The coxswain went by the name of Sturdy Bob among his mates. Among the
women of the village he was better known as handsome Bob, and, looking
at him, you could not help seeing that both titles were appropriate, for
our coxswain was broad and strong as well as good-looking, with that
peculiar cast of features and calm decided manner which frequently
distinguish the men who are born to lead their fellows.
Robert Massey, though quite young, was already a leader of men--not only
by nature but by profession--being coxswain of the Greyton lifeboat,
and, truly, the men who followed his lead had need to be made of good
stuff, with bold, enthusiastic, self-sacrificing spirits, for he often
led them into scenes of wild--but, hold! We must not forecast.
Well, we introduce our hero to the reader on a calm September evening,
which blazed with sunshine. The sun need not have been mentioned,
however, but for the fact that it converted the head of a fair-haired
fisher-girl, seated beside Bob, into a ball of rippling gold, and
suffused her young cheeks with a glow that rudely intensified her
natural colour.
She was the coxswain's bride-elect, and up to that date the course of
their true love had run quite smoothly in spite of adverse proverbs.
"I can't believe my luck," said Bob, gravely.
He said most things gravely, though there was not a man in Greyton who
could laugh more heartily than he at a good joke.
"What luck do you mean, Bob?" asked Nellie Carr, lifting her eyes from
the net she was mending, and fixing them on the coxswain's bronzed face
with an air of charming innocence. Then, becoming suddenly aware of
what he meant without being told, she gave vent to a quick little laugh,
dropped her eyes on the net, and again became intent on repairs.
"To think," continued Bob, taking two or three draws at his short pipe--
for our hero was not perfect, being, like so many of his class,
afflicted with the delusion of tobacco!--"to think that there'll be no
Nellie Carr to-morrow afternoon, only a Mrs Massey! The tide o' my
life is risin' fast, Nellie--almost at flood now. It seems too good to
be true--"
"Right you are, boy," interrupted a gruff but hearty voice, as a burly
fisherman "rolled" round the stern of the boat, in front of which the
lovers were seated on the sand. "W'en my Moggie an' me was a-coortin'
we thought, an' said, it was too good to be true, an' so it was;
leastwise it was too true to be good, for Moggie took me for better an'
wuss, though it stood to reason I couldn't be both, d'ee see? an' I soon
found her wuss than better, which--"
"Come, come, Joe Slag," cried Bob, "let's have none o' your ill-omened
growls to-night. What brings you here?"
"I've comed for the key o' the lifeboat," returned Slag, with a knowing
glance at Nellie. "If the glass ain't tellin' lies we may have use for
her before long."
Massey pulled the key from his pocket, and gave it to Slag, who was his
bowman, and who, with the exception of himself, was the best man of the
lifeboat crew.
"I'll have to follow him," said Bob, rising soon after his mate had
left, "so good-bye, Nellie, till to-morrow."
He did not stoop to kiss her, for the wide sands lay before them with
fisher-boys playing thereon--apparently in their fathers' boots and
sou'-westers--and knots of observant comrades scattered about.
"See that you're not late at church to-morrow, Bob," said the girl, with
a smile and a warning look.
"Trust me," returned Bob.
As he walked towards the lifeboat-house--a conspicuous little building
near the pier--he tried to blow off some of the joy in his capacious
breast, by whistling.
"Why, Slag," he exclaimed on entering the shed, "I do believe you've
been an' put on the blue ribbon!"
"That's just what I've done, Bob," returned the other. "I thought you'd
'ave noticed it at the boat; but I forgot you could see nothin' but the
blue of Nellie's eyes."
"Of course not. Who'd expect me to see anything else when I'm beside
_her_?" retorted Bob. "But what has made you change your mind? I'm
sure the last time I tried to get you to hoist the blue-peter ye were
obstinate enough--dead against it."
"True, Bob; but since that time I've seed a dear woman that I was fond
of _die_ from drink, an' I've seed Tom Riley, one of our best men, get
on the road to ruin through the same; so I've hoisted the blue flag, as
ye see."
"That's a good job, Slag, but don't you forget, my lad, that the blue
ribbon won't save you. There's but _one_ Saviour of men. Nevertheless,
it's well to fight our battles under a flag, an' the blue is a good
one--as things go. Show your colours and never say die; that's my
motto. As you said, Slag, the glass _is_ uncommon low to-day. I
shouldn't wonder if there was dirty weather brewin' up somewhere."
The coxswain was right, and the barometer on that occasion was a true
prophet. The weather which "brewed up" that evening was more than
"dirty," it was tempestuous; and before midnight a tremendous hurricane
was devastating the western shores of the kingdom. Many a good ship
fought a hard battle that night with tide and tempest, and many a bad
one went down. The gale was short-lived but fierce, and it strewed our
western shores with wreckage and corpses, while it called forth the
energies and heroism of our lifeboat and coastguard men from north to
south.
Driving before the gale that night under close-reefed topsails, a small
but well-found schooner came careering over the foaming billows from the
regions of the far south, freighted with merchandise and gold and happy
human beings. Happy! Ay, they were happy, both passengers and crew,
for they were used by that time to facing and out-riding gales; and was
not the desired haven almost in sight--home close at hand?
The captain, however, did not share in the general satisfaction. Out in
"blue water" he feared no gale, but no one knew better than himself that
the enemy was about to assail him at his weakest moment--when close to
land. No one, however, could guess his thoughts as he stood there upon
the quarter-deck, clad in oil-skins, drenched with spray, glancing now
at the compass, now at the sails, or at the scarce visible horizon.
As darkness deepened and tempest increased, the passengers below became
less cheerful, with the exception of one curly-haired little girl, whose
exuberant spirit nothing could quell. Her young widowed mother had
given in to the little one's importunities, and allowed her to sit up
late on this the last night at sea, to lend a helping hand while she
packed up so as to be ready for landing next day. Consent had been the
more readily given that the white-haired grandfather of little Lizzie
volunteered to take care of her and keep her out of mischief.
The other passengers were as yet only subdued, not alarmed. There were
men and women and little ones from the Australian cities, rough men from
the sheep farms, and bronzed men from the gold mines. All were busy
making preparations to land on the morrow. With the exception of those
preparations things on board went on much as they had been going on in
"dirty weather" all the voyage through.
Suddenly there was a crash! Most of the male passengers, knowing well
what it meant, sprang to the companion-ladder--those of them at least
who had not been thrown down or paralysed--and rushed on deck. Shrieks
and yells burst forth as if in emulation of the howling winds. Crash
followed crash, as each billow lifted the doomed vessel, and let her
fall on the sands with a shock that no structure made by man could long
withstand. Next moment a terrific rending overhead told that one, or
both, of the masts had gone by the board. At the same time the sea
found entrance and poured down hatchways and through opening seams in
cataracts. The inclined position of the deck showed that she was
aground.
The very thought of being _aground_ comforted some, for, to their minds,
it implied nearness to land, and _land_ was, in their idea, safety.
These simple ones were doomed to terrible enlightenment. Little Lizzie,
pale and silent from terror, clung to her grandfather's neck; the young
widow to his disengaged arm. With the other arm the old man held on to
a brass rod, and prevented all three from being swept to leeward, where
several of the women and children were already struggling to escape from
a mass of water and wrecked furniture.
"Come on deck--all hands!" shouted a hoarse voice, as one of the
officers leaped into the cabin, followed by several men, who assisted
the people to rise.
It is usual to keep passengers below as much as possible in such
circumstances, but the position of the schooner, with her bow high on a
bank, and her stern deep in the water, rendered a different course
needful on this occasion.
With difficulty the passengers were got up to the bow, where they
clustered and clung about the windlass and other points of vantage.
Then it was that the true nature of their calamity was revealed, for no
land was visible, nothing was to be seen around them but a hell of
raging foam, which, in the almost total darkness of the night, leaped
and glimmered as if with phosphoric light. Beyond this circle of, as it
were, wild lambent flame, all was black, like a wall of ebony, from out
of which continually there rushed into view coiling, curling,
hoary-headed monsters, in the shape of roaring billows, which burst upon
and over them, deluging the decks, and causing the timbers of the ship
to writhe as if in pain.
"We've got on the tail o' the sands," muttered a sailor to some one as
he passed, axe in hand, to cut away the wreckage of the masts, which
were pounding and tugging alongside.
On the sands! Yes, but no sands were visible, for they had struck on an
outlying bank, far from shore, over which the ocean swept like the besom
of destruction.
It was nearly low water at the time of the disaster. As the tide fell
the wreck ceased to heave. Then it became possible for the seamen to
move about without clinging to shrouds and stanchions for very life.
"Fetch a rocket, Jim," said the captain to one of the men.
Jim obeyed, and soon a whizzing line of light was seen athwart the black
sky.
"They'll never see it," muttered the first mate, as he got ready another
rocket. "Weather's too thick."
Several rockets were fired, and then, to make more sure of attracting
the lifeboat men, a tar-barrel, fastened to the end of a spar, was
thrust out ahead and set on fire. By the grand lurid flare of this
giant torch the surrounding desolation was made more apparent, and at
the fearful sight hearts which had hitherto held up began to sink in
despair.
The mate's fears seemed to be well grounded, for no answering signal was
seen to rise from the land, towards which every eye was anxiously
strained. One hour passed, then another, and another, but still no help
came. Then the tide began to rise, and with it, of course, the danger
to increase. All this time rockets had been sent up at intervals, and
tar-barrels had been kept burning.
"We had better make the women and children fast, sir," suggested the
mate, as a heavy mass of spray burst over the bulwarks and drenched
them.
"Do so," replied the captain, gathering up a coil of rope to assist in
the work.
"Is this necessary?" asked the widow, as the captain approached her.
"I fear it is," he replied. "The tide is rising fast. In a short time
the waves will be breaking over us again, and you will run a chance of
bein' swept away if we don't make you fast. But don't despair, they
must have seen our signals by this time, an' we shall soon have the
lifeboat out."
"God grant it," murmured the widow, fervently, as she strained poor
little trembling Lizzie to her breast.
But as the moments flew by and no succour came, some gave way altogether
and moaned piteously, while others appeared to be bereft of all capacity
of thought or action. Many began to pray in frantic incoherence, and
several gave vent to their feelings in curses. Only a few maintained
absolute self-possession and silence. Among these were the widow and
one or two of the other women.
They were in this condition when one of the crew who had been noted as a
first-rate singer of sea songs, and the "life of the fo'c's'l," had
occasion to pass the spot where the passengers were huddled under the
lee of the starboard bulwarks.
"Is there never a one of ye," he asked, almost sternly, "who can pray
like a Christian without screechin'? You don't suppose the Almighty's
deaf, do you?"
This unexpected speech quieted the noisy ones, and one of the women,
turning to a man beside her, said, "You pray for us, Joe."
Joe was one of those who had remained, from the first, perfectly still,
except when required to move, or when those near him needed assistance.
He was a grave elderly man, whose quiet demeanour, dress, and general
appearance, suggested the idea of a city missionary--an idea which was
strengthened when, in obedience to the woman's request, he promptly
prayed, in measured sentences, yet with intense earnestness, for
deliverance--first from sin and then from impending death--in the name
of Jesus. His petition was very short, and it was barely finished when
a wave of unusual size struck the vessel with tremendous violence, burst
over the side and almost swept every one into the sea. Indeed, it was
evident that some of the weaker of the party would have perished then if
they had not been secured to the vessel with ropes.
It seemed like a stern refusal of the prayer, and was regarded as such
by some of the despairing ones, when a sudden cheer was heard and a
light resembling a great star was seen to burst from the darkness to
windward.
"The lifeboat!" shouted the captain, and they cheered with as much
hearty joy as if they were already safe.
A few minutes more and the familiar blue and white boat of mercy leaped
out of darkness into the midst of the foaming waters like a living
creature.
It was the boat from the neighbouring port of Brentley. Either the
storm-drift had not been so thick in that direction as in the
neighbourhood of Greyton, or the Brentley men had kept a better
look-out. She had run down to the wreck under sail. On reaching it--a
short distant to windward--the sail was lowered, the anchor dropped, the
cable payed out, and the boat eased down until it was under the lee of
the wreck. But the first joy at her appearance quickly died out of the
hearts of some, who were ignorant of the powers of lifeboats and
lifeboat men, when the little craft was seen at one moment tossed on the
leaping foam till on a level with the ship's bulwarks, at the next
moment far down in the swirling waters under the mizzen chains; now
sheering off as if about to forsake them altogether; anon rushing at
their sides with a violence that threatened swift destruction to the
boat; never for one instant still; always tugging and plunging like a
mad thing. "How can we ever get into that?" was the thought that
naturally sprang into the minds of some, with chilling power.
Those, however, who understood the situation better, had more legitimate
ground for anxiety, for they knew that the lifeboat, if loaded to its
utmost capacity, could not carry more than half the souls that had to be
saved. On becoming aware of this the men soon began to reveal their
true characters. The unselfish and gentle made way for the women and
children. The coarse and brutal, casting shame and every manly feeling
aside, struggled to the front with oaths and curses, some of them even
using that false familiar motto, "Every man for himself, and God for us
all!"
But these received a check at the gangway, for there stood the captain,
revolver in hand. He spoke but one word--"back," and the cravens slunk
away. The mild man who had offered prayer sat on the ship's bulwarks
calmly looking on. He understood the limited capacity of the boat, and
had made up his mind to die.
"Now, madam, make haste," cried the mate, pushing his way towards the
widow.
"Come, father," she said, holding out her hand; but the old man did not
move.
"There are more women and little ones," he said, "than the boat can
hold. Good-bye, darling. We shall meet again--up yonder. Go."
"Never!" exclaimed the widow, springing to his side. "I will die with
you, father! But here, boatman, save, oh, save my child!"
No one attended to her. At such terrible moments men cannot afford to
wait on indecision. Other women were ready and only too glad to go.
With a sense almost of relief at the thought that separation was now
impossible, the widow strained the child to her bosom and clung to her
old father.
At that moment the report of a pistol was heard, and a man fell dead
upon the deck. At the last moment he had resolved to risk all and
rushed to the side, intending to jump into the boat.
"Shove off," was shouted. The boat shot from the vessel's side. The
bowman hauled on the cable. In a few seconds the oars were shipped, the
anchor was got in, and the overloaded but insubmergible craft
disappeared into the darkness out of which it had come.
The wretched people thus left on the wreck knew well that the boat could
not make her port, land the rescued party, and return for them under
some hours. They also knew that the waves were increasing in power and
volume with the rising water, and that their vessel could not survive
another tide. Can we wonder that most of them again gave way to
despair--forgetting that with God "all things are possible?"
They were not yet forsaken, however. On the pier-head at Greyton their
signals had indeed been observed, but while the Brentley boat, owing to
its position, could run down to the wreck with all sail set, it was
impossible for that of Greyton to reach it, except by pulling slowly
against wind and tide.
The instant that Bob Massey saw the flare of the first tar-barrel he had
called out his men. One after another they came leaping over the
rocks--eager for the God-like work of saving life.
It is one of the grand characteristics of our lifeboatmen that on being
summoned to the fight there are often far more volunteers than are
required. Joe Slag, as in duty bound, was first to answer the call.
Then several of the younger men came running down. Last of all--almost
too late--Tom Riley appeared, buckling on his lifebelt as he ran. His
gait was not quite steady, and his face was flushed. The coxswain was
quick to note these facts.
"Take that lifebelt off!" he said, sternly, when Riley came up.
No need to ask why. The tippler knew the reason why only too well, and
he also knew that it was useless, as well as dangerous, to disobey the
coxswain. He took off the belt at once, flung it down, and staggered
away back to his grog-shop.
A powerful young fisherman--who had felt almost heart-broken by being
refused permission to go for want of room--gladly put on the belt and
took Riley's place. Another minute and they were out of the harbour,
battling with the billows and fighting their way inch by inch against
the howling blast. At last they got out so far that they could hoist
sail and run with a slant for the wreck.