THE GOLDEN ISLAND
Nor toil nor hazard nor distress appear
To sink the seamen with unmanly fear;
Though their firm hearts no pageant-honour boast,
They scorn the wretch that trembles in his post.
The smart and trim three-masted schooner, the Golden Island, was bound
from Antwerp to Liverpool, with a cargo of glass-sand, and was running
before a favouring gale to the southward. At midnight, on May 14,
1887, or the early morning of May 15, with a heavy sea rolling from the
N.E., suddenly, no notice being given and no alarm felt, she struck
with tremendous force the outer edge of the Goodwin Sands.
The timbers of the Golden Island opened with the crash, and she filled,
and never lifted or thumped, but lay swept by each billow, like a rock
at half-tide, immovable by reason of her heavy cargo. Her crew
consisted of seven all told, including a lad, the captain's son, and
they managed to light a large flare, which was seen a long way, and was
visible even in Deal, eight miles distant.
With what sinking of heart, as the waters raged round and over them,
they watched the flame of their torch burning lower and lower. How
intense the darkness when it was extinguished! How terrible the
thunderous roar of the breakers!
The nearest lightship was about four miles from them, and her look-out
man noticed the flare and fired the signal guns of distress, and sent
up the usual rockets.
At 2 a.m. the coastguard on Deal beach called the coxswain of the
lifeboat, R. Roberts. Hastily dressing himself he went up the beach,
and seeing the flash of the distant guns, he rang the lifeboat bell.
Men sprang out of their warm beds, and, half-dressed, rushed to the
lifeboat. Their wives or mothers or daughters followed with the
remainder of their clothes, their sea boots, or jackets or mufflers.
Then came the struggle to gain a place in the lifeboat, and then the
bustle and hurry of preparation to get her ready for the launch.
Deal beach at such a time is full of boatmen, some in the lifeboat
loosing sails and setting the mizzen, some easing her down to the top
of the slope, some seeing to the haul-off warp, a matter of life or
death in such a heavy sea dead on shore; others laying down the
well-greased 'skids' for the lifeboat to run on, and others clearing
away the shingle which successive tides had gathered in front of her
bows.
Mingling among the workers are the wives and mothers, putting a piece
of bread and cheese in Tom's pocket or helping on 'father' with his
oilskin jacket or his sou'wester. And now 'All hands in the lifeboat!'
and twenty minutes after the bell is rung she rushes down the steep and
plunges into the surf. The loving, lingering watchers on the beach
just see her foresail hoisted, and she vanishes into the night, as the
green rocket shoots one hundred yards into the sky to tell the
distressed sailors 'The lifeboat is launched and on her way.'
The vessel's flare had now burned out, and the guns and rockets from
the lightships had ceased, and in front of the lifeboat was only the
chill night, 'black as a wolf's throat.' As they worked away from the
shore there came in, borne landwards and towards them by the gale, the
dull deep roar of the surf on the Goodwins.
It is marvellous how far the sound of the sea on the Goodwins travels.
Previously, on a fine calm day, with light breeze, I was standing
across the Goodwins, bound to the East Goodwin lightship, and we could
hear the roar of the ripple on the Goodwins--not breakers, but
ripple--at a distance of two miles. We were sucked into that
ugly-looking ripple by an irresistible current, and after an anxious
half-hour we got through safely.
In front of the lifeboat on this night was no mere ripple, but
breakers; and the deep hollow roar foretold a tremendous sea.
As the dawn came faintly, the breakers were seen by the oncoming
lifeboat; she was already stripped for the fight, and her canvas was
shortened to reefed mizzen and reefed storm-foresail. Even then she
was pressed down by the blast and leaned over as the spray flew
mast-high over her. There was a mile of this surf to go through, and
with her red sails flat as a board the lifeboat plunged into it.
She thrashed her way nobly through, now up and down on short
wicked-looking chopping seas, now on some giant wave hoisted up to the
sky; and still up as if she was about to take flight into the air--as
we once before experienced in a gale on the Brake Sand--then buried and
smothered; and then over the next wave like a seabird. On to the
rescue flew the lifeboat, steered by the coxswain himself, beating to
windward splendidly, as if conscious of and proud of the sacred task
before her. On triumphantly through and over the breakers, onwards to
the Golden Island the lifeboat beat out against the sea and the storm.
She stood on till quite across the Goodwins, and fetched the East Buoy,
which lies in deep water well outside the breakers. In that deep water
of fifteen fathoms there were of course no breakers, only a long roll
and heavy sea; but the moment this heavy sea touched the Goodwin Sands
it broke with the utmost fury, and was sweeping over the Golden Island,
now not more than half-a-mile from the lifeboat. At the East Buoy the
lifeboat put about on the other tack, and stood in towards the Goodwins
and again right into the breakers, from which she had just emerged.
The wreck was lying with her head to the N.W., and was leaning to port,
so that her starboard quarter was exposed to the full fetch of the
easterly sea that was breaking 'solid' in tons on her decks. 'Why, she
was just smothered in it sometimes, and every big sea was just a-flying
all over her.' Her masts they saw were still standing, and her crew of
seven were cowering for refuge between the main and mizzen masts under
the weak shelter of the weather bulwarks, and also under the lee of the
long boat, which still held its place, being firmly fastened to the
deck. The fierce breakers burst rather over her quarter; had they
swept quite broadside over her, the boat would have been torn from its
fastenings long before.
As the Deal lifeboat stood in towards the Goodwins, they saw that their
noble rivals the Ramsgate tug and lifeboat in tow had arrived on the
scene a few minutes before them, and were close to the wreck.
The Ramsgate tug Aid now cast off the lifeboat, which got up sail and
made in through the breakers with the wind right aft impelling her
forwards at speed. The tug of course waited outside the surf, in deep
water. The Deal men, separated from the Ramsgate lifeboat by about
four hundred yards, were breathless spectators of the event. They
watched her plunging and lifting into and over each sea and on towards
the wreck.
The Ramsgate men could not lie or ride alongside the vessel to
windward; there was too terrible a sea on that side, and therefore, in
spite of the danger of the masts falling, they were obliged to go to
leeward, or to the sheltered side of the vessel.
Just as the Ramsgate lifeboat was coming under the stern of the wreck
and about to haul down foresail and shoot up alongside her, she was
struck by a terrific sea. The Deal men saw this and shouted 'She's
capsized!' The Ramsgate lifeboat was indeed almost, but not quite
capsized, and she was also shot forwards and caught under the cat-head
and anchor of the wreck. The captain of the wrecked vessel told me
afterwards that he thought she was lost, but it was happily not so, and
the Ramsgate lifeboatmen anchored, after recovering themselves, ahead
of the vessel and veered down to her.
But the tidal current which runs over the Goodwins varies in a very
irregular manner according to the wind that is blowing, and, contrary
to their calculations, swept the Ramsgate lifeboat to the full length
of her cable away from the vessel.
They naturally expected to find the usual off-tide from the land before
and at high-water, which would have carried them towards the vessel
when they anchored under her lee; but instead of that there was running
a strong 'in-tide,' which swept them helplessly away from the vessel,
and rendered them absolutely unable to reach her, though anchored only
two hundred yards off.
The seamen on the wreck, in order to reach by some means the lifeboat
which had thus been borne away from them so mysteriously, threw a
fender, with line attached, overboard, hoping that it too would follow
the current which carried away the lifeboat, and that thus
communications would be established between them; but the currents
round the ship held the fender close to the wreck, and kept it eddying
under her lee.
All eyes were now turned to the advancing Deal lifeboat battling in the
thickest of the surf. Both the Ramsgate men with warm sympathy and the
shipwrecked crew with keen anxiety watched the Deal men's attempt, as
they raced into the wild breakers.
The poor fellows clinging to the masts feared lest the Deal lifeboat
too might miss them, and that they might all be lost before either
lifeboat could reach them again, and they beckoned the Deal men on.
The very crisis of their fate was at hand, but there were no applauding
multitudes or shouts of encouragement, only the cold wastes and
solitudes of wild tumbling breakers around the lifeboatmen on that grey
dawn, and only the appealing helpless crew in a little cluster on the
wreck.
It was now 4 a.m., and the Deal coxswain, cool and sturdy as his native
Kentish oak, knowing that the combination of an easterly gale with neap
tides sometimes produces an 'in-tide' at high-water, and seeing the
Ramsgate lifeboat carried to leeward, gave the order to 'down
foresail!' when well outside the wreck, and anchored E. by S. of her.
Thus the same 'in-tide' which swept the Ramsgate lifeboat away from the
wreck, carried the Deal lifeboat right down to her.
[Illustration: Location of the wreck]
It will be remembered that the head of the Golden Island lay N.W., and
the accompanying diagram will enable the reader to understand that as
the lifeboat anchored in nearly the opposite quarter, viz. about S.E.,
her head, as she ranged alongside the wreck, lay in precisely the
opposite direction to the head of the shipwrecked schooner.
The Deal lifeboat coxswain now hoisted a bit of his foresail to sheer
her in towards the wreck, but from the position of his anchor he could
not get closer than ten fathoms, or twenty yards.
To bridge this gulf of boiling surf, the cane loaded with lead, to
which a light line was attached, had to be hurled by a stalwart arm,
and John May succeeded in throwing the 'lead line' on board the wreck.
As the half-drowned and perishing crew of the wreck saw the Deal
lifeboat winning her way towards them, and inch by inch conquering the
opposing elements, their hearts revived.
They saw within hailing distance of them--for their cries could be
heard plainly enough coming down the wind by the Deal men--the brave,
determined faces of their rescuers, and they felt that God had not
forsaken them, but had wrought for them a great deliverance.
Having gone through all that surf, and having got within reach as it
were of the wreck, the crew of the Deal lifeboat were now eager for the
final rescue. They never speak of, or even allude to the feeling on
such occasions within them, yet we know their hearts were on fire for
the rescue, and men in that mood are not easily to be baulked or to be
beaten.
As the wearied seamen grasped the meaning of the Deal coxswain's
shouts, or rather signs, for shouts against the wind were almost
inaudible, they aided in rigging up veering and hauling lines, by which
they would have to be dragged through the belt of surf which lay
between them and the lifeboat.
A clove-hitch, which my readers can practise for themselves, was passed
round the waist of the captain's son, a boy of thirteen, who was first
to leave the wreck.
[Illustration: Clove-hitch]
The lad naturally enough shrank from facing the boiling caldron which
raged between him and the lifeboat, and with loud cries clung to his
father. Waiting was impossible, and he had to be separated partly by
persuasion and partly by main force from his father's arms and dragged
through the sea. When once he was in the water the boatmen pulled at
him with all their might, and when alongside, two strong men reached
over the side and hoisted him like a feather into the lifeboat.
The men said 'he cried dreadful,' and the coxswain found a moment to
tell him, 'Don't cry, my little fellow! we'll soon have your father
into the lifeboat.' But with the words came a sea 'that smothered us
all up, and it wanted good holding to keep ourselves from being carried
overboard.' Some kind-hearted fellows, till the sea passed, held the
boy, but still he kept crying, 'Come, father! Come, father!'
Three more of the crew then got the 'clove-hitch' over their shoulders
and jumped into the sea; some of them helped themselves by swimming and
kept their heads up; others merely gripped the rope and fared much
worse, being pulled head under, but all three were quickly dragged
through the water into the lifeboat.
I have said dragged through the 'water'; but surf is not the same as
water--it is water lashed into froth or seething bubbles in mountainous
masses. You can swim in water; but the best swimmer sinks in 'froth,'
and can only manage and spare himself till the genuine water gives him
a heave up and enables him to continue the struggle on the surface.
Now water that breaks into surf is not merely motionless 'froth,' that
is half air and half water, but it runs at speed, and being partly
composed of solid water strikes any obstacle with enormous force and
smashes like a hammer. These then were the characteristics of the sea
which beat all round the wreck, and through which the half-dazed and
storm-beaten sailors had to be dragged.
Besides the veering and hauling line by which the sailors in distress
came, there was another line passed round the mast of the tossing
lifeboat, to hold her in spite of her plunging as close as possible to
the ship; and this line had to be eased with each sea and then the
slack hauled in again. Some better idea will be given of the nature of
this deadly wrestle, when I mention that this line cut so deeply into
the mast as to render it unsafe, and it was never again used after that
day.
The sails of the wrecked vessel were clattering and blowing about,
'like kites'--indeed, they were in ribbons; and the wind in the rigging
was like the harsh roar of an approaching train, so that in the midst
of this wild hurly-burly even the men in the lifeboat could hardly hear
each other's shouts.
Roberts now saw that it was necessary to shift the cable as it lay on
the bow of the lifeboat, and he shouted to his comrades forward to have
this done; but 'the wind was a blowin' and the sea a 'owling that
dreadful' that not a man could hear what he said, and he sprang forward
to shift the cable himself. That very moment round the stern of the
wreck there swept the huge green curl of a gigantic sea, which, just as
it reached the lifeboat, broke with a roar a ton of water into her.
It took Roberts off his feet, so that he must have gone overboard, but
for the foremast against which it dashed him, and to which he clung
desperately, as the great wave melted away hissing, to leeward.
Shaking off the spray, the drenched lifeboatmen again turned to the
work of rescue; the coxswain having been preserved by his thick cork
lifebelt from what might otherwise have been a fatal crush.
This weighty sea tore away the lines and all means of communication
between the wreck and the lifeboat, and drove the three remaining
sailors on the vessel away from the shelter of the long boat to the
bows of the wreck. Indeed, as they grasped for dear life the belaying
pins on the foremast, the sea covered them up to their shoulders, and
they were all but carried away.
Again the loaded cane had to be thrown; again the task was entrusted to
John May, who sent it flying through the air, and again the veering and
hauling line was rigged, and the remaining seamen were got into the
lifeboat.
The last man has to see to it for his life that the veering line is
clear, and that it is absolutely free from anything that could catch or
jam it or prevent it running out freely.
Just as coming down a steep ice slope where steps have to be cut by men
roped together, the best man should come last, so the last man rescued
from a wreck should have a good clear head and the stoutest heart of
all; and last man came bravely the captain, to the great joy of his
little son.
Then the lifeboatmen turned to preparations for home. They dared not
get in their cable and heave their anchor on board, lest they should be
carried back and dashed against the wreck, the danger of which, a
glance at the sketch will show. So they got a spring on the cable, to
cant the lifeboat's head to starboard or landsward, and with a parting
'Hurrah!' they slipped their cable, of course thus sacrificing it and
their anchor. They hoisted their foresail, and with a gale of wind
behind them raced into and through the surf on the Goodwins, which lay
between them and home.
The Goodwins are four miles wide, and the land was eight miles distant,
but a splendid success had crowned the brave and steadfast Deal
coxswain's efforts. Not a man was lost, and they had with them in the
lifeboat the shipwrecked vessel's crew--all saved.
It was a noble sight to see the lifeboat nearing the land that morning
at 7 a.m. The British red ensign was flying proudly from her peak, in
token of 'rescued crew on board'; and as the men jumped out, I grasped
the brave coxswain's hand and said, 'Well done, Roberts!' And as I saw
the rescued crew and their gallant deliverers, 'God bless you, my lads,
well done!' The words will be echoed in many a heart, but could my
readers have seen the faces of the lifeboatmen, weather-beaten and
incrusted with salt, or watched them, as they staggered wearied but
rejoicing up the beach--could they have knelt in the thanksgiving
service which I held that morning with the rescued crew, and have heard
their graphic version of the grim reality--and how that the living God
had in His mercy stretched out His arm and saved them from death on the
Goodwins, they would better understand,--better, far, than words of
mine can bring it home--how splendid a deed of mercy and of daring was
that day done by the coxswain and the crew of the North Deal
lifeboat[1].
[1] The names of the crew of the lifeboat on this occasion (being one
man short, which was not observed in the darkness of the launch)
were--Richd. Roberts (coxswain), G. Marlowe, John May, Henry May, Wm.
Hanger, Ed. Pain, R. Betts, G. Brown, David Foster, Wm. Nicholas, Henry
Roberts, R. Ashington, John Adams, John Marsh.