WOMAN AT SEA.
Poets’ Opinions on Early Navigation—Who was the First Female
Navigator?—Noah’s Voyage—A Thrilling Tale—A Strained Vessel—A
Furious Gale—A Birth at Sea—The Ship Doomed—Ladies and Children in
an Open Boat—Drunken Sailors—Semi‐starvation, Cold, and
Wet—Exposed to the Tropical Sun—Death of a Poor Baby—Sharks
about—A Thievish Sailor—Proposed Cannibalism—A Sail!—The Ship
passes by—Despair—Saved at Last—Experiences of a
Yachtswoman—Nearly Swamped and Carried Away—An Abandoned Ship—The
_Sunbeam_ of Service—Ship on Fire!—Dangers of a Coal Cargo—The
Crew Taken off—Noble Lady Passengers—Two Modern Heroines and their
Deeds—The Story of Grace Darling—The Longstone Light and Wreck of
the _Forfarshire_—To the Rescue!—Death of Grace Darling.
“Hearts sure of brass they had who tempted first
Rude seas that spare not what themselves have nursed.”
So sings Waller, and his words are only the repetition of a sentiment much
more grandly expressed by Horace, who wrote now near two thousand years
ago:—“Surely oak and threefold brass surrounded his heart who first
trusted a frail vessel to the merciless ocean.” And once more, just to
show the unanimity of the poets on this point, Dr. Watts has said:—
“It was a brave attempt! advent’rous he
Who in the first ship broke the unknown sea.”
Now, if all this is said of man, what shall be said of the woman who first
trusted herself on the great deep? Who was she? It would be most difficult
to satisfactorily answer this question, but there can be no doubt that
“Noah’s wife, and the three wives of his sons,” whose voyage and enforced
residence in the ark lasted no less than twelve months and three days(24)
are the earliest females on record who embarked in a great vessel on a
boundless expanse of waters.
These pages have already presented episodes in the lives of many seafaring
ladies, but till now no chapter has been specially devoted to the subject.
In these days of general travel ladies make, as we have often seen, long
voyages to and from far distant parts. One of them, some nineteen years
ago, underwent the horrors of shipwreck, and her subsequent sufferings
were admirably told by her under the title of “Ten Terrible Days.” The
account, which should be read in its entirety, is here, for obvious
reasons, considerably condensed.
One day late in the year 1861 a grain‐laden vessel, a fine clipper, might
have been seen slowly and gracefully sailing out of the noble bay of San
Francisco. On her as passengers were two or three ladies with children,
among them Mrs. William Murray, the authoress, who had been recommended to
take the long voyage home in a roving clipper, in preference to taking a
passage in the over‐crowded steamers running to Panama and New York. Let
her open the story. “The sun,” says she, “was shining as it always does in
California, until the sea and the rocks and the vast city seemed literally
glittering with sunlight. One long look back to the happy home of the last
six years, to the home still of the husband and brothers obliged to remain
behind, and at last I had only the sea that parted us to look at through
my tears. Our friends had seen us set sail in what seemed a gallant ship.
It had been chosen from all others as the one to send us home in for its
show of perfectness. There were men in San Francisco who knew that the
ship was unseaworthy (having been frightfully strained in her last voyage
to China), and that she was in no fit condition to be trusted with the
lives of helpless women and children, yet they let us sail without a word
of warning.”
The dreaded Horn had been easily rounded in good weather, and on the
evening of January 4th, 1862, they had been eighty‐six days out; in ten
more they expected to be in England. The sailors had predicted a stormy
night, and a terrific gale followed closely on that prophecy. The wind
increased in fury, and the ship rolled till those on board were often
thrown from their feet. That night a child was born on board, and the
kindly lady passengers did all in their power for the poor mother.
“At dawn,” says Mrs. Murray, “taking my little girl by the hand, I went on
deck. The storm had in some measure abated, but the sea looked black and
sullen, and the swell of the vast heavy waves seemed to mock our frailty.
The sailors had been up all night, and were as men playing at some
ferocious game: some working in desperation at the pumps, and singing at
the pitch of their voices wild sea‐songs to time their common efforts;
others employed in throwing hundreds of bags of grain into the sea, that
they might thus lighten the ship. This, I think, more than all, showed me
our peril. I wandered about, too miserable to remain in any one spot, till
the captain assembled us all once more in the cabin to get some food,
saying that it was impossible to save the ship, and that we should have
need of all our fortitude. I remembered my own vain attempt to eat some
bread, but the poor little children took their breakfast and enjoyed it.
“We were then each provided with a large bag made of sailcloth, and were
advised by the captain to fill it with the warmest articles of clothing we
possessed.
“All my worldly possessions were on board, comprising many memorials of
dear friends, portraits of loved ones I shall never see again, and my
money loss I knew would be no trifle. In perfect bewilderment I looked
round, and filled my bag with stockings and a couple of warm shawls. On
the top of a box I saw a little parcel that had been entrusted to me by a
lady in California to deliver to her mother in Liverpool. I put that in my
bag, and she got it.... There had been no thought of removing the
breakfast, and with the rolling of the ship, which was every moment
becoming worse, everything had fallen on the floor, and was dashing about
in all directions. Boxes, water‐jugs, plates, dishes, chairs, glasses,
were pitching from one end of the saloon to the other. Children screaming,
sailors shouting and cursing, and loud above all there was the creaking of
timbers, and the sullen sound of water fast gaining upon us in the hold of
the ship, which groaned and laboured like a living thing in agony.”
How the ridiculous will intrude even at such times is shown in the
following. A little boy was discovered helping himself out of the
medicine‐chest, particularly busy with the contents of a broken calomel
bottle! Lamp‐oil served as an emetic in this emergency, and the
youngster’s life was saved. And now the first mate, upon whose decision
and firmness much depended, having lost his presence of mind, had drunk
deeply of whisky. He was intoxicated, and so, too, were many of the
sailors, who had followed his example. The captain, meantime, had been
busily employed in ordering out food and water to supply the boats,
collecting the ship’s papers, &c. The lowering of the boats he had
entrusted to his officers. On hearing of the drunkenness on deck, his
first thought was to get the women and children off at once, for should
the sailors seize the boats, what would become of them? Two boats had
already been smashed whilst lowering them into the sea, and there were
only two remaining. Forty‐seven people to cram into two frail boats,
fifteen hundred miles from land: delicately‐nurtured women, helpless
children, drunken and desperate men.
[Illustration: “THE PASSENGERS WERE LET DOWN BY ROPES” (_p. 58_).]
By the help of the most sober of the sailors, the captain’s own boat was
lowered; some small mattresses, pillows, blankets, a cask of water, sacks
of biscuit, and nautical instruments, were first put in; then the
passengers were let down by ropes. “It seems marvellous,” says Mrs.
Murray, “when I think of it now, that in our descent we were not dashed to
pieces against the ship’s side. We had to wait for each descent a
favourable moment while she was leaning over. Then the word of command was
given, and we were slung down like sheep. My heart stood still whilst my
little one was going down, and then I followed. It was a terrible sight
for a woman to see that poor creature whose baby was born the night
before, looking like a corpse in a long dressing‐gown of white flannel,
with the poor little atom of mortality tightly clasped in her arms. I
thought she would die before the day was over.”
At last they were all in the boat: four women, five children, the second
mate, and sixteen sailors. The captain stayed on the ship, providing for
the safety of the drunken creatures who could not take care of themselves,
and then he came off. How small the boat looked by the side of the tall
ship! And they had to get quickly out of her reach, for she was rolling so
heavily that the waters near her boiled up like a maelström.
Away they drifted, a mere speck upon the ocean. Before night there came a
storm of thunder, lightning, wind, and rain, that lasted through the
darkness, and by which they were drenched through and through. “I sat up,”
says the narrator, “for some twelve or fourteen hours on a narrow plank,
with my child in my arms, utterly miserable, cold, and hopeless, soaked to
the skin, blinded by the salt spray, my face and hands smarting
intolerably with the unusual exposure.”
During the storm and confusion the greater part of their biscuit had been
soaked with salt water, and made useless. It was also discovered that the
food collected for the captain’s boat had been thrown by mistake into the
other, therefore it was necessary at once to put them on allowance: half a
pint of water and half a biscuit a day to each person. Except the biscuit,
there were only a few small tins of preserved strawberries and Indian
corn, and these were given to the ladies. “How the poor children cried
with hunger as the days dragged on!”
The boat leaked from the beginning, and the sailors by turns baled the
water out in little cans. Exposed to the glare of a tropical sun for hours
together, nearly mad with thirst, bearing her child in her weak arms, for
she was too much exhausted to stand, Mrs. Murray says that often she would
sit for hours without any thought at all, vacantly gazing on the ocean.
“We had,” says she, “three days of dead calm. The sun glared down upon us
pitilessly, and I thought how pleasant it would be to throw myself into
the sea, and sink calmly to death beneath its waves. I lost all wish to
live—for life seemed horrible. I cannot describe the days as they passed
separately, one by one; when I look back upon them, they all seem to have
been one misery. I remember that on the third day out poor Kitty’s baby
died—indeed, it had been dying from the first. It never had a chance of
living, for it had no fit attention and no sustenance. The poor mother
cried bitterly when at last it became cold on her bosom, but its death was
a merciful release. Wrapped in a shawl of bright colours, it was thrown
overboard, but was so light that it could not sink, and floated for hours
on a sea so calm in the hot sun that scarce a ripple could be seen. At
last it disappeared suddenly, the prey of some hungry shark, and when
afterwards the horrid monsters crowded round our boat they added to our
misery. Hitherto the children had been plunged into the sea every morning
to preserve them in health, but we dared not continue this practice with
those horrid creatures on our lee.... I must not forget one incident,
trifling in itself, but which might have caused the death of one of the
sailors. On the day of the wreck I had caused two or three bottles of ale
and one of claret to be put in the boat, thinking it might be of great use
to us. On the third or fourth night out, when we were shivering helplessly
after a drenching shower of rain, we thought that a bottle of ale should
be opened for the women and children, but not a bottle of any sort was to
be found.” The rage of the captain was awful, and but for the intercession
of the ladies, he swore that he would have thrown the man overboard.
It was on the morning of the tenth day that the frightful thought of
eating the children came into the heads of three or four desperate men,
and the captain and a few trustworthy companions had made up their minds
to slay the would‐be murderers that very night in their sleep. The last
and fatal hour of their great agony seemed to be come. On the morning of
the tenth day a sail was reported, and a white towel hoisted to attract
her attention. She came near enough for the captain to make out that she
carried the Hamburg flag, and then “passed by on the other side.” Curses
loud and deep came from the sailors’ lips. Then the women looked into each
other’s faces and the children cried, and the wolfish eyes of the would‐be
cannibals were again fixed upon them.
But Heaven was merciful, and again a sail was reported. Nearer and nearer
she came, faster rowed the hungry sailors, when there rose a wild shout,
“She has stopped!” and surely there she was at rest in the water, waiting
to see what manner of beings they were. “Row faster, my men, and keep down
the women and children,” sang out the captain, for he was fearful that if
their number was discovered the vessel might pass them, as had that seen
in the morning.
“Oh, what a lovely afternoon,” says Mrs. Murray, “that was when we were
saved—such a blaze of sunshine, such blue skies, such a glistening,
glowing sea, as if even the treacherous ocean were rejoicing with us. At
length we were close alongside of the ship, and saw crowds of human beings
clustering about to look at us—dark, swarthy faces, for they were all
Spaniards, but full of pity, wonderment, and horror. They took us all in,
one by one, and when they saw the women and little children they wept.
They could not speak our language, and looked upon us with bewilderment,
but when I (who fortunately could speak Spanish), kneeling down on deck,
said ‘Gracias a Dios’ (Thank God), their tongues were loosened, and there
was a flood of questions and crowding round us, with weeping and laughing
and shaking of hands. How good were those kind‐hearted men! How I thank
them all, every one, now as I write, from the worthy captain down to the
lowest of his crew. And they brought us bread and wine and water—precious
water, how good it was!”
A few of Mrs. Brassey’s experiences on her husband’s yacht will be read
with interest. One day, after their five o’clock dinner, she and some of
her children very nearly met with a most serious accident. “We were all
sitting,” writes that lady, “or standing about the stern of the vessel,
admiring the magnificent dark blue billows following us, with their
curling white crests mountains high. Each wave, as it approached, appeared
as if it must overwhelm us, instead of which it rushed grandly by, rolling
and shaking us from stem to stern, and sending fountains of spray on
board.... A new hand was steering, and just at the moment when an
unusually big wave overtook us he unfortunately allowed the vessel to
broach to a little. In a second the sea came pouring over the stern, above
Allnut’s head. The boy was nearly washed overboard, but he managed to
catch hold of the rail, and with great presence of mind stuck his knees
into the bulwarks. Kindred, our boatswain, seeing his danger, rushed
forward to save him, but was knocked down by the return wave, from which
he emerged gasping.
“The coil of rope on which Captain Lecky and Mabelle were seated was
completely floated by the sea. Providentially, however, he had taken a
double turn round his wrist with a reefing point, and, throwing his other
arm round Mabelle, held on like grim death; otherwise, nothing could have
saved them. She was perfectly self‐possessed, and only said quietly, ‘Hold
on, Captain Lecky, hold on!’ to which he replied, ‘All right.’ I asked her
afterwards if she thought she was going overboard, and she answered, ‘I
did not _think_ at all, mamma, but felt sure we were gone.’ Captain Lecky,
being accustomed to very large ships, had not in the least realised how
near we were to the water in our little vessel, and was proportionately
taken by surprise. All the rest of the party were drenched, with the
exception of Muriel, whom Captain Brown held high above the water in his
arms, and who lost no time in remarking, in the midst of the general
confusion ‘I’m not at all wet, I’m not!’ Happily, the children don’t know
what fear is. The maids, however, were very frightened, as some of the sea
had got down into the nursery, and the skylights had to be screwed down.
Our studding‐sail‐boom, too, broke with a loud crack when the ship
broached to, and the jaws of the fore‐boom gave way.
“Soon after this adventure we all went to bed, full of thankfulness that
it had ended as well as it did; but also not, so far as I am concerned, to
rest in peace. In about two hours I was awakened by a tremendous weight of
water suddenly descending upon me and flooding the bed. I immediately
sprang out, only to find myself in another pool on the floor. It was pitch
dark, and I could not think what had happened; so I rushed on deck, and
found that, the weather having moderated a little, some kind sailor,
knowing my love of fresh air, had opened the skylight rather too soon, and
one of the angry waves had popped on board, deluging the cabin.”
The _Sunbeam_ encountered a wreck, and the account given of its inspection
will be read with interest. Mrs. Brassey says:—“When I went on deck, at
half‐past six, I found a grey, steamy, calm morning, promising a very hot
day, without wind.
“About 10.30 a.m. the cry of ‘Sail on the port helm!’ caused general
excitement, and in a few minutes every telescope and glass in the ship had
been brought to bear upon the object which attracted our attention, and
which was soon pronounced to be a wreck. Orders were given to starboard
the helm and to steer direct for the vessel; and many were the conjectures
hazarded and the questions asked of the fortunate holders of glasses.
‘What is she?’ ‘Is there any one on board?’ ‘Does she look as if she had
been long abandoned?’ Soon we were near enough to send a boat’s crew on
board, whilst we watched their movements anxiously from the bridge. We
could now read her name—the _Carolina_—surmounted by a gorgeous yellow
decoration on her stern. She was of between two and three hundred tons
burden, and was painted a light blue with a red streak. Beneath her white
bowsprit the gaudy image of a woman served as a figure‐head. The two masts
had been snapped short off about three feet from the deck, and the
bulwarks were gone, only the covering board and stanchions remaining, so
that each wave washed over and through her. The roof and supports of the
deck‐house and the companions were still left standing, but the sides had
disappeared, and the ship’s deck was burst up in such a manner as to
remind one of a quail’s back.... We saw the men on board poking about,
apparently very pleased with what they had found; and soon our boat
returned to the yacht for some breakers, as the _Carolina_ had been laden
with port wine and cork, and the men wished to bring some of the former on
board. I changed my dress, and putting on my sea‐boots, started for the
wreck.
“We found the men rather excited over their discovery. The wine must have
been very new and very strong, for the smell from it as it slopped about
all over the deck was almost enough to intoxicate anybody. One pipe had
already been emptied into the breakers and barrels, and great efforts were
made to get some of the casks out whole; but this was found to be
impossible, without devoting more time to the operation than we chose to
spare. The men managed to remove three half empty casks with their heads
stove in, which they threw overboard, but the full ones would have
required special appliances to raise them through the hatches. It proved
exceedingly difficult to get at the wine, which was stowed underneath the
cork, and there was also a quantity of cabin bulkheads and fittings
floating about under the influence of the long swell of the Atlantic. It
was a curious sight, standing on the roof of the deck‐house, to look into
the hold, full of floating bales of cork, barrels, and pieces of wood, and
to watch the sea surging up in every direction through and over the deck,
which was level with the water’s edge. I saw an excellent modern iron
cooking‐stove washing about from side to side; but almost every other
movable article, including spars and ropes, had apparently been removed by
previous boarders.” It would have delayed them too long to tow her into
port, or they might have recovered some £1,500 as salvage, while to blow
her up would have required more powder than they had on board. So she was
left helplessly drifting about, a danger to any vessel running into her
full steam or sail almost as great as a sunken rock.
Later, the owner of the _Sunbeam_ was of real service, for a fine vessel
was encountered, under full sail and on fire, her cargo being smelting
coal. Her red Union Jack was upside down, while her signals read the
terrible announcement, “Ship on fire!” These were followed by the signal,
“Come on board at once,” and a boat’s crew was at once despatched to the
rescue. They were purposely well armed, and for the sufficient reason that
there was little sign of fire or smoke on board, and it was thought that
there might be a mutiny on board. In a few minutes the boat returned with
the chief mate, a fine‐looking Norwegian, who reported his vessel the
_Monkshaven_, sixty‐eight days from Swansea, and bound for Valparaiso. The
fire had been discovered five days previously, and the morning following
the first day the crew had got all their clothes and provisions on deck,
and had thrown everything of a combustible nature—tar, oil, pitch, spare
spars, and so forth—overboard. The hatches had then been battened down,
but all efforts to subdue the fire were unavailing. The officers and men
had been living on deck under a canvas screen, the water being a foot deep
even there. When the hatches were opened for a moment, dense clouds of
hot, suffocating yellow smoke immediately poured forth, driving back all
who approached. In such cases it is often difficult to find the location
of the fire, which may at any time burst open the deck or burn a hole
through the hull. The dangerous nature of such cargoes may be inferred
from the fact that of every three vessels going out to Valparaiso or
Callao, one catches fire, although, of course, the flames are often got
under control. They had encountered a terrific gale, and while burning had
signalled a large American steamship, which had contemptuously steamed
away from them. When the men had all been transferred to the yacht—for it
was found impossible to save the barque—the poor fellows were almost wild
with joy and excitement. Soon after the fated vessel was blazing like a
tar‐barrel, and the yacht steamed round her near enough for all on board
to feel the heat. Fifteen extra mouths to feed was a serious addition to
the passengers and crew of the _Sunbeam_, and the water ration had to be
cut down, but otherwise they had all they could wish, and a week later
were transferred to the Pacific Company’s mail steamer _Illimani_, then
homeward bound. The satisfaction which must have been felt by Mr. and Mrs.
Brassey at having the ability as well as the will to save fifteen lives
may well be imagined.
One of woman’s noblest attributes is her readiness to help in the hour of
need, and its exercise has been by no means confined to the land. Late in
1879 the British India Steam Navigation Company’s steamer _Eldorado_ had a
hairbreadth escape from destruction in the Bay of Biscay. The rascally
Lascar crew abandoned their posts and gave themselves up to despair, and
the passengers “passed” coal to the stoke‐hole and worked hard at baling;
many ladies even volunteered to assist, and two American ladies acted as
stewardesses and dispensed coffee and provisions to the rest.
[Illustration: THE RESCUE FROM THE ST. LAWRENCE RIVER.]
How often of late years have female swimmers saved life? The case to be
cited, and which occurred in fresh water, is only one of scores that might
be recorded here. On the 5th December, 1879, two men had to cross the St.
Lawrence River, from La Rue Island to a wharf on the main shore. It was an
intensely cold day, and a heavy gale was blowing strongly from the north‐
east up the river. The men loaded their punt with a sleigh, and had
managed to reach the middle of the channel, when a sudden and violent gust
of wind swamped the punt and turned her over. The men clung to her while
bottom upward, and tried to “tread” the water so as to get her to the
shore, but in vain; the cold was so intense that their legs were benumbed
above the knees, and they gave themselves up for lost. They remained in
this perilous position for a considerable time, shouting loudly for help
till their throats were sore. Making a final effort, they shouted again,
and this time their cries were heard at the house of a Mr. Darling, who,
with his family, resided close to the shore. That gentleman was ill in
bed, but his wife and daughters, Maggie and Jessie, were at home, the men
and boys being at work in the fields at a distance. On hearing the last
painful shout of the drowning men, they quickly opened the door, to see
them struggling in the great river—a stream the width and volume of which
surpass anything in Europe. The first suggestion from the mother was to
fetch the men from the fields, but before this could be done brave Maggie
and Jessie—the latter a girl of sixteen years—had, without a word,
launched the skiff, and were rowing with all their strength through the
troubled waters and driving storm. They had the greatest difficulty in
reaching the exhausted and helpless men, but at last their noble effort
was rewarded, and in ten minutes the poor fellows were being chafed and
warmed by their father’s fire. Brave Maggie and Jessie! worthy successors,
indeed, to your namesake, the heroine of the Longstone Light!
The story of Grace Darling must be familiar to our readers. The
circumstances which called forth her courage and humanity were as follow:—
The _Forfarshire_, a steamer of moderate size, left Hull for Dundee on the
evening of September 5th, 1838, having on board a considerable amount of
freight and sixty‐three passengers and crew. Soon after leaving the Humber
the boilers began to leak, and on Thursday morning the weather became very
tempestuous, while a thick mist enveloped the vessel. The steamer managed
to pass the Fern Islands, on the way north, early on Thursday evening, but
had all she could do to make headway in a very heavy sea, while the
alarming fact was discovered that her boilers’ leakage was increasing. As
the night advanced the weather became more and more boisterous, and
somewhere off Berwick it was found that the water from above was deluging
the furnace fires. Off St. Abb’s Head, the engineer reported that the
machinery would work no longer; the sails were accordingly set, and the
vessel allowed to drive before the wind, which took her southward. Before
daybreak on Friday morning the roar of breakers near at hand was heard;
and the captain tried hard to avert the appalling catastrophe which seemed
inevitable, and steer the vessel between the islands and the mainland,
through a channel known as the Fair Way. But the _Forfarshire_ would not
answer her helm, and was driven hither and thither by a furious sea. The
scene at this juncture baffles description. Utter darkness enveloped the
doomed vessel, over which the sea broke in tremendous waves, and the noise
of which almost drowned the agonising shrieks of the passengers. The
vessel, a few minutes later, struck a rock, her bows banging and crashing
upon it. At this moment a rush was made by eight of the crew to a boat,
which they lowered successfully, one almost naked and frenzied passenger
jumping into it after them. The ship was now at her last extremity.
“Then some leaped overboard with dreadful yell,
As eager to anticipate their grave;
And the sea yawned around her like a hell,
And down she sucked with her the whirling wave,
Like one who grapples with his enemy,
And strives to strangle him before he die.”
A moment or two after the first shock, another great sea struck her,
raising her high in the air and then bringing her down with a terrific
crash on the jagged reef, and with a shock so tremendous that she
literally broke in two. The whole of the upper part of the vessel,
including the chief cabin, filled with passengers, was swept away, and
sank almost immediately. Every soul on that part of the vessel was
engulfed in an ocean grave. Good George Herbert says truly, “He that will
learn to pray, let him go to sea.”
The fore part of the vessel remained spitted on a rocky projection; and
had the _Forfarshire_ drifted a few yards further to the south‐west she
would have escaped her terrible fate, as the rock there descends almost
precipitously into deep water. Meantime, at the Fern Lighthouse, a mile
off, nothing had been seen of the actual occurrence, but at seven o’clock
the vessel was noticed lying on the rock. The weather was so bad that the
lighthouse‐keeper, Mr. Darling, doubted the possibility of rendering
assistance. But his daughter Grace entreated her father to go off in the
boat at all risks, and offered herself to take one oar. Mr. Darling, thus
urged, though knowing the danger of the attempt, agreed, and mother and
daughter aided him in launching the boat. After a hard pull through the
boiling foam, they reached the rock, where they found nine persons
shivering in the cold and wet, and trembling for their lives. As
illustrative of the heroism displayed in this rescue, it may be mentioned
that had it not been ebb tide the boat could not have passed between the
islands; and Darling and his daughter knew that the tide would be flowing
on their return, and that their united strength would have been quite
insufficient to pull back to the lighthouse. But for the assistance of the
survivors all would have had to remain on the fatal rock. The joy of the
rescued people may well be imagined, and their surprise, and indeed
amazement, at finding that one of their deliverers was a young girl. At
the lighthouse food and warmth soon restored their exhausted powers. Among
those rescued was a bereaved mother, who had seen her two only children
perish before her eyes.
Grace Darling’s name and fame are historic; she lived but a short time
after the tragic event just recorded, but long enough to receive the
honours due to her for an act of unparalleled heroism, even receiving the
acknowledgments of the Queen and a handsome sum of money from the public.
“She who amid the tempest shone,
The angel of the wave,”
was not, as might be supposed, a robust girl, but, on the contrary, quite
delicate. Her spirit peacefully passed away a few months after the event
above recorded.