HARDLY SAVED.
"Much would it please you sometimes to explore
The peaceful dwellings of our borough poor;
To view a sailor just returned from sea,
His wife beside, a child on either knee,
And others crowding near, that none may lose
The smallest portion of the welcome news....
The trembling children look with steadfast eyes,
And panting, sob involuntary sighs;
And sleep awhile his torpid touch delays,
And all is joy, and piety, and praise."
_Crabbe._
The second mate and cabin-boy still remain on board the wreck; they have
watched with the greatest horror and dread the terrible death of the
chief mate, and are themselves almost in absolute despair.
The seas continue to wash over the ship with great violence; the
deck-house, under the protection of which the sailors have been
crouching, begins to break up, and wrench, and tear, and is carried away
piecemeal; the second mate, as the wreck wrestles and writhes beneath
him, under the rush of a huge wave, fears that it is going to break up
altogether, that the ship's last moment is come, and he throws himself
upon the rope by which the life-boat is made fast to the ship, and
begins to make his way along it; it is almost level with the water, for
the wreck has so worked herself down in the Sands that her gunwale is
but four or five feet above the sea; the breakers rush over the poor
fellow as he painfully struggles on; he is again and again buried by the
waves, but he clings on; and half working his way, half carried by the
seas and tide, he reaches the high bow of the life-boat, which is
leaping, and falling, and jerking, tearing the hawser to which the
sailor is clinging, up and down through the seas, as if trying its
utmost violence to jerk him from his hold.
But still he holds on, his hands convulsively clutching the rope as his
body is being swayed and thrown violently about; he is exhausted, and
breathless--he is half drowned; his face is pale as death, his jaw
drops, he seems about to swoon; in another moment he will be gone; he
gives a wild despairing look at the life-boat, and as the waves dash him
against it, makes an effort to grasp it; the man in the bow of the boat
has been watching his every movement, has shuddered with dismay as he
saw the seas wash over him, expecting him to be carried away in the
strong tide. No! he still grasps the rope, and at last is within reach;
in one spring, and with a cry to his mates, "Hold me! hold me!" the
boatman throws himself upon the raised foredeck of the life-boat, and
with his body half stretched over the stem, he grasps the collar of the
sailor; the drowning man throws his arm around the boatman's neck, and
clings to him convulsively, by his weight dragging the man's head down
and burying it in the water; but the brave fellow clings as hard to the
half-dead sailor as the sailor does to him; the seas wash bodily over
them and over the bow of the boat; up and down the boat plunges them
both, but he still holds on; three or four of the boatmen have hold of
his legs, and are doing their utmost to pull him back into the boat, but
they cannot do so, and so the struggle goes on; it is only as the boat
rises on a wave and throws her bow up in the air that the men can
breathe.
Now a shout of horror, and a cry--"Look-out! look out! sheer the boat,
quick! quick! port--port your helm!" For right down upon the bow of the
boat, tossing on the huge seas, and borne swiftly by the tide comes the
wreck of one of the ship's largest and heaviest boats; it has been
entangled in the mast, which is hanging over the side of the ship, but
it has now washed free, and comes driving down as if to stave in the bow
of the boat, and crush to death the two poor fellows hanging on to the
side:--the boat sheers a little; a cross wave catches the wreckage, and
it just sweeps clear. Thank God! is the cry of every man in the boat.
The boatmen cannot get the two men in over the high bow of the boat, and
the poor fellows are drowning fast; and so they drag the life-boatman by
his legs along the side of the boat, he still clinging to the sailor,
and get him to the waist of the boat where the gunwale is very low; some
of the men can now catch hold of the sailor, they drag him on board, and
the boatman is pulled in by his legs. The brave fellow is very
exhausted by his great and gallant exertions; but he has saved the man's
life, and that is every consolation to him; the mate of the vessel is
almost unconscious. If the boatman had not clung to him as the seas
broke over them both, he must have let go his hold and soon have been
beaten under by the waves, for he was quite incapable of any further
exertion.
The boatmen again turn their attention to the wreck; they have been so
much engaged with the two men struggling in the water, that they have
not been able to think of the poor boy still clinging to the vessel in
loneliness and fear.
The deck-house has by this time been completely washed away, and no
longer affords him any protection. The poor little fellow is clinging to
the gunwale, holding on to the cleats; and he is calling out in good
English, and in the most piteous tones, O save me! O save me! O do save
me! He is only thirteen years old. The boatmen answer him back; and much
as they have passed through, it affects them very deeply to see the poor
child in his fear, and misery, and danger, to hear his cries and sobs,
and not to know how to help him. Continually he is completely buried in
the seas, and it seems wonderful that he can hold on; each time the
waves rush over the wreck, the boatmen expect to find him washed away
like a cork, but he still holds on, and again and again his piteous
pleading voice is heard 'mid the roar of the storm--"O save me! O save
me! O be quick and save me!"--"What can we do? What can we do?" the
boatmen ask each other in tones of real sorrow and dismay; there is not
a man among them who is not ready to risk his own life to save the boy,
but nothing can be done. It is impossible for them to climb on board the
wreck by the rope with which the life-boat is fastened to the vessel,
for the wreck is now so overrun by the tide that the bend of the rope is
continually under water, and the wreckage of the vessel's masts is
washing over it; moreover, although it was possible for a man to come
down the rope, the sea and tide making with him, it would be impossible
for a man to work his way up the rope against such a tremendous rush of
water and breaking surf as are continually sweeping over it. The steamer
is not in sight, or they might be tempted to go to her, get towed to
windward again, and try to run in upon the wreck and grapple her closer;
but this would be almost impossible, so wild is the sea on the weather
side, and on the lee side the wreck of one of the masts is flying about
in the broken water in a way, which would at once prove fatal to the
life-boat if she got entangled with it.
And so all they can do is to wait on, till the tide slackens, when
perhaps they will be able to haul the life-boat up to the wreck, and
save the boy. But while the tide runs so fiercely they can only wait,
and watch the poor little lad. They do not forget the captain of the
vessel, they will go in search of him by-and-by, but they conclude that
all life must have been beaten out of him long since; and they must not
leave the living to go and search for the body of one whom they think
must very certainly be by this time dead.
A short time, and the tide rapidly slackens, an eddy comes rushing
through some channel in the Sands, and the boat begins to sheer about
wildly; and is soon in danger of being crushed against the wreckage of
the masts, which is heaving and tossing about among the very heaviest of
the seas.
"We must make an effort soon," the coxswain cries; "make ready, my men;
try and keep the wreckage clear; haul the boat up to the ship sharp,
when I tell you: we will soon have the poor little chap."
Scarcely are the words shouted out by the coxswain when some of the men
give a cry--"What's that! look out! yes, he is overboard, washed over by
that big sea. Where is he? where is he? There he is! No! only his cap,
there he lifts on that sea--he is coming straight for the boat."--From
the change and eddy of the tide, the rush of the sea past the boat is
not nearly as rapid as it was, and the poor boy comes floating slowly
from the ship; once or twice he has been rolled under by the waves, now
he is on the surface again, and near the boat. "Here he comes! look! on
that wave! Lost! no, he floats again; slacken the hawsers; now he is
within reach, carefully, quick; now you have got him; he is making no
effort, and floating with his head under water;" a boatman manages to
hook his jacket with a long boat-hook, and pulls him towards the
boat--gently the men lift him in, sorrowfully; and tears are in the eyes
of more than one, as they look upon the small face. "Poor little chap!
too late! too late! he is gone," they say--and think that the delicate
little face and slender childlike form suggest that he is fitted rather
for quiet home scenes, and home care, than for such scenes of hardship
and peril as he has had to endure.
"Now, my men," shouts the coxswain; "stations all! put the poor boy down
here in the stern-sheets. If we do not look sharp we shall be driven
upon the wreck, and likely enough all lost."
"Ay! ay! all right. Get the foresail clear! All clear,--hoist as the
boat sheers; stand by to cut the cable, and ship's ropes; hoist away!
Now she pays round; cut the cable; all gone; round the boat flies; away
she goes before the wind. Make all fast. Now come and look to the poor
lad again;" and some of the boatmen with tender fatherly pity in their
hearts, take up the little fellow. They chafe his hands and rub his back
and limbs, and his chest over his heart, with strong rum, put a little
rum to his lips, and persevering as well as they can, following the
instructions given to all life-boat men, for recovering the apparently
drowned, after about half an hour they have the joy of seeing him show
signs of life; the men who can be spared from working the boat continue
their care of him; his circulation returns, and he can drink a little
water; some of the men take off their jackets which have been kept dry
by their waterproof overalls, and wrap him up in them; they then spread
the mizen sail above him, to prevent the seas breaking over him; and the
poor lad lies quiet, gradually recovering his strength.
During this time, the coxswain and the men have been consulting about
the poor captain, who floated away with the life-buoy round him some two
hours before; and they determine to run down the Stream-reach in search
of him, dead or alive. But alive scarcely for one moment can they hope
to find him.
The Stream-reach or Stream-wreckage, as it is called, is where the
currents setting down on either side of the Sands meet on the highest
part.
Most of the wreckage is washed up into it, and what remains of a lost
ship or cargo will often be kept in this stream, and float away in one
long line some miles to leeward. Along this Stream-reach, and in the
heaviest of the seas, the men steer the life-boat, all keeping a keen
look-out for the body of the lost captain.
They look back at the wreck several times as they speed away; and they
soon see the foremast of the vessel go over the side; the hull of the
vessel seems also to heave over, and that is the last that is seen of
the _Providentia_, for by the next morning her hull is completely torn
to pieces, the lower part buried in the Sands, and the remaining portion
utterly swept away.
They run down the Stream-reach for about two miles; when one of the men
fancies that he can see an arm waving. All look in the direction pointed
out; and to their astonishment they see the captain in the life-buoy; as
he rises on the sea, he shouts to them and again waves his arm.
The coxswain at once steers the boat for him, but the seas are so heavy
that they knock the boat to leeward, and they just miss him.
The brave fellow shouts, "All right!" as they pass a few yards from
him.
The boatmen lose no time; they take the mizen-sail which covers the mate
and lad, set it with all possible haste, shake out all reefs in the
foresail, head the boat round, and sail well to windward of the captain;
almost capsizing the boat under her press of canvas, so eager are they;
they keep a good look-out for him, for the seas are leaping so violently
that it is a hard thing to keep the poor fellow in view, and at last
they lose sight of him altogether. As soon as the boat is well to
windward they make across the Stream-reach, then sail down it, and soon
catch sight of the captain again; they lower the mizen and run straight
for him; soon they down with the foresail to lessen the speed of the
boat, for fear they should over run him, and manage to drop gently down
by his side.
They lay hold of him and drag him into the boat; the exertion of being
pulled in over the side of the boat, and the reaction after his fearful
time of suffering and suspense, is too much for his remaining strength,
and he seems dying in the men's hands; they try and get him to swallow a
little rum, but he cannot do so, and faints.
The men now set sail and make for the Gull light-ship; they see the
steamer coming round the South Sands Head in search of them; she takes
the boat in tow, and they proceed towards Ramsgate. In the meanwhile
some of the men have been doing all they can for the captain, rubbing
his back and limbs, and doing all they possibly can to restore his
circulation; he soon gets a little better, and is able to tell them
that his ship was a Russian ship, the _Providentia_, from Finland, and
that he is a Russian Fin; this last fact enables the men to account for
his wonderful powers of endurance in his long exposure to the beating of
the waves and to the coldness of the water, for the Finlanders are the
hardiest of all sailors. He also tells the men, that the _Providentia_
was a full rigged ship of 700 tons, bound from Newcastle to the
Mediterranean with coals. That they had run ashore about eleven or
twelve o'clock the night before, in thick weather. That they made
signals, which the light-vessels answered. That they had seen the
light-vessels signal to the shore; and as he knew that he was near
Ramsgate, he felt sure that the life-boat would come out to their
rescue; he therefore tried to persuade the crew, eleven in number, to
remain by the ship; but that they took the big boat, and left the ship
in so heavy a sea that he feared they must all be lost (they were blown
over on the French coast, and at last got into Boulogne). Upon reaching
Ramsgate the captain, mate, and the boy were carried to the Sailors'
Home, being too weak to walk, and were well cared for.
The captain made a long statement as to the gallant services of the
life-boat men, and of his deep gratitude to them.
We may as well add, that as some of the men, who had run away so
suddenly from their work on board the Dutch steamer, to make a rush for
the life-boat, were walking upon the pier, they saw the Dutch mate
hurrying to them, evidently in a state of excitement. Halloo! What's up
now? think the men, remembering how the mate had shouted after them as
they left the vessel. Halloo! What's up now? but the honest fellow comes
to them, and shaking them heartily by the hands, says with deep
feeling,--"Me sorry me called you bad men for running away from the
steamer. You good men! you good men! _Me give you_ more work if me can."