coxswain, the crew is made up. The men on board the steam-tug _Aid_ are
prompt as usual, and within half-an-hour from the giving of the order
the steamer and life-boat are out to the rescue, again fighting their
way through broken seas, and breasting the full fury of the gale.
Imagine the picture that was shrouded in the thick darkness of that wild
night.
The steamer is strong and powerfully built, and has never failed in any
of her struggles with the storm, but has in every part worked true and
well; and this when failure in crank, rod, or rivet, might have been
death to many lives. Seek to imagine this brave little steamer at her
perilous work. Thrown up and down like a plaything by the mighty sea,
now half buried in the wash of surf, or poised for a moment on the broad
crest of a huge wave, and again shooting bows under into the trough,
rolling and pitching and staggering in the storm, but still battling on
true to her purpose. Still onward and onward she goes; the beat of the
paddles, the roar of the steam-pipe, the throb of the engines, mingling
with the hoarse blast of the gale, and the lash and hiss of the surf
and fleeting spray; while to the watchers on shore, her light flitting
here and there as she rolls and tosses, alone tell of her progress.
The life-boat is almost burrowing her way through the spray and foam.
Each man bends low on his seat, and holds fast by thwart or gunwale. The
wind has changed, and the boat is being towed in the face of the gale
and sea, and does not ride over the waves as easily as she would if she
were under canvas only, but is dragged on and on, plunging through the
crests of the seas. "It was just like as if a fire-engine was playing
upon my back, not in a steady stream, but with a great burst of water at
every pump," said one of the men whose station was in the bow.
It is a wild sea; the waves and surf that break against the bows of the
big ships that are at anchor in the Downs send their spray flying high,
almost to the topmast heads; so it may well be imagined how the heavy
seas nearly smother the steamer and life-boat as they breast all their
force, heading against the gale. Now the waves rush over the bow, and
again a cross wave catches the side of the boat, throws her almost on
her side, sweeps bodily over her; while she pitches and rolls with a
motion quick as that of a plunging horse. But the men know her well, and
trust her thoroughly; and with a firm hold and stout hearts they
resolutely journey onwards.
Now, the wind veers a little, and the high cliffs somewhat break its
force, and the men feel less the power of the gale; but still the wind
is almost directly ahead, and the ebb tide is running against them with
great strength. Every yard of advance is won by a struggle with the
seas, as the steamer _Aid_ pants and beats her way onward. But still it
is won, and all hands are content. At last they get round the North
Foreland, and begin to feel that they are nearing the scene of action.
The rain ceases, and the clouds of flying scud lift a little. It is
still pitch dark, but free from mist and rain--clear dark, as they call
it.
The men see the Margate Pier, and the town lights, which shine out
steadily and clearly; and it seems to them a strange contrast as they
look from their rough post of danger, action, and hardship, upon the
town resting in quiet peace, unconscious of the storm.
They make for the _Tongue_ light-ship, which is stationed about nine
miles from Margate. Every five minutes the darkness of the horizon is
broken by the flash of a rocket which is thrown up by the light-ship. It
goes flying up against the gale, and bursting, gives a moment's gleam as
its stars caught by the fierce wind, pass away, floating in a short
stream of light to leeward. The steamer's crew make for the light-ship,
looking anxiously the while in all directions for any signal which may
guide them more directly to the vessel in distress; but they see none,
and so speed on towards the light-ship.
As the steamer passes her on the lee side, as slowly and as near as
possible, the coxswain is told that signals had been seen from the high
part of the Shingle sand bank, supposed to be from a large vessel in
distress.
The life-boat in turn sheers near the light-vessel in passing, and
hears the same report.
Again they urge their way, struggling onward in the gale; but they can
see no sign of a vessel, and no vestige of a wreck.
Perilous and anxious is the work as they feel their way along the very
edge of the dangerous Sands; the roar of the gale is too great for any
cries of distress to be heard. The hull of the vessel may be overrun
with the seas, and the crew, clinging to the masts or rigging, be
utterly unable to give any signals by firing guns or rockets, or by
showing lights; and the night is so dark, that from the life-boat they
can only see a few yards ahead. The men are most anxiously on the
look-out; each time that the boat rises high upon a sea, they try their
utmost to peer through the darkness by which they are surrounded. No!
the breakers gleam white, and the steamer's light is tossing to and fro
with every pitch and roll of the vessel; but nothing more can they make
out. And the anxiety of the men, both on board the steamer and the
life-boat, becomes greater and greater; they do not like to leave the
neighbourhood of the Sands without thoroughly examining it, fearing that
in doing so they may leave behind them, to a despair rendered more
terrible, and to a death rendered more bitter by the false hopes that
had been excited, some poor fellows clinging desperately to a few
fragments of trembling wreck. But still they can see nothing and can
hear nothing of either wreck or crew; either the vessel must have gone
utterly to pieces, or the men on board the _Tongue_ light-ship have
been mistaken in the position of the signals they have seen.
As the men are listening intensely for the faintest signal or cry of
distress, they fancy that they hear the booming of a distant gun, fired
at intervals. Now in a lull in the storm they hear it more distinctly,
and see in the far distance the flashing of a rocket-light. Watching and
listening still, they soon discover that the _Prince's_ and _Girdler_
light-ships are at the same time repeating signals of distress. They
must give up their present search, and hasten to the rescue where such
urgent demands are being made for their help. Their consolation is, that
at all events they can do nothing more in the utter darkness in
searching for the wreck, which they have been already so long looking
for in vain; and before daylight, or soon after, they can probably be
back to resume their search after having, as they hope, done good work
in the interval. At all events, they must be off; and off they go,
leaving, as it proved, a crew of storm-beaten men in as desperate a
position as it was well possible for men to be. They think it best to
make for the _Prince's_ light-ship first, and on arriving there they are
told that a large ship has been seen making signals. They think that she
is on the Girdler Sands, but she may be on the Shingles. Away again in
the darkness they speed on their noble mission. At last they plainly
discern a light on the south part of the Shingles; they make for it, but
only to be again disappointed. It is the light of the steam tug _Friend
of all Nations_, which is lying-to under the lee of the Shingles to be
protected from the rush of the seas. But here they are somewhat repaid
for their efforts, for they learn beyond doubt that the vessel in
distress is a large ship on the Girdler Sands; and more than this, that
another large ship, disabled and in great distress, had been seen
driving down the Deeps, a very narrow channel between the Shingle and
the Long Sand. It must have been signals from this latter vessel which
had been seen by the men on board the _Tongue_ light-ship. They are
unwilling to pass on their way to the Girdler without making an effort
to find the vessel which had been seen in such great distress, and
which, in every probability, had gone ashore somewhere in the
neighbourhood. So they make a cruise in the direction of the Deeps. They
search narrowly, but in vain, and at last hurry away as the Girdler
light-ship still continues to fire heavy guns. At last their long,
persevering, and hazardous search is crowned with success. Upon nearing
the Girdler light-ship, they see on the Sands the flare of blazing
tar-barrels; they know these must be the signals made by the vessel that
has run on the Sands. At once every man forgets all about his many hours
of exposure to wet, cold, and exertion, and wakens up to full strength
and vigour; and all begin at once to make preparations for going into
the rescue.
The steamer is obliged to steer clear of the broken water, not only
because of the danger of grounding, but also because of the wildness of
the seas as they break upon the Sands, as their surf would be quite
sufficient to sweep her decks and swamp her. She skirts the breakers and
tows the life-boat well to windward. The men on board the boat watch
their opportunity; and as soon as they find themselves in the right
position for reaching the wreck, they cast off the tow-rope, and the
wind and sea at once swing the boat's head round, and she plunges into
the midst of the broken water which is rushing over the Sands.
It is a desperate strife of waters, and into the very thick of the fray,
straight as an arrow, the boat rushes. The strength of the gale is so
great, the men only dare to hoist a close-reefed foresail; but swiftly
it bears the boat along. At times the boat is so overrun with broken
water and surf that the men can scarcely breathe. They, however, cling
resolutely to the boat, and again and again she shakes herself free of
water, and the men straighten themselves for a moment, draw a few long
breaths, when again they meet a tangle of broken waves. Down into the
trough of the troubled seas the boat plunges, and over her and her crew
the waves again rush in all directions; and thus she undauntedly works
her way to the wreck.