and on, picking up depots as they went, and suffering every day from
the bitter cold, and feeling the effects of the hard work. On March
16, Captain Oates went out. Frostbitten hands and feet had made life
burdensome for him, and he knew that he was a burden to the gallant men
with him; without him, they could progress much quicker.
“Go on without me,” he had said, earlier in the day. “I’ll keep in my
sleeping bag!” But they had prevailed upon him to keep on. Like a hero
he forced himself to struggle on until they camped at night. When the
morning came he awoke. Of him in those last moments Scott said: “He was
a brave soul.... It was blowing a blizzard. He said: ‘I’m just going
outside, and may be some time.’ He went out into the blizzard, and we
have not seen him since.... We knew that poor Oates was walking to his
death; but though we tried to dissuade him, we knew it was the act of a
brave man and an English gentleman.”
He had sacrificed himself for the sake of the others. “Greater love
hath no man than this.”
Reduced now to three men, the little party struggled on gamely,
fighting against the weariness that was upon them, making with all
haste for One Ton Depot. They had expected ere this to have met the
dogs which were to come out to help them back, but misfortune had
overtaken Cherry Garrard, who had been waiting at One Ton Depot for six
days held up by a blizzard. He had not sufficient food for the dogs to
enable him to go south, and he knew that the state of the weather might
easily make him miss Scott, whereas to wait at the depot was to be on
hand when Scott did turn up.
Now the dire peril of their position forced itself upon them; though
they fought to drive the thoughts away, manfully cheering each other
up, none of them believed that they would ever get through, and on
March 18, when twenty-one miles from the depot, the wind compelled them
to call a halt. Scott’s right foot was frostbitten; he suffered from
indigestion; they had only a half fill of oil left and a small amount
of spirit. It meant that when this was gone, they could have no more
hot drink--which would bring the end.
Despite their sufferings they went on again, until on the 21st they
were camped eleven miles from the depot, a blizzard raging round them,
little food, no fuel, and knowing in their hearts that when the next
day dawned they could not continue the journey perilous and laborious;
the end was at hand.
Days before Scott and Bowers had made Dr. Wilson give them that which
would enable them to put an end to their misery; but now to-night, when
face to face with death, they resolved that they would die natural
deaths; it should not be said of them that they shirked. Each morning
until the 29th they got ready to start for the depot that was so near,
with its food, its fuel, its warmth, its companions; and each day they
found the blizzard howling about them, as effectual a barrier as if it
had been a cast-iron wall.
“We shall stick it out to the end,” wrote Scott on the 29th, “but we
are getting weaker, of course, and the end cannot be far.
“It seems a pity, but I do not think I can write more.
“For God’s sake look after our people!”
And so they died, these heroes and gentlemen; and through Scott’s last
letters which were found with the dead bodies in the tent on November
10 there is but one thought running: the care of the people left behind
and the praises of the men who had accompanied him. Never were such
eulogiums written. “Gallant, noble gentlemen,” he called them, as death
brooded over him; and throughout every line there was the spirit of
cheeriness which takes life--and death--as becomes a hero who knows
that failure was no fault of his own, that man can do no more than
fight nobly against the forces arrayed against him.
STORIES OF THE LIFEBOAT
Noble Deeds of Brave Men
The bluff and hearty men, heroes every one, who live all around the
coasts, ready to launch their lifeboats to go to the aid of shipwrecked
mariners, have a bright page in the history of the sea. They are
the saviours of those who go down to the sea in ships, and on every
errand of mercy they literally take their lives in their hands, place
themselves on the knees of the gods ready for sacrifice.
Sometimes the gods accept the sacrifice.
It happened so in the case of the Fethard lifeboat which, on February
20, 1914, pushed off to the assistance of the Norwegian schooner
_Mexico_, wrecked on the rocky island of South Keeragh. The _Mexico_,
losing her bearings when off the south coast of Ireland, was driven
into Bannow Bay, missed stays when her crew tried to put her about, was
caught by the fierce S.S.W. gale and the strong tide, and driven close
to the South Keeragh Island.
On the mainland it was quickly observed that the _Mexico_ was in a
dangerous position, and about 3 P.M. the lifeboat _Helen Blake_ shoved
off to her assistance. The gallant lifeboatmen pulled their hardest,
hoping to reach the spot in time to help the _Mexico_ before the
howling wind and the strong tide had finished the work begun; but,
though they tugged as they had never tugged before, they were too late.
The _Mexico_ was picked up like an india-rubber ball and flung against
the rock island. There was a grating sound as the hull crashed into the
rocks; the ripping of her bottom seemed like a clap of thunder; and
then the heavily laden ship, carrying tons of mahogany logs, bumped and
bumped again upon the rocks, which held her fast.
The men in the lifeboat, now fifty yards away, held their breath for
a moment as they saw the disaster; then on they went again, carried
this time not of their own free will, but by the relentless elemental
forces. A heavy breaker caught the boat, broke over her in a mighty
volume of water, and filled her up to the thwarts.
“Let go the anchor!” was the cry; and instantly the anchor was flung
overboard. But, before it could bring her up, three or four following
seas, as though eager to ensure destruction, caught the boat, and with
her freight of heroes, hurled her with a mighty crash against the
rocks. She smashed to pieces as though she had been built of china.
Fourteen men she had carried; and in an instant fourteen men were
struggling for dear life in the midst of a boiling sea. Pygmies
fighting against the giant forces of Nature, children beating puny
hands upon the leering face of death, striving to force the black angel
back; such were these men who, seeking to save others, were in danger
of losing themselves. And in the titanic struggle nine men were lost.
Five of them won. Buffeted against the rocks, clutching and loosing,
they fought for handhold and foothold, and at last, scrambling over the
slippery points, they managed to fight to safety.
Then, weary and half dead themselves, they thought of what they had
come out to do. The _Mexico_ was still bumping dangerously upon the
rocks, men clinging to rigging, or to anything near at hand, lest
the waves wash them away, or the lurching of the ship pitch them
overboard--to death. And those heroes, who had felt the wings of the
Angel of Death brush against them as he passed by, began the task of
saving the men on the _Mexico_.
How they did it they never realised; but they knew they worked hard,
and one by one, by means of ropes, they brought eight men off the
wrecked ship on to the island. It is but a bald statement of the fact
that, but with untellable heroism, indomitable determination, and
sublime indifference to death and danger behind it.
With no boats, no food or water except what the _Mexico_ men had
managed to bring with them, and that all-insufficient, the thirteen men
found themselves stranded on a barren island, with a raging tempest
about them and no help in sight.
They passed the first night in shivering despair, huddling together to
warm each other. Morning came, and brought no signs of succour, though
during the night other lifeboatmen had sought to sally forth to their
help, but had been beaten back by the anger of the gale.
The Wexford boat, _James Stevens_, and the Kilmore boat, _The Sisters_,
had swept through the darkness towards them, their men fighting
gallantly and the boats wrestling bravely with the waves and wind; but
all to no avail. They had to put back, her mission unfulfilled.
Meanwhile, a message had been sent to the Chief Inspector of Lifeboats
in London, Commander Thomas Holmes, R.N., who was dispatched
immediately to take charge of the operations.
Presently the stranded men saw through the haze of the storm a black
dot, tossing about on the bosom of the sea. It was the lifeboat _Fanny
Harriet_, from Dunmore East, whose gallant crew were making an attempt
to reach them. She fought bravely against the tumult, but was driven
back again and again, until her crew, realising that it was hopeless to
stay out any longer, reluctantly put back to harbour. Then once again,
and yet again, the Kilmore boat plunged into the sea, followed by the
Wexford boat, _James Stevens_. Yet all they could do was useless, and
they were forced to return to shore. Father Neptune was winning.
When Commander Holmes arrived on the scene at 3 P.M. on the Sunday he
found the _Fanny Harriet_ lying in harbour at Fethard, her men eating
their heads off as they thought of their enforced idleness. Something
about the commander brought back to these heroes the determination to
succeed; and the boat was launched again, and fought her way towards
the island. Once again, however, they were frustrated. The ground swell
prevented them from getting anywhere near the island, and the stranded
men wrung their hands as they saw her turn about. Hungry, thirsty, they
looked forward to nothing but death. Already one of their number, a man
from the _Mexico_, had succumbed to the exposure, and they saw in his
fate the picture of their own, unless help came soon. They covered him
up with some canvas and clods of earth.
[Illustration: “She fought bravely against the tumult, but was driven
back again and again”]
To the imperilled men the night of Saturday, the 21st, had been a
terrible one. The gale that swept them was the worst known on the south
coast of Ireland for many years, and the lifeboatmen, who had passed
through many terrors of the sea, knew that they stood little chance of
being taken off. For the thirteen men there were but two small tins of
preserved meat and a few limpets. On the schooner were provisions in
plenty, but it was impossible to get into her to fetch them off; and,
with food so near, they were face to face with hunger. Water, there
was none; their drink consisted of a little brandy and half a pint of
wine, which the _Mexico’s_ captain had managed to bring with him when
leaving the vessel. The biting wind blew down upon them, cutting them
to the bone; the spray flung up by the breaking waves drenched them,
and they had no shelter from the pouring rain. Yet the Fethard men bore
up bravely, encouraging the Norwegians and giving them hope, for they
knew that no efforts would be spared to get them off.
As, one by one, they saw the lifeboats try to reach them, only to be
beaten back, not all the cheering words of the Irishmen served to keep
up the spirits of the foreigners; and in their own hearts the Fethard
men realised the hopelessness of it all. They might stay there until
death came; for succour, it seemed, could never come.
But in Fethard Commander Holmes was not idle. When the _Fanny Harriet_
came back on the Sunday evening, he telephoned to Wexford, informing
the lifeboatmen that, on the Monday morning, another attempt would be
made, and asking them to proceed to the scene on the chance that the
weather would have moderated sufficiently to allow of something being
done. Of course, the Wexford men said “Yes,” and, all being arranged,
at six o’clock in the morning Holmes entered the _Fanny Harriet_. She
carried a Dunmore East crew, and a Fethard man to pilot them, for the
whole locality was strewn with hidden rocks and boulders. Fortunately,
the gale had subsided somewhat, and the lifeboat was able to approach
the vicinity of the wreck. Her men could see the stranded wretches, who
waved at them frantically, urging them onwards.
But the ground swell breaking outside the remains of the _Mexico_
was still so heavy that it was necessary for the lifeboat to cruise
round the island before a spot could be found whence it was possible
to approach the shore. At last the boat was anchored in a fairly
good position some hundred yards off the rocks; and the lifeboatmen
immediately attempted to effect communication with the castaways.
Rocket after rocket was fired, and eventually they succeeded in getting
a stick-rocket ashore with a cod-line attached. By this means a strong
line was hauled in by the men, and a small skiff which had been brought
by the lifeboat was attached to the line, and veered successfully to
within ten yards of the island. It seemed that rescue was really at
hand, and the shivering, exhausted men brightened up. They would be
saved!
Then their hopes were dashed to the ground. A heavy sea caught the
skiff, a great wave broke upon her, filled her, and drove her with a
crash against the rocks, which smashed her to pieces. But one ray of
hope came to those men. A lifebuoy which was in the skiff was washed
near to the shore, and a man plunged in, grasped it, and brought it
ashore, and felt that all was not lost.
Commander Holmes hailed them, and sought to get them to trust
themselves to the lifebuoy, which the rescuers would drag through the
seas with its living burden. It was asking much, and all knew it. It
meant casting oneself upon the mercy of a tumultuous sea, meant giving
oneself up to the danger of being flung upon rocks and boulders, to be
dashed to death. The stranded men looked at each other; no one spoke.
Then one man, the desire of life surging through him, took up the buoy,
to which the rope had been fastened, placed himself in it, and hurled
himself into the water, to be pulled into the lifeboat--safe! Another
man, seeing this, followed his example; but the others, worn out by
their experiences, preferred to wait for some surer way to safety than
that, and elected to stay on the island.
While this was going on, the Wexford boat arrived on the scene, having
been towed out by her tug. It was now a quarter past eight in the
morning, and she anchored close to the _Fanny Stevens_, but in a rather
better position; and, to the rapture of the men on the island, she had
brought with her a strong punt, which was more suitable for the work in
hand than the skiff brought from Fethard.
Two men of the Wexford boat, heroes both of them, volunteered to work
the punt. They were William Duggan and James Wickham. They got into
her, veered her down, with a rope attached to her bows, from the _James
Stevens_, and, after a fearful experience, seized the opportunity that
a “smooth” offered, and got her close enough to the rocks to snatch two
of the men. Then, with a heave-ho! they dragged them into the punt,
which was at once hauled back to the lifeboat.
Then out again in the same way the two heroes went. But this time they
were not fortunate enough to escape damage. A wave caught them, and, as
though the punt had been a toy yacht, flung her upon the rocks, which
she hit with a crash; and, when the retiring waves dragged her back,
the two men found that she had a hole in her side. Resourceful, calm,
they grabbed up a loaf of bread and some packing, and with this stopped
up the hole that had threatened to send the boat to the bottom; and
then struck out once more for the rocks. That time two more men were
saved; and so the work went on, Duggan and Wickham getting to shore
no less than five times, taking off two men at each attempt, until
the whole party of weary and almost frozen men were brought to the
lifeboat. Death had been in attendance all along; but they braved it.
They stuck stubbornly to their self-appointed task, and they succeeded.
It took but little time for the tug to take the lifeboats in tow, and
in due course the survivors of the tragic wreck were landed. The end
had come to one of the most heroic episodes in the history of the
lifeboat. Nay, not the end, for there was still the work of caring for
those whom the death of the gallant men had left behind; and the Royal
National Lifeboat Institution did all in its power to assist, while
Their Majesties of Norway contributed to the fund opened, as also did
the Storthing. And, later, the men who had worked so heroically, and
had done so well, had their efforts recognised, though to them the
greatest satisfaction was in knowing that they had wrought well, and
had snatched precious lives from the greedy maw of the sea.
* * * * *
A still more recent instance of heroic endeavour on the part of the
lifeboatmen was on the occasion of the wreck of the hospital ship
_Rohilla_. She had been taken over by the Government for use as a
hospital ship, and on Friday, October 30, 1914, when on her way to
Dunkirk, she ran into a terrific E.S.E. gale. She had 229 people on
board, including a medical staff and five nurses, bent on doing their
best for the maimed heroes who had fought for country and honour on the
battlefields of Belgium and France.
The official report of the Royal Lifeboat Institution, on which this
story is founded, is a vivid and graphic description of a tremendous
calamity.
It was soon after four o’clock in the morning that the _Rohilla_
encountered the storm, and, though her captain and crew did their very
utmost, she ran on to a dangerous reef of rocks and lay at the mercy
of a furious sea. Captain Neilson, who commanded, tried to get all the
men to go forward, but those on the poop and aft could not cross the
after part, over which giant seas were breaking. Pounded by mountainous
waves, the _Rohilla_ quickly broke in halves, and many of those on
the after part of the ship were washed away at once, and perished. As
soon as she struck, signals of distress were made, and Coxswain Thomas
Langlands was promptly called. The sea was far too heavy to do anything
until daybreak, when the No. 2 Lifeboat, _John Fielden_, was hauled on
skids under the Spa Ladder--a gangway from the East Pier at Whitby to
the cliff--and along the rocky scaur to the scene of the wreck. This
necessitated getting the boat over a sea-wall eight feet in height--a
most formidable task.
In transporting the boat she was stove in in two places. She was,
nevertheless, launched, and succeeded in reaching the wreck, which
lay surrounded by a mass of rocks. Twelve men and five women were
saved and brought ashore. The boat was then again launched, and, after
a fearful struggle with terrific seas, got to the vessel and saved
eighteen more, the heavy waves which swept through the ship or broke
over her deck filling the lifeboat time after time. Unfortunately, the
boat soon became unfit for further service, owing to repeated bumping
on the rocks. Captain John Mil-burn, a member of the local committee,
then sent for the Upgang lifeboat, which was, with great difficulty,
transported to the vicinity of the wreck.
By means of ropes the boat was lowered down the almost precipitous
cliffs, and preparations were made for her launch, but nothing could
be done in the tremendous seas running. In the meantime the Teesmouth
motor lifeboat and the lifeboat stationed at Scarborough had been
called by telephone to the assistance of those still on the wreck.
Meanwhile, the Whitby coastguards were firing rockets in rapid
succession, in the hope of getting lines to the ship; but only one was
secured--and this was of no use to the shivering people who were on the
bridge, which at any moment might give way.
The Scarborough lifeboat, _Queensbury_, in tow of the steam trawler
_Morning Star_, started as soon as possible. It was quite dark
when they arrived, and in the gale it was hopeless to establish
communication with the wreck. Both craft, however, remained at hand
through the night, and the endurance of the lifeboatmen was severely
tested during their long vigil. At daybreak, finding that it was still
impossible to get near the wreck, they returned to Scarborough.
In view of the tremendous seas making up the river at Teesmouth, it
was decided not to dispatch the boat until daybreak next morning.
This decision was conveyed to Whitby by telephone, and at 5 A.M. next
morning the crew left Redcar for Teesmouth, accompanied by the Tees
Commissioners’ tug. In crossing the bar the lifeboat encountered
tremendous seas, and, as a result of falling into the trough of a
mountainous wave, she sprang such a serious leak that she became
disabled, and it became necessary for the tug to take the crew on board
and tow the lifeboat back to Middlesbrough.
On Saturday morning the Upgang crew made a further attempt to rescue
the survivors who were huddled together on one small portion of the
wreck. For over an hour the crew struggled manfully to reach the wreck;
but the sea and the strong current running between the “Nab” and the
wreck was too strong for them, and eventually the men became totally
exhausted, and had to give up their hopeless task.
When the unfortunate men on the wreck, who had held on so bravely
throughout the night, saw the hope of being rescued diminishing, some
of them jumped overboard and attempted to swim ashore, and a number of
the onlookers, with heroic disregard for their own safety, rushed into
the boiling surf and succeeded in dragging many to the shore.
The Whitby No. 1 Lifeboat, in tow of a steam trawler, also got within
half a mile of the wreck, but the sea was too heavy for them to
approach any nearer, and the boat reluctantly returned to harbour.
It now became apparent that only a motor lifeboat would be able to
render effective help, and the Tynemouth motor lifeboat was summoned by
telegram. On Saturday afternoon the gallant crew, under the command of
Coxswain Robert Smith, and accompanied by Captain H. E. Burton, R.E.,
hon. superintendent of the motor lifeboat, started on their perilous
journey. To reach Whitby they were obliged to travel a distance of
forty-four miles through the night and storm, unaided by any coast
lights, which were all extinguished on account of the war. Thanks,
however, to Captain Burton’s intimate knowledge of the Yorkshire coast,
their gallant exertions met with the success which they deserved, and
at 1 A.M. on Sunday morning, November 1, the boat was skilfully brought
into Whitby Harbour.
Four hours later, this boat, with Lieutenant Basil Hall, R.N.,
Inspector of Lifeboats for the Southern District, on board, and the
Whitby second coxswain as pilot, left harbour for the wreck, a supply
of oil being taken to subdue the waves.
The rescue of those who had survived the terrible ordeal for fifty
hours is well described by the representative of the _Yorkshire Post_,
who witnessed the scene, and from whose report we give the following
extracts:
“The light was just rising over the sea at half-past six o’clock when
the boat crept out of the harbour again, and breasted the breakers like
a seabird as she headed straight out into calmer water. The lifeboat,
looking fearfully small and frail, throbbed her way towards the wreck.
Nearer and nearer she got; and then, when within 200 yards of the
_Rohilla_, she turned seawards.”
She was burning flares, and from the shore a searchlight was playing
upon the group of huddling people who had spent so many hours in
darkness and the stress of storm.
“Presently, when she had passed a few fathoms beyond and away from the
wreck, she stopped dead, and discharged over the boiling sea gallons
and gallons of oil. It seemed that the ocean must laugh at these puny
drops, yet the effect was remarkable; within a few seconds the oil
spread over the surface of the water, and the waves appeared suddenly
to be flattened down as by a miracle. In the meantime the lifeboat
turned about, raced at full speed past the stern of the wreck, and then
turned directly towards the shore. The most dangerous moment came when
she was inside the surf and broadside on to the waves; but, guided with
splendid skill and courage, she moved forward steadily, and a cheer of
relief went out from the shore when she reached the lee of the wreck,
immediately beneath the crowded bridge.