SKETCHES OF OUR SOUTH COASTS (_concluded_).
Eastbourne and its Quiet Charms—Hastings—Its Fishermen—The Battle
of Hastings—Loss of the _Grosser Kurfürst_—The Collision—The
Catastrophe—Dover—The Castle—Shakespeare’s Cliff—“O’er the Downs
so free”—St. Margaret’s Bay—Kingsdown—Deal—A Deed of
Daring—Ramsgate and Margate—The Floating Light on the Goodwin
Sands—Ballantyne’s Voluntary Imprisonment—His Experiences—The
Craft—The Light—One Thousand Wild Ducks caught—A Signal from the
“South Sand Head”—The Answer—Life on Board.
The coast north‐east from Beachy Head is rugged and interesting till
Eastbourne is reached, one of the quietest and prettiest of the south‐
coast watering‐places, and one which has been very greatly improved of
late by the lavish expenditure of his Grace the Duke of Devonshire, the
principal landowner in the neighbourhood. Some of the promenades are
planted with trees _à la boulevard_. The bathing and boating are both
excellent; while in the neighbourhood are the ruins of Pevensey, an old
Norman castle, and Hurstmonceaux, a red‐brick castle of the mediæval
period, ivy‐and creeper‐covered, and embowered in trees. It is the delight
of artists, who annually besiege it in great numbers. Eastbourne has some
hundred fishermen engaged in the herring and mackerel fisheries. They have
a benefit association or club, into which they pay a monthly subscription,
and when their nets are damaged or lost a part of the money needed to
repair or replace them is found. There is also a lifeboat, which has done
excellent work.
And next in sequence comes historical Hastings, which extends for near a
mile along the sea at the present time, or, if we include the fashionable
town of St. Leonard’s‐on‐Sea, its sea front must be reckoned at nearly
three miles. Many readers will be familiar with the charming glen or vale
in which it is situated, and which opens to the sea on the south. Hastings
is otherwise sheltered by high hills and cliffs, and has a warm, even, and
yet bracing climate; for salubrity it will rank with any of the popular
sea‐side resorts. It has a steady population of about 35,000, of whom 700
are fishermen and boatmen. In one week the herring catch has been worth
£5,000. A boat fitted for the herring or mackerel season is worth £350,
and for trawling £200. The mackerel season commences in April and
continues till the latter end of July, while the trawling commences and
ends two or two and a half months later. The herring season commences in
September and ends in the latter part of November. There is a church at
Hastings, under the eastern cliffs, for the special accommodation of
fishermen.
The famous battle of Hastings was fought A.D. 1066, Oct. 14. The alarm
sounded, both parties immediately prepared for action; but the English
spent the night previous to it in riot and jollity, whilst the Normans
were occupied in the duties of religion. On the morning the Duke called
together his principal officers, and ordered the signal of battle to be
given. Then the whole army, moving at once, and singing the hymn or song
of Roland, advanced in order and with alacrity towards the English.
Harold had seized the advantage of a rising ground, and, having secured
his flanks with trenches, resolved to stand upon the defensive, and to
avoid an engagement with the cavalry, in which he was inferior. The
Kentish men were placed in the van, a post of honour which they always
claimed as their due. The Londoners guarded the standard; and the King
himself, accompanied by his two valiant brothers, Gurth and Leofwin,
dismounting from his horse, placed himself at the head of his infantry,
and expressed his resolution to conquer or to die. The first attack of the
Normans was desperate, but was received with equal valour by the English,
and the former began to retreat, when William hastened to their support
with a select band. His presence restored the courage of his followers,
and the English in their turn were obliged to retire. They rallied again,
however, assisted by the advantage of the ground, and William, in order to
gain the victory, had recourse to a stratagem, which, had it failed, would
have resulted in his total ruin. He commanded his troops to allure the
enemy from their position by the appearance of flight. The English
followed with precipitation; the Normans faced upon them in the plain, and
drove them back with considerable slaughter. The artifice was a second
time repeated, with the same success; yet a great body of the English
still maintained themselves in firm array, and seemed determined to
dispute the victory. While they were galled by the Norman archers behind,
they were attacked by the heavy‐armed infantry in front; and Harold
himself was slain by an arrow as he combated with great bravery at the
head of his men. The English, discouraged by the fall of their prince,
fled on all sides. The memory of the eventful fight is kept green by the
name of Hastings, and Battle Abbey, in its immediate neighbourhood.
[Illustration: THE LAST OF THE _GROSSER KURFÜRST_.]
Sadly must all readers look back upon the morning of Friday, May the 31st,
1878, when the _Grosser Kurfürst_ went down off Sandgate, so near to land
that the people on shore felt certain that the commander would be able to
beach her before she had time to sink, unhappily an entirely erroneous
supposition. Very shortly before this ever‐to‐be‐lamented catastrophe
occurred, the German squadron, in command of Admiral Von Batsch, was
sailing with a light easterly wind blowing down Channel with all the pomp
and pardonable display of a force so numerically small yet so grandly
powerful. The sea was perfectly smooth, the weather fine, and there seemed
no more reason for anticipating the impending danger than if they had been
lying at anchor in the sunlit harbour of Bremen.
The squadron consisted of three vessels, sailing in two columns—the _König
Wilhelm_, carrying the admiral’s flag, and the _Preussen_ forming the port
division, the _Grosser Kurfürst_ forming the starboard, and less than two
ships’ lengths apart from the admiral; indeed, it is said that scarcely
one length intervened.
“In this formation the German squadron came across two sailing vessels
hauled to the wind,” says the writer of the article from which we quote,
“on the port tack, and consequently standing right across the bows of both
divisions. The _Grosser Kurfürst_ had first to give way, which she did at
the proper time and strictly in accordance with the rule of the road,
porting her helm and passing under the stern of the first of these two
sailing ships. But the _König Wilhelm_, which it must be borne in mind was
close to the _Grosser Kurfürst_ at this time, and steering a course
parallel to her, endeavoured at first to cross the bows of the sailing
vessel, but finding she had no room for this manœuvre, rapidly changed her
plan, and, putting her helm hard a‐port, also stood under the stern of the
sailing vessel. In the meanwhile the _Grosser Kurfürst_ had resumed her
original course, and thus was lying right across the bows of the _König
Wilhelm_, as she came under the stern of the sailing barque almost at
right angles to the original course.... The captain of the _Grosser
Kurfürst_, Graf Von Montz, seeing the terrible proximity of the _König
Wilhelm_, immediately put his vessel at full speed, hoping to cross her
bows, but the space would not allow it. He then gave the order to port his
helm, hoping to lay his ship parallel to the course of the _König
Wilhelm_, but unfortunately for this also there was neither time nor
space.” All might have gone well up to this point, however, as it appears
the _König Wilhelm_ was in charge of an “able and experienced officer;” he
had given the order to port the helm to steer clear of the sailing vessel,
and then ordered the helm to be “immediately steadied,” intending to range
up alongside the _Grosser Kurfürst_; but the helmsman had become
bewildered, and instead of steadying put the helm still more port. The
_König Wilhelm_ was put at full speed astern, and the fatal crash could
not be avoided. All now was confusion on both vessels.
The _König Wilhelm_ carried away everything from the point where she
struck the _Grosser Kurfürst_ to the stern, “ripping off the armour
plating like the skin of an orange.” The bowsprit of the _König Wilhelm_
fouled the rigging of the ill‐starred ship and brought down the mizzen
top‐gallant‐mast on the quarter‐deck, and the quarter boats were swept
away “like strips of paper.”
The doomed iron‐clad went down in seven minutes; on board there was
scarcely time left the officers and crew to think much less to act with
effect. The boats that had not been smashed could hardly be got into the
water; the hammocks had been stowed in some unusual place, so that it was
useless to attempt to get at them, and thus a very perfect means of escape
was cut off from the 280 poor fellows that were drowned.
[Illustration: THE “KÖNIG WILHELM” ENTERING PORTSMOUTH HARBOUR AFTER THE
COLLISION.]
The experience of the first lieutenant when the vessel was going down
under the very eyes of a number of people on shore is interesting in the
extreme. He felt himself sucked in, and describes a sensation of enormous
pressure on his ribs, as if the water were forcing him down. Then he came
across another column of water, which as promptly vomited him up to the
surface again, when he caught hold of a spar, and saved his life. A
dreadful fate befell some thirty unfortunate sailors, who, in spite of the
commands and entreaties of the boatswain, who was standing on the
forecastle, threw themselves over the bows, and endeavoured to swim away.
But the sinking ship was too fast for them, and they were caught in the
netting which is stretched under the jibboom, and, thus entangled, were
carried down with the ship. The disabled _König Wilhelm_ was almost
immediately towed into Portsmouth for repairs.(59)
Dover is by no means so generally known as many less interesting places on
the south coast, for the larger number of those who depart for or arrive
from the Continent usually pass it by. It has been often incidentally
mentioned in these pages, but no description of its special attractions
has yet been given.
It is situated not far from the South Foreland, in the extreme south‐east
corner of Kent, on the narrowest part of the British Channel, and only
some twenty miles from the opposite coast of France. Hence it is the port
for steamers crossing to Calais on the Continental service, a trip usually
made in about one hour and three‐quarters. If the reader should cross on
the now‐famous _Calais‐Douvres_, the luxurious and easy‐riding twin
vessel, he will hardly require the advice relative to the _mal de mer_
contained in a previous chapter. Dover, though comparatively little used
as a watering‐place, possesses excellent accommodation for
visitors—bathing‐machines, and all the usual paraphernalia of such places.
Its grand hotel, “The Lord Warden,” is second to none in England, and has
sheltered scores of crowned heads and coroneted aristocrats, as well as
the less distinguished, though perhaps equally worthy, Jones, Brown,
Smith, and Robinson.
On the eastern side of the town stands that elevated and noble fortress
the Castle, of which some description has already been given. A short
distance from it the chalk cliff rises 370 feet above the sea, and hard by
stands a beautiful piece of brass ordnance, 24 feet in length, which bears
the name of “Queen Elizabeth’s Pocket Pistol,” and was presented to her
Majesty by the States of Holland. It is said to carry a 12‐lb. ball to a
distance of seven miles. It is curiously adorned with a variety of
devices, typifying the blessings of peace and the horrors of war. On its
breech is the following motto in Dutch, which, freely translated,
signifies:—
“O’er hill and dale I throw my ball,
Breaker my name of mound and wall.”
To the westward of the town rises the majestic headland named after our
immortal bard. Shakespeare’s cliff rears its lofty head _at the present
time_ to an altitude of 350 feet, but in the great dramatist’s day its
summit was much higher, as indicated by the enormous boulders and heaps of
_débris_ at its base, the result of frequent landslips and falls.
Shakespeare well describes this grand precipice:—
“Come on, sir; here’s the place: stand still. How fearful
And dizzy ’tis, to cast one’s eyes so low!
The crows and choughs that wing the midway air
Show scarce so gross as beetles: half way down
Hangs one that gathers samphire—dreadful trade!
Methinks he seems no bigger than his head:
The fishermen that walk upon the beach
Appear like mice; and yon tall anchoring bark,
Diminished to her cock; her cock, a buoy,
Almost too small for sight. The murmuring surge,
That on the unnumbered idle pebbles chafes,
Cannot be heard so high. I’ll look no more,
Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight
Topple down headlong.”
[Illustration: DOVER.]
From the heights about Dover the views are magnificent. Seaward is the
beautiful bay, the Straits and the Downs, with its ever‐changing fleets,
the ships of all nations. Stretching one’s vision a little farther are
seen the lofty white cliffs of the French coast; Cape Grisnez, near Calais
(which itself lies on low land, and is therefore undiscernible), and the
heights of Boulogne.
The antiquity of Dover is undeniable. Julius Cæsar here made his first
descent on Britain, in August, B.C. 55. Picts and Scots, Danes and
Normans, successively attacked it; while at the period of the Conquest,
1066, the town suffered fearfully, the whole place being reduced to ashes
except twenty‐nine houses. But when it became one of the Cinque Ports it
soon rose in importance, and Dover men largely helped that brilliant
attack on Philip IV.’s fleet, by which France lost 240 vessels. That
enraged monarch retaliated on Dover by burning the larger part of the
town; but before the year 1296 the British navy had not merely swept the
enemy from the Channel, but had made several reprisals on the coast of
France. At the period of the Armada, Dover, with the other Cinque Ports,
fitted out, at a cost of £43,000, six large ships for the Queen’s service,
which were the means of decoying the great _Galleas_ of Spain on a shoal,
afterwards engaging and burning her.
Riding or walking over the Downs some interesting places may be seen on or
near the coast. At St. Margaret’s Bay, seven miles north from Dover—to the
merits of the lobsters of which the present writer can testify, having
both caught and eaten them—there is a pretty little fishing‐village, with
“Fisherman’s Inn” embowered in trees, at the base of lofty cliffs. Here
the preliminary borings for the possible Channel Tunnel of the future were
made. Farther on is Kingsdown, a fishing village and lifeboat station, the
men and boat of which have done specially good service in saving life.
Visible from thence is Walmer Castle and quaint old Deal, so often
mentioned in these pages in connection with lifeboat work on the Goodwin
Sands, themselves also plainly in sight. Riding at anchor in Deal Roads,
or outward bound, or on the homeward tack, are seen ships, great and
little, flying the colours of every maritime nation under the sun. The
trip from Dover to Deal and back can be made by any tolerable pedestrian
in a day, allowing time for visits to all the points just named. That part
of the trip from Dover to St. Margaret’s Bay can be made over the Downs
only, but thence to Deal the coast can be easily followed.
Coming nearer home, the writer must record a case of “derring‐do,” which
will prove—if after what these pages have recorded of the men of Deal and
Walmer and Kingsdown, of Ramsgate and Margate, further proof were
needed—that the men of the North and South Foreland are not degenerate
descendants of their forefathers, who sailed and fought and died with
Blake and Nelson. It occurred in Deal on a Sunday morning in bleak
December. A whole gale was blowing from the south‐west and vessels in the
comparatively sheltered Downs were riding to both anchors. As the various
congregations were leaving their respective places of worship umbrellas
were blown inside out, and children were taken off their feet or clung
frightened to their parents’ limbs, the wind and spray along Deal beach
being blinding. Let the “Chaplain” (_nom de plume_ of the excellent
clergyman who superintends the Missions to Seamen) tell the tale. “Just
then,” he writes, “in answer to the boom of the distant gun, the bell rang
to man the lifeboat, and the Deal boatmen gallantly answered to the
summons. A rush was made for the life‐belts and for the coxswain’s house.
The coxswain, Robert Wilds, has for fifteen years held the yoke‐lines
through the surf on the sands, and knows the powers of the boat to save.
Fourteen men besides the coxswain were the crew, and with a mighty rush
they launched the good boat down the steep beach to the rescue. There were
three vessels on the Goodwins. The crew of one took to their boats, and
not being in the worst part of the sands got safe round the North Foreland
to Margate. Another schooner, supposed to be a Dane, disappeared, and was
lost with all hands. The third, a German barque, the _Leda_, with a crew
of seventeen ‘all told,’ was stuck fast in the worst part of the
sands—viz., the South Spit, on which even on a fine day the writer has
encountered a dangerous and peculiar boil or tumble of seas. The barque’s
main and mizen masts by this time were gone, and the crew were clinging to
the weather bulwarks, while sheets of solid water made a clean breach over
them—so much so that from cold and long exposure the captain was almost
exhausted. The Deal life‐boat, the _Van Kook_, fetched a little to
windward of the devoted barque, and dropping anchor, veered down on her.
One cable being too short, another was bent on to it, and closer and
closer came the lifeboat. If the cable parted and the lifeboat struck the
ship with full force, not a man would probably have survived to tell the
tale; or if they got to leeward of the barque the crew of the wreck would
have been lost, as the lifeboat could not again have worked ‘to weather’
to drop down as before. No friendly steam‐tug was at hand to help the
lifeboat to windward in case of failure in this their first attempt, and
both the crew in distress and their rescuers were well aware of the stake
at issue, and that this was the last chance. But the lifeboat crew said,
‘We’re bound to save them,’ and with all the coolness of the race, yet
‘daring all that men dare do,’ they concentrated their energies on getting
close enough to the wreck to throw their line, and yet to keep far enough
off to ensure the boat’s safety. They were now beaten and hustled by the
tremendous seas breaking into and over them, and no other boat could have
lived a moment in the cauldron of waters seething and raging around them.
Notwithstanding the self‐emptying power of the wondrous boat, the seas
broke into her in such quick succession that she was and remained full up
to her thwarts while alongside the vessel, and as each cataract came on
board the coxswain sang out, ‘Look out, men!’ and they grasped the thwarts
and held on with both hands, breathless, for dear life. One sea hurled the
lifeboat against the ship, and stove in her fore air‐box, so that the
safety of all made it necessary to sheer off. Another sea prostrated two
men under her thwarts. The lifeboat’s throw‐line was at last got on board
the barque, and communication being established the crew were drawn on
board the lifeboat through the raging waves by ones or twos, as the seas
permitted. Thus saved from the jaws of death, so astonished were the
rescued crew at the submerged condition of the lifeboat and the awful
turmoil of water around them that some of them wished to get back to their
perishing vessel; but the coxswain and crew knew the powers of their
gallant boat. ‘Up foresail and cut the cable,’ and with its goodly freight
of thirty‐four souls the lifeboat, hurled like a feather, sometimes dead
before the wind, and next moment ‘taken aback,’ plunged into the surf for
home. One of the rescued crew had twice before been saved by the same boat
(the _Van Kook_), and encouraged his comrades with a recital of his
previous deliverances. Some rum, which was brought for the use of the
lifeboat crew, was generously given by them and all used by the perishing
men of the barque. And so at last, sodden through and through, exhausted,
but gloriously successful, they landed the staggering and grateful Germans
on the Deal beach, where, despite the storm, crowds met them with
wondering and thankful hearts.”
Among nearly all classes who dwell near and love the sea the same heroic
spirit prevails. Only in 1879 Lord Dunmore, with John M‘Rae, Ewen M‘Leod,
and Norman Macdonald, put out to sea in a furious Atlantic gale, in the
noble Scottish peer’s _undecked_ cutter, the _Dauntless_, when no other
boat would venture out at all, and saved the lives of several men, women,
and children from the yacht _Astarte_, wrecked on a small island‐rock
between Harris and the North Uist coast (west coast of Scotland). The
noble hero of this gallant band is a Murray of the ducal tree of Atholl,
sharing the savage motto, “Forth fortune, and fill the fetters.” The
spirit of daring adventure which spurred his forefathers to feats of
reckless foray and ruthless feud has, in a milder age, developed into the
performance of deeds of valour for the benefit of suffering humanity.
Sad to say, occasionally, there is another story to be told. In February,
1880, some strapping fishermen refused to make up the complement of the
Blackpool lifeboat—some of her own men being away fishing off North Wales,
and others at Fleetwood—and remained leafing on the beach while they let
the coxswain take in two joiners and a stonemason, and then start two
short of the complement. Nevertheless four persons were saved from the
wreck of the _Bessie Jones_, under circumstances most honourable to the
rescuers. On their return, being obliged to run over the bank with a
tremendous sea running, they had the narrowest escape from being capsized;
one man was washed out of the boat, but was recovered, and most of the
loose tackle was swept overboard and irretrievably lost.
[Illustration: RAMSGATE.]
Popular Ramsgate, with its fashionably select annexe St. Lawrence‐on‐Sea,
is so well known by all, that no lengthened description is required here,
for its actual and practical connection with the sea, in the noble work
done by its lifeboatsmen, has already been detailed. Ramsgate has a fine
harbour and piers, from which the “husbands’ boat” is often, more
especially on Saturdays, watched and longed for by hundreds of wives and
daughters.
Margate had, in Queen Elizabeth’s reign, fifteen boats and other vessels,
ranging from one to eighteen tons, there being four of the latter. It had
108 inhabited houses. It now has a floating population of 50,000 to 70,000
people, the permanent residents being about 15,000 in number. There are
several pilots, and a large number of luggers employed in fishing and in
seeking for casualties; it owns a certain number of coasting vessels;
while a large number of coasters and French fishing‐boats come in during
the winter months and fishing season for refuge, repairs, and provisions.
Margate has a Seaman’s Room and Observatory, and Ramsgate a Seaman’s
Infirmary. The local agents of the Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society have
their hands full in winter, and generally at other seasons in stormy
weather.
[Illustration: THE GULF STREAM LIGHT VESSEL ON THE GOODWIN SANDS.]
Who that has visited Ramsgate or Margate, has not, some time or other in
his or her life, nourished an all‐absorbing curiosity to peep into the
interior and solve the mysteries of those distant beacons, the “Floating
Light Ships.” Those who have seen them either lying peacefully on the
tranquil bosom of the sunlit ocean, or trembling and shaken in Neptune’s
angry moods, still valiant and isolated, nobly doing their duty, must
often have wished to get a closer view. That natural curiosity can be
gratified at last; the curtain has been raised, so that we may peep into
the mysteries of the flame‐coloured sphinxes, by a writer(60) who went
into voluntary imprisonment for one week on the Gulf Stream Light Vessel,
one of three floating lights which mark the Goodwin Sands.
“That curious, almost ridiculous‐looking craft,” writes Mr. Ballantyne,
“was among the aristocracy of shipping. Its important office stamped it
with nobility. It lay there, conspicuous in its royal colour, from day to
day and year to year, to mark the fair‐way between Old England and the
outlying shoals, distinguished in daylight by a huge ball at its mast‐
head, and at night by a magnificent lantern, with argand lamps and concave
reflectors, which shot rays like lightning far and wide over the watery
waste, while in thick weather, when neither ball nor light could be
discerned, a sonorous gong gave its deep‐toned warning to the approaching
mariner, and let him know his position amidst the surrounding dangers.”
Here the writer bestows well‐deserved praise upon the services,
“disinterested and universal,” of this lonely craft, and afterwards tells
you what would meet the eye, if, leaning against the stern, you gazed
along the deck forward.
“It was an interesting kingdom in detail. Leaving out of view all that
which was behind him, and which, of course, he could not see, we may
remark that just before him stood the binnacle and compass, and the cabin
skylight. On his right and left the territory of the quarter deck was
seriously circumscribed and the promenade much interfered with by the
ship’s boats, which, like their parent, were painted red, and which did
not hang at the davits, but, like young lobsters of the kangaroo type,
found shelter within their mother when not at sea on their own account.
Near to them were two signal carronades. Beyond the skylight rose the
bright brass funnel of the cabin chimney, and the winch by means of which
the lantern was hoisted. Then came another skylight and the companion
hatch about the centre of the deck. Just beyond this stood the most
important part of the vessel—the lantern‐house. This was a circular wooden
structure about six feet in diameter, with a door and small windows.
“Inside was the lantern—the beautiful piece of mechanism for which the
light‐ship, its crew and appurtenances, were maintained. Right through the
centre of this house rose the thick, unyielding mast of the vessel. The
lantern, which was just a little less than its house, surrounded the mast
and travelled upon it.” Immediately at sundown the order “Up lights” was
given, regular as the sun itself. The lantern was connected with the rod
and pinion, by means of which with the clock‐work beneath, the light was
made to revolve and “flash” once every third of a minute. The glass of the
lantern is frequently broken, not by wind and wave, but by the sea‐birds,
which dash violently against it. In a single night, nine panes of a light‐
house were shattered from this cause. On one occasion one thousand wild
ducks were caught by the crew of a light‐ship. It is necessary to defend
with trellis‐work the lights most exposed.
The cabin of the Floating Light was marvellously neat and clean.
Everything was put away in its proper place, not only as the result of
order and discipline, but on account of the extreme smallness of the
cabin. The author of the work from which we quote depicts a scene on board
during a night of storms when a wreck and unexpected rescue took place:—“A
little before midnight, while I was rolling uneasily in my ‘bunk,’
contending with sleep and sea‐sickness, and moralising on the madness of
those who choose ‘the sea’ for a profession, I was roused—and sickness
instantly cured—by the watch on deck suddenly shouting down the hatchway
to the mate, ‘South Sand Head light is firing, sir, and sending up
rockets.’ The mate sprang from his ‘bunk,’ and was on the cabin‐floor
before the sentence was well finished. I followed suit, and pulled on
coat, nether garments, and shoes, as if my life depended on my own speed.
There was unusual need for clothing, for the night was bitterly cold. On
gaining the deck, we found the two men on duty actively at work—the one
loading the lee gun, the other adjusting a rocket to its stick. A few
hurried questions from the mate elicited all that it was needful to know.
“The flash of the gun from the ‘South Sand Head’ light‐ship, about six
miles off, had been distinctly seen a third time, and a third rocket went
up, indicating that a vessel had struck upon the fatal Goodwin Sands. The
report of the gun could not be heard, owing to the gale carrying the sound
to leeward, but the bright line of the rocket was distinctly visible. At
the same moment the glaring light of a burning tar‐barrel was observed. It
was the signal of the vessel in distress, just on the southern tail of the
sands.
“By this time the gun was charged, and the rocket in position.
“One of the crew dived down the companion‐hatch, and in another moment
returned with a red‐hot poker, which the mate had thrust into the cabin
fire at the first alarm. He applied it in quick succession to the gun and
rocket. A blinding flash and deafening crash were followed by the whiz of
the rocket as it sprang with a magnificent curve far away into the
surrounding darkness.
“This was their answer to the South Sand Head light, which, having fired
three guns and sent up three rockets to attract the attention of the
_Gull_, then ceased firing. It was also their first note of warning to the
look‐out on the pier of Ramsgate Harbour. Of the three light‐ships that
guarded the sands, the _Gull_ lay nearest to Ramsgate; hence, which ever
of the other two happened to send up signals, the _Gull_ had to reply, and
thenceforward to continue repeating them until the attention of the
Ramsgate look‐out should be gained, and a reply given.
“The steam tug _Aid_, which always attends upon, and takes in tow, the
Ramsgate life‐boat, soon hove in sight, going to the rescue, thus showing
the great value of steam in such matters. Having learnt the direction of
the wreck from the mate of the light‐ship, they proceeded on their
course.”
The life of the crew of every light‐ship is pretty much the same on
Sunday. At dawn the lantern is lowered and cleaned and prepared for the
next night’s work. At 8 a.m. all hands must be on the alert, the hammocks
stowed, and breakfast served. At 10.30 the men assemble for prayers, and
the captain or mate performs divine service. After sunset the men meet
again for prayers. With the exception of the services, the routine on week
days is the same as on Sunday. The captain and mate take turn and turn—a
month on board and a month on shore; the men do duty for two months on
board for one on shore; and, monotonous as their life may seem to the
uninitiated, it is doubtful whether there is not a beneficial moral
activity in existence on a floating light that tends to elevate the
character of both officers and men.