THE RESCUE OF THE CREW OF THE "DEMERARA," AND THE EMIGRANTS' WELCOME TO
RAMSGATE.
"Eternal Father, strong to save,
Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,
Who bid'st the mighty ocean deep
Its own appointed limits keep;
O hear us when we cry to Thee
For those in peril on the sea."
_Hymn._
"Now we must leave our fatherland,
And wander far o'er ocean's foam;
Broken is kinship's dearest band,
Forsaken stands our ancient home.
"But one will ever with us go,
Through busiest day and stillest night;
The heavens above, the deeps below,
Stand all unveiled before his sight."
_Hymn._
The emigrants describe their perils to the men on board the steamer, and
mention that during the previous evening, while their ship was driving,
and some time before she struck, they saw a large ship in great
distress, and drifting fast in the direction of the Sands, but that as
darkness set in, they lost sight of her.
The crew of the steamer keep a sharp look-out for this vessel, or for
any signs of her. She is evidently the one of which they had already
heard, and of which they had been in search before they discovered the
_Fusilier_.
After some time they discover part of a mast and other wreckage
entangled in the Sands, and can only conclude that the vessel has gone
utterly to pieces, with the loss of all hands, during the night; they
must speed on, and get the poor emigrants cared for on shore with all
possible haste. But for the delay that had been occasioned, the steamer
would have been far on its way to Ramsgate by this time, while it was
yet too dark for them to see any distance; now in the grey light that
increases rapidly they can search for any other signs of wreckage. As
they proceed down the Prince's channel, and get near to the
light-vessel, they see the small remnant of a wreck, which they think
may be the bowsprit and jib-boom of a vessel dismasted and on her beam
ends; they get nearer to her, and find that she is well over on the
north-east side of the Girdler or Shingle Sands. Some of the crew wish
to launch the steam tug's small life-boat, eighteen feet long, and make
in through the surf to the wreck, to which they think they can see some
of the crew clinging; but it is considered too great a risk to take so
small a boat through such a broken sea, and it is agreed that they had
better go back for the large life-boat.
They put back, and passing to leeward of the _Fusilier_, strike the flag
half-mast high, as a sign that the boat is to join them. This she
speedily does, and they together make for the newly-found wreck; as they
approach her, they can see that she is a vessel on her beam ends, with
only her foremast standing. The life-boat makes in for her; the men
wonder greatly that the vessel has held together so long, for she is
broken and torn almost to pieces; the copper is peeled off her bottom,
the timbers are started, rent, and twisted; the planking is wrenched
off, almost all the cargo is washed out of the shattered hull, and here,
and there, the light is to be seen through her bottom; there remains now
little more than the skeleton of the ship that a few hours before, taut
and trim, had buoyantly bounded over the seas; and where was her gallant
crew that had so bravely sailed her then? The foremast, feebly held in
position by a remnant of the deck, lies stretched a few feet above the
water. The crew and pilot have been lashed to it for many hours, and
have, for that time, seemed to be trembling over a fearful and yawning
grave; the heavy waves foam up and beat against the hull, and the doomed
ship is, bit by bit, being torn further to pieces. The crew, as they
cling on, hear the timbers creaking and snapping; the deck was blown up
as the water covered it, by the force of the confined air, and its
fragments have been swept away in the swift tide.
The heavy waves make a greater and greater breach over the ship; at
times the ship lifts a little from the mere force of the blows given by
the tremendous seas; at any moment the foremast may break off short,
and the wreck be rolled right over. The mast quivers at every shake and
heave of the wreck; the fierce tide rushes five feet beneath where the
trembling sailors cling, over whom the waves are continually breaking.
An hour passes, and the men are to their wonder still spared; another
and another hour, but they have no means of giving any signals of
distress, and there seems no room whatever for hope. How can there be?
they ask each other. Suddenly they make out a steamer's lights in the
distance, and watch them with a wistful curiosity; to their astonishment
the steamer seems to make directly for them, and then to cruise
backwards and forwards within a few hundred feet of them.
A few of the trembling sailors shout out once or twice, but the rest
smile grimly at the idea of any voice being heard, even a few yards off,
in the roar of such a gale.
They watch the steamer's lights in a very agony of suspense, but without
any hope that they themselves can be discovered in the darkness.
They see a smaller light some distance astern of the steamer, and
imagine it to be that of a life-boat. As they hopelessly watch the
movement of the vessels, they hear the dull throb of heavy guns from the
distant light-ships. They see the faint flashes of light from the
rockets: they know that these signals are calling to the steamer and
life-boat to speed on elsewhere, to the rescue of other drowning ones;
yes, the steamer, in answer to these signals, is leaving them, and
abandoning her vain search, and with a deepening despair they watch her
lights grow fainter and fainter, and at last disappear in the distance.
So they are left alone in their desolation, while the wild winds roar
and the hungry waves rage around them.
The moon goes down, the darkness deepens, the gale rushes by more
furiously than ever; then comes a slight lull, and a faint light streaks
the horizon. They tighten their grasp upon the trembling mast and torn
rigging, and speak a few words of hope.
They may yet witness another sun-rise; for in the dull grey light of the
early dawn they can see faintly a steamer in the distance. She is
approaching, but her course will hardly bring her near enough to
discover them, lying as they are up on one torn mast only just out of
the water. How intensely they watch her! and many an earnest beseeching
prayer is uplifted, and from some hearts that were withal not much
accustomed to prayer. Eagerly! eagerly! they watch her! How some feebly
speak words of hope, while others will not be aroused out of their
despair! Thank God! she changes her course, and makes in directly for
the Sands, upon the edge of which their frail wreck rests. They may all
begin to hope again, and joy comes in upon them like a flood. They shout
aloud, and wave a rag of canvas, the only means of signalling that is
left to them. The steamer sees them, she dips her flag as a signal that
they are seen; and then, to the unspeakable horror of the poor men,
slowly turns round, and steams away full speed in the direction from
which she came. An agony of fear again comes over the poor fellows;
they feel that they cannot be altogether deserted. Upon reflection,
they see that no ordinary boat could live through the surf which
separates them from the steamer; and the steamer would only have been
herself wrecked if she had come any nearer the Sands. She must have gone
for a life-boat. How long will she be away? They shudder as the creaking
mast trembles beneath them; and look with heart dread at the yawning
gulf of wild waters which gapes a few feet below; and they cannot but
have a dismal fear that the steamer on her return with assistance, may
find no vestige left either of them, or of the remnant of wreck to which
they cling.
A short time, which however seems long indeed to them in their great
suspense, and they again see the steamer, and soon they can make out, to
their great joy, that she has the life-boat in tow. Still the flying
surf beats upon them, and drives them, with its sheer weight, still
closer to the mast; still the water rages around, while they cling with
all desperate energy to the quivering shrouds; they are cold, and
drenched, and exhausted, but they are full of hope; their hearts are
lightened, their strength seems to return, the long hours during which
they have seemed hopelessly face to face with death are passed, for the
life-boat is near, and her gallant crew are speeding to their rescue.
The life-boat comes swiftly on, running before the still heavy gale; now
rising like a cork to the mounting seas, or plunging boldly through the
surf and broken water. Her men forget the long night-struggle of
fatigue and danger through which they have passed; much noble,
self-denying, and dangerous work have they done, but they have still
noble work to do--more lives to save, by the help of God--and with cool
determination they cheerfully proceed to their new labours.
They find the water more and more broken as they near the ship; the
waves are flying high over the lost vessel; the ebb-tide is running
strongly. From the breaking seas, and from the position of the wreck,
now on her broadside with her keel to windward, they cannot anchor on
the windward side and let the boat drop gradually in upon the wreck,
their only chance is to run with the wind abeam right in upon the
fore-rigging. It is true that there is considerable danger in this, but
at such times the life-boat men cannot stop to calculate danger, and
must be ready oftentimes to risk their own lives in their attempts to
save the lives of others. They, therefore, charge in straight amid the
floating wreckage, and the boat hits hard upon the iron windlass, which
is still hanging to the deck of the vessel.
A rope is thrown round the fore-rigging, and the group of exhausted
sailors shout with joy as they greet the glad friendly faces of the
life-boat men coming in upon them out of the storm of desolation that
rages around. The crew, sixteen in number, including the pilot and a boy
of about eleven years of age, are to the last extent exhausted and
feeble, and slowly drop one by one from the mast into the boat, and
leave to its fate the last storm-torn fragment of the _Demerara_, which
has been for so many hours their only hope.
"Oars out, and pull hard; let us get clear of all this wreckage before
we have a hole knocked in the boat's bottom," and every boatman strains
his hardest; soon they are clear; now a moment's delay ere they hoist
the sail, and a great shaking of hands all round, and warm greetings,
and heartfelt thanks from the saved ones, and the boat's sail is again
hoisted, and away they make through the surf.
It is now nearly ten o'clock in the morning; they soon reach the
steamer, which is waiting to leeward. The emigrants have been watching
the movements of the boat with the keenest interest; their feelings of
sympathy are moved to their very depths, by the fact of their having
passed so lately through similar scenes of danger and rescue.
They crowd the deck, and shout after shout greets the boat; the women
cheer at the top of their voices, and welcome, with outstretched arms,
alike the rescued and the rescuers.
One warm-hearted Irishwoman seizes the coxswain's hands in both hers,
and shakes them with might and main, sobbing out, as the tears roll down
her cheeks, "I'll pray the Holy Father for you the longest day that I
live."
The steamer is literally crowded with rescued people; the cabins are
given up to the women and children, and the poor people half forget
their present misery in great thankfulness for their safety; they are
wet and cold, and trembling with excitement and with the effects of
their long hours of fear and exposure; the cabin is small and crowded to
the extreme; the steamer rolls and pitches tremendously, as she makes
her way through the cross seas which still run high and broken, though
the height of the tempest is past.
It is no unusual occurrence for a crowd of people to be grouped at the
pier-head, watching with interest for the appearance of one of the many
steamers which, with flags flying in token of goodly freight, and with
gay appearance, as fitly betokens holiday time, makes swiftly for the
harbour; but with a deeper interest than ever is excited by such holiday
scenes is the steamer waited for now.
It is one of those bright, genial winter mornings of which Ramsgate has
so goodly a share. Many persons have been attracted to the pier to take,
on that pleasant promenade, a good instalment of the fresh breeze, and
to watch the sea, bright with sunshine, and the waves glistening and
flashing in their turmoil of unrest.
Intelligence spreads that the steamer and life-boat have been away all
night, and are now every minute expected to round the Point and appear
in sight.
Great is the feeling of gladness, and deep the satisfaction, as the
gallant _Aid_ appears with her flags flying, and flags flying too at the
life-boat's mast-heads, telling the glad tale of successful effort. The
crowd rejoices greatly in the good work done; and as the steamer comes
nearer it is seen that never on a summer's day did steamer bear a fuller
freight of holiday-seekers than does the _Aid_ now bear of those who
have been rescued from deadly peril.
From the pier the crowd look down upon the multitude on board, and feel
that that throng of fellow-beings have been just snatched from death,
and a thrill of wonder and gladness passes through the on-lookers, and
combines with that half formed sense of fear, which a realization of
danger recently escaped either by ourselves, or by others, always gives.
The crowd waves, and shouts, and hurrahs, and gives every sign of glad
welcome and hearty congratulation, and as the steamer sweeps round the
pier-head, the pale upturned faces of one hundred and twenty rescued
men, women, and children, smile back a glad acknowledgment of the
welcome so warmly given. It is a scene almost overpowering in the deep
feeling that it produces. The emigrants land; they toil weakly up the
steps to the pier, all bearing signs of the dangers and hardships
through which they have passed.
Some are barely clothed, some have blankets wrapped round them, and all
are weary and worn and faint with cold and wet and long suspense. There
are aged women among the emigrants; some who had been unwilling to be
left behind when those most dear to them were about to seek their
fortunes abroad; others had been sent for by their friends, and to them
the thoughts of the terrors and trials of a sea-voyage had been overcome
by the longing to see, once again before they died, the faces so long
loved and so much missed; to see perhaps the grand-children upon whom,
although they had never looked, yet they had thought of until they had
become almost part of their daily life. It is piteous to see these aged
women totter from the steamer to the pier.
And young men and young women are of the number; they, crowded in the
race at home, determined to seek in a wider field to make better way.
Here a poor stricken woman looks wistfully upon the white face and
almost closed eyes of the baby in her husband's arms. This is the child
that was so nearly lost overboard as it was thrown into the boat wrapped
up in a blanket; the mother's fears were not realised--the baby speedily
recovered.
It now becomes the glad office of the people of Ramsgate to bestir
themselves on behalf of those suddenly thrown upon their charity.
The agent of the Shipwrecked Fishermen and Mariners' Society at once
takes charge of the sailors. Accommodation is found for the emigrants in
houses near the pier, and a plentiful meal at once supplied; many of the
residents busy themselves most heartily; clothes, dresses, coats, boots,
and all necessary garments are most liberally given; the people are
ready to _spoil_ themselves on behalf of the poor emigrants.
And thus warmed, fed, clothed and consoled by the heartfelt sympathy
that is so evidently and practically manifested, the poor emigrants
recover in a wonderfully short space of time from the state of physical
and nervous exhaustion to which they had been reduced; but they are
never likely to forget the terrors of the night, or the debt of
gratitude they owe to the gallant Ramsgate life-boat men, who so nobly
effected their rescue.
Subscriptions in the meantime have been raised in the town to pay all
expenses, and to put into the hands of the poor emigrants some little
ready money.
One of the shipping agents has telegraphed to the owners of the ship,
and been empowered to provide the emigrants all needed board and
lodging; he does so, and on the next morning forwards them to London. A
crowd of Ramsgate people bid them good-bye at the station, and receive
grateful acknowledgments of the kindness and sympathy that have been
shown, and they from their hearts wish their poor friends God speed.
The emigrants were cared for in London by the owners of the _Fusilier_.
The weather moderating the morning after the wreck, the emigrants'
things were got out of the vessel and sent on to them; and the owners of
the _Fusilier_ soon obtained another ship, in which they forwarded their
passengers, and they had a prosperous voyage to Melbourne.
The _Fusilier_ was ultimately got off the Sands, but no vestige of the
_Demerara_ was ever again seen.