THE EMIGRANT SHIP.
"Borne upon the ocean's foam,
Far from native land and home,
Midnight's curtain, dense with wrath,
Brooding o'er our venturous path.
While the mountain wave is rolling,
And the ship's bell faintly tolling:
Saviour! on the boisterous sea,
Bid us rest secure in Thee."
_L. H. Sigourney._
It is one o'clock in the morning; the moon gleams out through the gulfs
in the dark deep clouds which sweep swiftly across her path.
The men see a large ship hard and fast on the Sands and in a perfect
boil of waters. The tremendous seas surge around her, and as they wildly
leap against her shake her from stem to stern; the spray is flying over
her in great sheets, and mingles with the dark masses of smoke, which
rise in thick clouds from the flaming tar-barrels, while smoke and spray
are swept swiftly to leeward by the force of the wind. The vessel is
making all possible signals of distress; the fierce gale has driven
her, at each lift of the sea, higher and higher upon the Sands, until
she has reached the highest part, and there has grounded fast. As the
tide fell the waves could no longer lift the ship, and let her crash
down upon the sand, else long since she would have been utterly broken
to pieces.
The boat makes in for the ship, the people on board see her, and cries
and cheers of joy greet her approach. The foresail is lowered, the
anchor thrown overboard, and the boat fast sheers in towards the vessel,
which they find to be an emigrant ship crowded with passengers.
The cable goes out by the run, and is too soon exhausted, for with a
jerk it brings the boat up within sixty feet of the vessel. As the poor
emigrants see the boat stop short, their cries for help are frantic, and
sound dismally in the boatmen's ears, as slowly and laboriously they
haul in the cable, and with much trouble get up their anchor, before
making another attempt to get alongside the ship. In the meantime they
answer the cries of the people with shouts to encourage them, and the
moon shining out, the emigrants see that they are not deserted. The sea
is so heavy, and the boat's anchor has taken so firm a hold, that it is
a long time before they can get it up; at last they succeed, and now
sail within fifty fathoms of the vessel, before they heave the anchor
overboard again.
It is necessary if they are to windward of a vessel to let the anchor
down as far as possible from her, that they may get plenty of sea-room
when they haul up to it again, so that when they set sail they may have
space enough to sail clear of the vessel upon which the seas would throw
the boat bodily, if they did not allow themselves room to steer a course
which shall be clear of her.
They let the cable out gradually and drop alongside; they get a hawser
from the bow, and another from the stern of the vessel, and by these
they are enabled to keep the boat moderately well in position, the man
on board hauling and veering on the ropes, and upon the boat's cable
attached to the anchor, so as to keep the boat sufficiently near without
letting her strike against the sides of the vessel, and this, in the
broken seas and rapid tide, is a matter of no small difficulty. The ship
is the _Fusilier_, bound from London to Australia; her captain and pilot
shout out to the men on board the boat, "How many can you carry? we have
more than one hundred souls on board, more than sixty women and
children." And it is with no little dismay that the terrified passengers
look down upon the boat half buried in spray, and wonder how she could
by any possibility be the means of rescuing such a crowd of people. The
men answer from the boat that they have a steamer near, and that they
will take off the passengers and crew in parties to her. Two of the
life-boat men, as the boat lifts on the top of a sea, make a sprint,
catch hold of the man-ropes and climb on board the ship. "Who comes
here?" shouts the captain, as the two boatmen, clad in their oilskin
overalls, with their cork belts on, and pale and half exhausted with
their long battling with wind and sea, jump from the bulwarks amid the
excited passengers who crowd the deck. "Two men from the life-boat," is
the reply, and the passengers throng round them, seize them by the
hands, and some even cling to them with an energy of fear, that requires
considerable force to overcome. The light from the ship's lamps and the
faint moonlight reveal the mass of people on board, and the terrible
state of exhaustion and fear that most of them are in; some are deadly
pale and terror-stricken, their eyes wildly staring, and trembling in
every limb; some are in a fainting condition, and are supported by
friends, who half forget their own terrors in their efforts to console
the sufferers who seem to need it most; the wild shrieks of some of the
poor women pierce the gale, while others of the passengers are quiet and
resigned, but their pale and firm looks and clasped hands suggest the
depth of the emotions that they are at such pains to control. It has
been a long long night of terror and most anxious suspense, and many of
those who have held up bravely during its hours of danger and almost of
despair, now break down at the crisis of the life-boat's arrival. But
the night has not been one of unreasoning fear with all. There are those
on board who, filled with a calm heroism, have by their example of holy
faith exerted great influence for good among their
fellow-passengers--one woman especially, who has been for some time
employed by a religious society in London, visiting among the poor,
proves herself well fitted for scenes of danger and distress. Gathering
many around her, she read and prayed with them; and often as the wild
blasts shook the vessel to the keel, there mingled with the roar of the
storm the strains of hymns, and many poor creatures gathered consolation
and confidence as they were led to look, from their own perfect
helplessness and weakness, to the Almighty arm of a loving God; and
many, who had already learnt to know and to feel those truths which take
the sting from death, were encouraged to draw nearer to place their full
reliance upon the sufficient atonement of Him who has declared, "I am
the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were
dead, yet shall he live: and he that believeth in me shall never die."
Thus there was light in the darkness and songs in the night, and the
voice speaking mid the tempest said, "Peace, be still;" and many felt,
although the warring elements still raged, a calm, which recklessness
may assume, but which faith alone can give at such an hour. This is no
fancy sketch, no effort to drag in a bit of attempted pathos. One
hundred immortal souls were momentarily expecting the summons which
should launch them into eternity; and a most terrible shade in the
tragic picture it would indeed have been, had not any of that throng
been prepared for the summons by the exercise of earnest humble
faith--if by all of them the expected messenger, who seemed to linger
minute by minute upon the threshold, was dreaded only with a despairing
fear, as the King of Terrors, if not any were prepared to welcome him
calmly as the messenger of Peace.
But now the life-boat men are upon the deck--a prospect of safety dawns
upon all--a wild scene of excitement for a moment prevails, and there is
a rush made for the gangway of the ship. Mothers shriek for their
children; husbands strive to push their wives through the throng, and
children are trodden down in the rush.
It is a few moments before the excitement ceases, and the captain can
exercise any authority; but the emigrants, checked for a minute, regain
self-control, fall back from the side of the vessel, and await for
orders.
"How many will the life-boat carry?" the captain asks the life-boat men.
"Between twenty and thirty at each trip," is the answer. "There is a
very nasty dangerous sea and surf over the Sands, if too crowded we may
get some washed out of her."
It is at once decided, as a matter of course, that the women and
children shall be taken first, and the crew prepare to get them into the
boat.
Two sailors are slung in bow-lines over the side of the vessel to help
the women down. The boat ranges to and fro in the rush of the tide, the
men do their utmost to check its sheering, hauling and easing in turn
the hawsers which are passed from the ship to the bow and stern of the
boat, but there is no keeping her for one moment steady; now she veers
right away from the vessel as far as the cable will let her, and again
comes in upon a rush of sea as if to crush herself against the wreck; up
she is lifted on the crest of a wave to almost the level of the ship's
deck, and down again plunges as the wave passes, many feet below, and
leaves a deep and dismal gulf of tumbled sea and foam between her and
the ship.
It is a terrible scene; the crowd of helpless frightened people, and the
comparatively small boat, tossed wildly in the rage of maddened waves,
their one hope of rescue; and it is dangerous and difficult work getting
the people into the boat; it would have been quite difficult and
dangerous enough if all had been active and resolute sailors accustomed
to scenes of danger, but how much more so, when a large proportion of
those to be saved are helpless women, some aged and infirm!
The women who are mothers are called first; one is led to the gangway,
and shrinks back from the scene before her. The boat is lifted up on a
big wave, the men stand on the thwarts with outstretched arms, ready to
catch her if she falls, but the next moment the boat drops into the wild
waste of water many feet below, and is half covered with a rush of foam.
No wonder that the poor woman shrieks with terror, and seeks to struggle
back on to the deck of the vessel; no time for persuasion, she is urged
forcibly over the gangway, and now hangs in mid-air, held by the two men
who are suspended over the side by ropes; as the boat rises again, the
boatmen, who stand ready to catch her, cry, "Let go!" The two men do so,
but the woman, in her terror, clings to one with a frantic grasp, and
the next moment, as the boat falls away from the side of the vessel--oh!
must she not fall into the sea? for the man to whom she is clinging
cannot hold her as she is; one of the active prompt boatmen sees her
danger, makes a spring, grasps her by the heel, drags her from her hold,
catches her in his arms in her fall, and both of them roll over into the
boat, their fall broken by the men who stand ready to catch them. The
half insensible woman is quickly passed to the stern of the boat and
thus she is saved. Now, they are ready again, for all are anxious that
not a moment shall be lost; the number to be rescued, and the time that
must of necessity be occupied in going to and from the steamer, makes
every minute a question of life and death.
Again, up the boat rises; the woman who is being urged forward makes a
half spring, and is got into the boat without much trouble.
The next time the boat rises she does not come well alongside, she
rather falls short and sheers off. A woman is being held over the side
by the two men: "Don't let go, Jack; don't let go!" the woman struggles,
the position of the men is so awkward that they cannot hold her firmly,
and she is struggling from their grasp, while the mad waves leap below,
and if she falls she must at once be swept away by them, and down she
does fall, but at that moment the boat sheers in again, just enough to
enable one of the men to grasp the clothes of the woman and to drag her,
as she falls, on to the side of the boat, and she too is saved.
Again to work; another woman, she is sobbing, and cries out piteously,
"Oh! don't shake me; be careful, don't hurt me!" Poor creature! she is
very near her confinement; down she falls from the hands of the men who
are holding her into the arms of the boatmen, and rolls over into the
bottom of the boat. Some of the husbands on board throw blankets down to
the poor half-dressed women in the boat; the blankets are rolled into
bundles that the wind may not carry them away. Some of the women in the
boat are crying aloud for their children; a passenger rushes frantically
to the gangway, cries, "Here, here!" and thrusts a big bundle into the
hands of one of the sailors, who supposes it to be merely a blanket
which the man intends for his wife in the boat. "Here, Bill, catch!" the
sailor shouts and throws the bundle to a boatman who is standing up in
the boat; he just succeeds in catching it, as it is in the point of
falling into the sea, and is thunderstruck to hear a baby's cry proceed
from it, while there is a shriek from a woman, "My child! my child!" as
she springs forward, and snatches it from him, which tells, indeed, of
the greatness of the danger through which the poor little thing has
passed. In spite of all the boatmen's care and labour the boat every now
and then lurches with a tremendous thump against the ship's side, and
would be stove in but for the massive cork fenders which surround her,
and still she is leaping and tossing about; now high as the main chains
of the ship, now low in the trough of a big sea, the hollow of which is
so deep that it leaves but little water between the bottom of the boat
and the sands; but with all eager haste the men work on, and at last,
after many hair-breadth escapes, and some heavy falls, thirty women and
children are got on board, and the boat is declared to be full.
The boatmen cast off the hawsers from her bow and stern, and begin to
haul in hard upon the cable. They draw the boat up to the anchor with
much difficulty, for as the range of cable gets shorter, the boat jerks
and pitches a great deal in the rush of the short waves, and in the
swing of the tide. The anchor is up at last; the sails are hoisted; the
boat feels her helm, gathers way swiftly, and shoots clear of the ship.
A faint and half-hearted cheer greets them as they pass astern of the
vessel; the remaining passengers watch them with wistful and somewhat
anxious glances as they plunge on through sea and foam. Away the boat
bounds before the fierce gale--on through the flying surf and boiling
sea--on, although the waves leap over her and fill her with their spray.
Buoyantly she rises and shakes herself free, staggering as a cross wave
mid the broken water dashes itself against her bows; tossing her stern
high as she climbs the waves' tall crests, then pitching almost bows
under as the rolling waves pass under her stern; and lurching heavily on
her side as she sinks into the trough of the sea. It is, in spite of
their hope, a dread time for the poor women and children on board her,
with those whom they love as themselves, left, they almost fear, to
perish on the wreck, and while to themselves death at every moment seems
very near; trembling with cold and excitement, they crowd together, and
hold on to the boat, to each other, to anything; it is hard to think of
safety while the boiling seas foam so fiercely around, ready, it seems,
at any moment to overwhelm and bury the boat in their fierce waves. And
the poor women take a more convulsive and firm grasp, as every now and
then the men see a giant cross sea heading towards them, and give a
quick warning cry--"Hold on!" and the sea comes with a clean sweep over
the boat, almost washing them out of her.
The steamer, as has been said, towed the life-boat well to windward,
that she might have a fair wind before which to run in for the wreck,
but as soon as the life-boat left the steamer, away she speeded round to
the other side of the Sands, to leeward of the wreck, that the boat
might again have a fair wind to her as she comes from the wreck, and she
now lays to, awaiting the boat's return.
On she comes; the broken water is now passed; the air is full of scud
and spray, but the cross seas overrun her no longer; she is in deep
water, and the exhausted emigrants begin to raise their heads and look
about them; they could not have endured that continual breaking of the
waves and rush of water over them much longer; how their hearts lift
with joy as they hear the cheering voices of the men, and have the
lights of the steamer pointed out to them, shining bright and near!
Thus, with thirty women and children, their first sheave of the harvest
to be gathered from death, the life-boat men run their boat alongside
the _Aid_. The steamer is put athwart the seas, to form a break-water
for the boat, which comes under her lee; the roll of the steamer, the
pitching of the boat, the wild wind and sea, with the darkness of the
night only faintly broken by the light of the steamer's lanterns, render
it a somewhat difficult matter to get the women out of the boat. As the
boat rises the men lift up a woman and steady her for a moment on the
gunwale, two men on the steamer catch her by the arms as she comes up
within reach, and she is dragged up the side on to the deck. There is
here also no time for ceremony; a moment's hesitation, and the poor
creature might have a limb crushed between the steamer and the boat. As
each woman is thus got on deck, two men half lead half carry her to the
cabin below.
One woman struggles to get back to the boat, crying for her child, the
men do not understand her in the roar of the gale, and she is gently
forced below; again the rolled-up blanket appears, it is handed into the
steamer, and is about to be dropped upon the deck, when half-a-dozen
voices shout out, "There is a baby in the blanket!" and it is carried
down into the cabin, and received by the poor weeping mother with a
great outburst of joy.
"God bless you! God bless you!" she exclaims to the man, and then
blesses and praises God out of the abundant fulness of her heart.
Some of the poor women are completely overcome by the reaction which
takes possession of them now that they find themselves in safety; they
had been comparatively calm and resigned during their hours of hardship
and danger; now they realise the nature of the peril to which they have
been exposed, and in which many whom they love are still placed. Some
throw themselves on the cabin floor, weeping and sobbing; some cling to
the sailors, begging and entreating them to save their husbands and
children who are on board the wreck; while others can do little else
than offer up some simple form of prayer and praise to God.
Instantly that the boat is freed from her passengers she drops astern of
the steamer, and is towed round the sands, to get again into position to
make a second trip to the vessel; and when the straining cable is let
go, and her sail hoisted, she heads round, gathers way, and bounds in
like a greyhound through the troubled sea towards the wreck. A slant of
wind comes and drives her from her course, and she fails in reaching the
ship, and makes for the open water. The steamer speedily picks her up,
tows her into a more favourable position, and the boat soon gets again
alongside the vessel.
There are still on board more women and children than will fill the
boat, and they have to leave some half-a-dozen behind. All the old
difficulties in getting the women down the side of the vessel into the
life-boat are repeated, although the wind has now fallen a little. They
make for the steamer, and as each new comer is handed down into the
cabin, the anxiety of those who are eagerly looking for some loved one
is great indeed, and the meetings again, after so dread a separation,
are naturally very affecting.
For the third time the boat makes to the ship, and now brings away the
remaining passengers. The cabin of the steamer is full of women and
children in every stage of exhaustion and excitement; and they are all
very thankful to God for the full answer vouchsafed to the earnest
prayers of the previous night.
It has taken more than three hours to get the emigrants on board the
steamer; there has been additional delay created by the boat twice
failing to reach the ship, but this very delay, which at the time seemed
so unfortunate, was, under God's providence, the means of saving further
life.
The life-boat again makes for the _Fusilier_ to see what the crew of the
vessel will do, whether they will abandon the vessel at once, or wait to
see the result of a change in the weather which seems to promise. They
get alongside; the gale has gone down very considerably, and the tide
has been falling fast for some time. The ship being light, has not
received so much injury from the thumping on the ground as they
anticipated; and, as she is high up on the sands, the tide has left her
the sooner, so that she has settled down in shallow water, and there is
now, therefore, no immediate danger; although, should the wind get up
with the returning tide, she may be very speedily beaten to pieces.
The captain of the ship thinks that if the wind goes down she may
possibly be got off at the next high tide, as she has not been much
knocked about; but while he is unwilling to abandon the vessel while
there is a chance of her being rescued, he feels the greatness of the
risk, and wishes the life-boat to remain alongside him. It is nearly
day-light; the night is clear, and the wind still blowing very hard,
although the fierceness of the gale seems expended.
The life-boat makes her way to the steamer, and takes orders to be given
at Ramsgate to send luggers with anchors and cables, that every effort
may be made to get the ship off, if the weather continues to moderate.
The boat then returns and lies by the ship, while the steamer, heavily
freighted with rescued emigrants, makes the best of her way towards
Ramsgate.