England has many workers, but none braver than the toilers of the sea.
Her coasts are dotted with hamlets, each with its little quay or open
beach, where her fishermen hoist their brown sails and set off, as
evening falls, to reap the harvest of the waters.
It is a hard and perilous life. A fishing-boat puts off in the quiet
evening calm, as the lights shine out from the cottages along the
shore, but the men on board are never sure that they will see those
lights of home again. A sudden storm springs up; the heavy waves
overwhelm the tiny craft, and perhaps its brave crew are swallowed up
in the sea. A broken thwart or spar washed ashore may give a hint of
their fate, but they are never seen again among living men.
But the facing of these perils breeds the finest and hardiest race of
boatmen in the world. This is seen to the full when a call is made for
the services of the lifeboat. Let us fancy that we are walking through
the single street of a fishing village on a winter day, when a
tremendous storm is lashing the coast. The street is empty save for
ourselves, and every door is fast shut against the bitter wind. The
boats are all home from sea, and are dragged high up on the shingle,
out of reach of the great breakers which thunder on the shore and send
their surf swirling in masses of snowy foam along the beach. We make
our way inch by inch in the teeth of the terrific wind, and are
thankful for the smallest shelter in which to pause and draw a breath.
Suddenly a man comes racing up from the little quay. He pauses at the
door of a building which stands alone; he seizes a rope and begins to
pull, and the loud clanging of a bell mingles with the shrieks of the
storm.
Ah! what a change! The silent, deserted village becomes a scene of the
busiest life and animation. Doors burst open on every hand, and out
rush men, and race head down against the wind for the building where
the bell is ringing. After them stream women and children; all run as
if running for a wager. What prize do those stalwart fellows race to
gain? The prize of risking their lives to help their fellow-creatures.
There is a wreck off shore, and the bell is calling volunteers to man
the lifeboat. The first men to gain the house form the crew, and these
at once begin to jump into oilskins and fasten huge cork belts round
their bodies, while the great boat is run out and hurried down to the
beach.
Everyone lends a hand, and in a marvellously short time the lifeboat is
gliding down the slips into the sea, her crew aboard. The boat takes
the water like a duck, her sail is hoisted, and she beats off-shore in
a sea in which no other vessel could live. Again and again a wave
breaks over her and fills her full of blue water, but up she springs,
and empties herself like a sea-bird shaking the spray from her back.
When a sea breaks aboard, the crew grip the nearest thwart and hang on;
they are soaked from head to heel in an instant, despite their
oilskins. But they care nothing for that; their eyes are fixed ahead,
eagerly looking out for the wreck. What or where it is they do not
know yet. All they know is that the lightship which guards a dangerous
sandbank some miles off-shore is making signals, and they know that a
vessel is in distress.
The lifeboat thrashes through the furious seas, and soon they see the
lightship--a stout vessel securely anchored in position near the
sandbank. It is her duty at night to keep a great lamp burning to warn
seamen not to approach her perilous neighbourhood. Soon the lifeboat
is sweeping past the anchored lightship, and her men hail the lightship
with a tremendous shout of "Where away?"
"South end o' the bank!" roar the lightshipmen in reply; and the
lifeboat darts on like a living creature, for the gale favours her on
that tack.
The short winter day is now closing in, and the keen eyes on board the
lifeboat are straining eagerly into the dusk, when a sudden shout goes
up from every throat: "There she is! there she is!"
A tremendous blaze of light has broken out a mile ahead of them. The
doomed vessel is burning a "flare," perhaps of cloth soaked in oil,
anything to make a bright light and show her position. Suddenly the
flare goes out. It sinks as swiftly as it had risen, and a groan of
anxiety bursts from the lips of the lifeboat heroes. Has she gone
down, carrying to the bottom the poor fellows who had raised the flare
a short time back? They do not know, and on they rush to see.
Soon they gain the tail of the dreaded sandbank, which has seen the
destruction of many and many a good ship, and here they find the wreck.
The back of the ship is broken, her main and mizen masts are gone, and
only the foremast stands; and in the foretop a dozen poor fellows are
lashed in the rigging, with icy seas sweeping over them at every moment.
The coxswain of the lifeboat burns a hand signal, and it throws a
bright light across the roaring sea, and in a pause of the howling wind
the crew hear faint cheers from the shipwrecked seamen, and shout a
cheery reply: "Hold on, boys! we've come for you, and we won't go back
without you."
But how to get them? that is the question. The lifeboat has ridden
through terrible seas on her journey, but they are nothing, nothing to
the seas which are breaking round the lost vessel; for the latter has
been driven out of deep water on to the bank, and on the bank is no
steady run of water, but a thousand furious cross-currents, whirling
this way and that way in terrific fury; and when current meets current
up goes a great column of foam as high as a ship's mainmast, and
setting up a roar heard above the wild hurly-burly of storm and sea.
On board the lifeboat a quick, short council is held.
"Wait till morning," says one; "we'll lie off all night."
"Can't be done," says the coxswain; "she'll break up altogether long
before daybreak, and then it's good-bye to those poor fellows in the
foretop. No, we'll veer down to her, for we lie to windward."
So over goes the anchor of the lifeboat, and the strong cable of
five-inch Manilla is made fast to it. Now, the coxswain is going to do
this: The lifeboat will swing at anchor, and the wind will drive it
towards the wreck. Little by little he will pay out the hawser, so
that, yard by yard, the lifeboat will swing nearer and nearer to the
perishing sailors, for perishing they are in the bitter cold of this
awful night.
Down, down the lifeboatmen veer to the wreck, held safely by the mighty
hawser, and light after light is burned. But they do not dare to
approach the side of the wreck closely, lest the cable should strain
under the power of the tremendous seas and the lifeboat be dashed
against the sunken part of the wreck, when all might be lost together.
So they bring-to some five or six fathoms from the wreck, and one of
the lifeboat crew seizes a loaded cane, to which a light line is
attached. A signal is burned, and by this light he makes his throw,
and cleverly drops the cane into the foretop, where the benumbed men
are unlashing themselves slowly and cautiously from the rigging. The
light line is seized by the captain of the wrecked vessel, and by its
means a stouter line is drawn aboard, and thus communication is
established between ship and boat. Soon a couple of lines are rigged
up, and along these lines the sailors crawl towards the friendly boat.
Man after man comes in safety, and the lifeboat crew cheer at every
rescue. But it is terribly dangerous work. The gale is rising, and
the seas become more furious than ever. The lifeboat is tossed high in
the air, then sinks deep in the trough of a huge wave. The only bridge
to it is a couple of thin ropes hardly to be seen save when a signal
light flares blue in the night, but along these ropes crawl the
drenched seamen, their hearts filled with new hopes as their ears catch
the deep encouraging roar of their rescuers. Last to come is the
captain, who has rigged and handled the lines so that his men could
pass in as great safety as possible.
"Come on, captain!--come on, in with you!" is the cry; and he comes and
leaps into the boat. Hurrah! they have every man. Now how to get
away? that is the question. They dare not haul up to their anchor lest
the gale should carry them back on the wreck before they could get the
boat under sail.
"The anchor must go, boys!" cries the coxswain. "Up with a corner of
the foresail; that will throw her head off the wreck. We must run
before the wind."
The manoeuvre is carried out with the utmost care, for the least
mistake will be paid for with the life of every man on board.
When all is ready, the coxswain's voice rings out again: "Out axe, and
cut the cable!"
Down comes the keen edge, the last strand is parted, and away leaps the
boat into the darkness and the furious turmoil of the raging sea.
Straight across the shoals the gallant boat drives through the boiling
surf, in which no other craft could live. Staggering, reeling,
plunging she goes, but with every wild plunge she nears deep water and
comparative safety, and at last, with one wild, long heave, she beats
off the shoals, and the crew feel the regular run of deep water under
her keel, and shout joyously: "Hurrah! cheer O!"
For of the wildest storm on the open sea these dauntless British hearts
care nothing. And now they bring the nose of their gallant boat round
on the homeward tack, and run for the shore, where fire and light and a
warm welcome await them. And what a shout will go up when the cry
rings from the sea, "All saved! all saved!" for to raise that cry is
ample reward for these heroes of the storm.