On a dark November afternoon, not many years ago, Captain Boyns sat
smoking his pipe in his own chimney-corner, gazing with a somewhat
anxious expression at the fire. There was cause for anxiety, for there
raged at the time one of the fiercest storms that ever blew on the
shores of England.
The wind was howling in the chimney with wild fury; slates and tiles
were being swept off the roofs of the fishermen's huts and whirled up
into the air as if they had been chips of wood; and rain swept down and
along the ground in great sheets of water, or whirled madly in the air
and mingled with the salt spray that came direct from the English
Channel; while, high and loud above all other sounds, rose the loud
plunging roar of the mighty sea.
"I fear there will be a call before long, Nancy, for the services of the
new lifeboat," said Captain Boyns, rising and taking down an oilcloth
coat and sou'-wester, which he began to put on leisurely; "I'll go down
to the beach and see what's doin' at the Cove."
The captain was a fine specimen of a British sailor. He was a massive
man, of iron build, and so tall that his sou'-wester almost touched the
ceiling of his low-roofed parlour. His face was eminently masculine,
and his usual expression was a compound of sternness, gravity, and
good-humour. He was about forty years of age, and, unlike the men of
his class at that time, wore a short curly black beard and moustache,
which, with his deeply bronzed countenance, gave him the aspect of a
foreigner.
"God help those on the sea," said Mrs Boyns, in reply to her husband's
remark; "I'm thankful, Dan, that you are on shore this night."
Nancy was a good-looking, lady-like woman of thirty-three or
thereabouts, without anything particularly noteworthy about her. She
was busy with her needle at the time we introduce her, and relapsed into
silence, while her stalwart husband pulled on a pair of huge sea-boots.
"Did you hear a gun, Nancy?" cried the captain, as a terrific blast
shook every timber in the cottage--"there! ain't that it again?"
Nancy listened intently, but could hear nothing save the raging of the
storm. The captain completed his toilet, and was about to leave the
room when the door suddenly burst open, and a lad of about fourteen
years of age sprang in.
"Father," he cried, his eyes flashing with excitement, "there's a brig
on the sands, and they are going to launch the new lifeboat!"
"Whereaway is't, lad?" asked Boyns, as he buttoned up his coat.
"To lee'ard of the breakwater."
"Oh Harry, don't be too venturesome," cried Mrs Boyns earnestly, as her
strapping boy was about to follow his father out into the pelting storm.
Harry, who was tall and strong for his age, and very like his father in
many respects, turning round with a hearty smile, cried, "No fear,
mother," and next instant was gone.
The scene on the beach when father and son reached it was very
impressive. So furious was the gale that it tore up sand and gravel and
hurled it against the faces of the hardy men who dared to brave the
storm. At times there were blasts so terrible that a wild shriek, as if
of a storm-fiend, rent the air, and flakes of foam were whirled madly
about. But the most awful sight of all was the seething of the sea as
it advanced in a succession of great breaking "rollers" into the bay,
and churned itself white among the rocks.
Out among these billows, scarce visible in the midst of the conflicting
elements, were seen the dark hull, shattered masts, and riven sails of a
large brig, over which the waves made clear breaches continually.
In the little harbour of the seaport, which was named Covelly, a number
of strong men were engaged in hastily launching a new lifeboat, which
had been placed at that station only three weeks before, while,
clustering about the pier, and behind every sheltered nook along the
shore, were hundreds of excited spectators, not a few of whom were
women.
Much earnest talk had there been among the gossips in the town when the
lifeboat referred to arrived. Deep, and nautically learned, were the
discussions that had been held as to her capabilities, and great the
longing for a stiffish gale in order that her powers might be fairly
tested in rough weather, for in those days lifeboats were not so
numerous as, happily, they now are. Many of the town's-people had only
heard of such boats; few had seen, and not one had ever had experience
of them. After her arrival the weather had continued tantalisingly calm
and fine until the day of the storm above referred to, when at length it
changed, and a gale burst forth with such violence that the bravest men
in the place shook their heads, and said that no boat of any kind
whatever could live in such a sea.
When, however, the brig before referred to was seen to rush helplessly
into the bay and to strike on the sands where the seas ran most
furiously, all lent a willing hand to launch the new lifeboat into the
harbour, and a few men, leaping in, pulled her across to the stairs near
the entrance, where a number of seamen were congregated, holding on
under the lee of the parapet-wall, and gazing anxiously at the fearful
scene outside.
"Impossible!" said one; "no boat could live in such a sea for half a
minute."
"The moment she shows her nose outside the breakwater she'll capsize,"
observed another.
"We'll have to risk it, anyhow," remarked a stout young fellow, "for I
see men in the foreshrouds of the wreck, and I, for one, won't stand by
and see them lost while we've got a lifeboat by us. Why, wot's the use
o' callin' it a lifeboat if it can't do more than other boats?"
As he spoke there came an unusually furious gust which sent a wave right
over the pier, and well-nigh swept away one or two of them. The
argument of the storm was more powerful than that of the young sailor--
no one responded to his appeal, and when the boat came alongside the
stairs, none moved to enter her except himself.
"That's right, Bob Gaston," cried one of the four men who had jumped
into the boat when she was launched, "I know'd you would be the first."
"And I won't be the last either," said young Gaston, looking back at the
men on the pier with a smile.
"Right, lad!" cried Captain Boyns, who came up at the instant and leaped
into the boat. "Come, lads, we want four more hands--no, no, Harry," he
added, pushing back his son; "your arms are not yet strong enough; come
lads, we've no time to lose."
As he spoke, a faint cry was heard coming from the wreck, and it was
seen that one of the masts had gone by the board, carrying, it was
feared, several poor fellows along with it. Instantly there was a rush
to the lifeboat! All thought of personal danger appeared to have been
banished from the minds of the fishermen when the cry of distress broke
on their ears. The boat was overmanned, and old Jacobs, the coxswain,
had to order several of them to go ashore again. In another minute they
were at the mouth of the harbour, and the men paused an instant as if to
gather strength for the mortal struggle before quitting the shelter of
the breakwater, and facing the fury of wind and waves.
"Give way, lads! give way!" shouted old Jacobs, as he stood up in the
stern-sheets and grasped the steering oar.
The men bent to the oars with all their might, and the boat leaped out
into the boiling sea. This was not one of those splendid boats which
now line the shores of the United Kingdom; nevertheless, it was a noble
craft--one of the good, stable, insubmergible and self-emptying kind
which were known as the Greathead lifeboats, and which for many years
did good service on our coasts. It sat on the raging waters like a
swan, and although the seas broke over it again and again, it rose out
of the water buoyantly, and, with the brine pouring from its sides, kept
end-on to the seas, surmounting them or dashing right through them,
while her gallant crew strained every muscle and slowly urged her on
towards the wreck.
At first the men on shore gazed at her in breathless anxiety, expecting
every moment to see her overturned and their comrades left to perish in
the waves; but when they saw her reappear from each overwhelming billow,
their hearts rose with a rebound, and loud prolonged huzzas cheered the
lifeboat on her course. They became silent again, however, when
distance and the intervening haze of spray and rain rendered her motions
indistinct, and their feelings of anxiety became more and more intense
as they saw her draw nearer and nearer to the wreck.
At last they reached it, but no one on the pier could tell with what
success their efforts were attended. Through the blinding spray they
saw her faintly, now rising on the crest of a huge wave, then
overwhelmed by tons of water. At last she appeared to get close under
the stern of the brig, and was lost to view.
"They're all gone," said a fisherman on the pier, as he wiped the salt
water off his face; "I know'd that no boat that ever wos built could
live in that sea."
"Ye don't know much yet, Bill, 'bout anything a'most," replied an old
man near him. "Why, I've see'd boats in the East, not much better than
two planks, as could go through a worse surf than that."
"May be so," retorted Bill, "but I know--hallo! is that her coming off?"
"That's her," cried several voices--"all right, my hearties."
"Not so sure o' that," observed another of the excited band of men who
watched every motion of the little craft intently,--"there--why--I do
believe there are more in her now than went out in her, what think 'ee,
Dick?"
Dick did not reply, for by that time the boat, having got clear of the
wreck, was making for the shore, and the observers were all too intent
in using their eyes to make use of their tongues. Coming as she did
before the wind, the progress of the lifeboat was very different from
what it had been when she set out. In a few minutes she became
distinctly visible, careering on the crest of the waves towards the
harbour mouth, and then it was ascertained beyond doubt that some at
least, if not all, of the crew of the brig had been rescued. A short
sharp Hurrah! burst from the men on the outlook when this became
certain, but they relapsed into deep silence again, for the return of
the boat was more critical than its departure had been. There is much
more danger in running before a heavy sea than in pulling against it.
Every roaring billow that came into the bay near the Cove like a green
wall broke in thunder on the sands before reaching the wreck, and as it
continued its furious career towards the beach it seemed to gather fresh
strength, so that the steersman of the lifeboat had to keep her stern
carefully towards it to prevent her from turning broadside on--or, as it
is nautically expressed, broaching to. Had she done so, the death of
all on board would have been almost inevitable. Knowing this, the men
on the pier gazed with breathless anxiety as each wave roared under the
boat's stern, lifted it up until it appeared perpendicular; carried it
forward a few yards with fearful velocity, and then let it slip back
into the trough of the sea.
But the boat was admirably managed, and it was seen, as she drew near,
that the steering oar was held in the firm grip of Captain Boyns. On it
came before the gale with lightning speed towards the harbour mouth; and
here a new danger had to be faced, for the entrance was narrow, and the
seas were sweeping not into but athwart it, thereby rendering the danger
of being dashed against the pier-end very great indeed.
"Missed it!" burst from several mouths as the boat flew round the head
of the breakwater and was overwhelmed by a heavy sea which rendered her
for one moment unmanageable, but almost as soon as filled she was again
emptied through the discharging tubes in her floor.
"No fear of father missing it," exclaimed young Harry Boyns, with a
proud look and flashing eye as he saw the stalwart form of the captain
standing firm in the midst of the foam with his breast pressed hard
against the steering oar.
"Back your starboard oars! Hold water hard!" shouted several voices.
"She's round! hurrah!" cried Harry, as the boat almost leaped out of the
foam and sprang into the comparatively smooth water at the harbour
mouth. The rowers gave vent to a short shout of triumph, and several
worn, exhausted seamen in the bottom of the boat were seen to wave their
hands feebly. At the same time, Captain Boyns shouted in a deep loud
voice--"All saved, thank God!" as they swept towards the land.
Then did there arise from the hundreds of people assembled on and near
the pier a ringing cheer, the like of which had never been heard before
in Covelly. Again and again it was repeated while the lifeboat shot up
on the beach, and was fairly dragged out of the sea, high and dry, by
many eager hands that were immediately afterwards extended to assist the
saved crew of the brig to land.
"Are all saved, father?" asked Harry Boyns, who was first at the side of
the boat.
"Ay, lad, every one. Fifteen all told, includin' a woman and a little
girl. Lend a hand to get the poor things up to our house, Harry," said
the captain, lifting the apparently inanimate form of a young girl over
the side as he spoke; "she ain't dead--only benumbed a little with the
cold."
Many hands were stretched out, but Harry thrust all others aside, and,
receiving the light form of the child in his strong arms, bore her off
to his father's cottage, leaving his comrades to attend to the wants of
the others.
"Oh Harry!" exclaimed Mrs Boyns, when her son burst into the house, "is
your father safe?"
"Ay, safe and well," he cried. "Look sharp, mother--get hot blankets
and things ready, for here's a little girl almost dead with cold. She
has just been rescued from a wreck--saved by the new lifeboat!"