At first the men of the lifeboat had nothing to do but hold on to the
thwarts, with the exception, of course, of the coxswain, whose energies
were taxed from the commencement in the matter of steering the boat,
which was dragged through the waves at such a rate by the powerful tug
that merely to hold on was a work of some difficulty. Their course
might much more truly be said to have been under than over the waves, so
constantly did these break into and fill the boat. But no sooner was
she full than the discharging tubes freed her, and she rose again and
again, buoyant as a cork.
Those who have not seen this desperate work can form but a faint
conception of its true character. Written or spoken words may conjure
up a pretty vivid picture of the scene, the blackness of the night, and
the heaving and lashing of the waves, but words cannot adequately
describe the shriek of the blast, the hiss and roar of breakers, and
they cannot convey the feeling of the weight of tons of falling water,
which cause the stoutest crafts of human build to reel and quiver to
their centres.
The steam-tug had not to contend with the ordinary straightforward rush
of a North Sea storm. She was surrounded and beset by great boiling
whirlpools and spouting cross-seas. They struck her on the bow, on the
side, on the quarter, on the stern. They opened as if to engulf her.
They rushed at as if to overwhelm her. They met under her, thrusting
her up, and they leaped into her, crushing her down. But she was a
sturdy vessel; a steady hand was at the wheel, and her weather-beaten
master stood calm and collected on the bridge.
It is probable that few persons who read the accounts of lifeboat
service on the Goodwin sands are aware of the importance of the duties
performed and the desperate risks run by the steam-tug. Without her
powerful engines to tow it to windward of the wrecks the lifeboat would
be much, very much, less useful than it is. In performing this service
the tug has again and again to run into shallow water, and steer, in the
blackest nights, amid narrow intricate channels, where a slight error of
judgment on the part of her master--a few fathoms more to the right or
left--would send her on the sands, and cause herself to become a wreck
and an object of solicitude to the lifeboat crew. "Honour to whom
honour is due" is a principle easy to state, but not always easy to
carry into practice. Every time the steam-tug goes out she runs her
full share of the imminent risk;--sometimes, and in some respects, as
great as that of the lifeboat herself, for, whereas, a touch upon the
sand, to which it is her duty to approach _as near as possible_, would
be the death-warrant of the tug, it is, on the other hand, the glorious
prerogative of the lifeboat to be almost incapable of destruction, and
her peculiar privilege frequently to go "slap on and right over" the
sands with slight damage, though with great danger. That the
death-warrant just referred to has not been signed, over and over again,
is owing almost entirely to the courage and skill of her master and
mate, who possess a thorough and accurate knowledge of the intricate
channels, soundings, and tides of those dangerous shoals, and have spent
many years in risking their lives among them. Full credit is usually
given to the lifeboat, though _not too much_ by any means, but there is
not, we think, a sufficient appreciation of the services of the
steam-tug. She may be seen in the harbour any day, modestly doing the
dirty work of hauling out the dredge-boats, while the gay lifeboat
floats idly on the water to be pointed out and admired by summer
visitors--thus unfairly, though unavoidably, are public favours often
distributed!
Observe, reader, we are far from holding up these two as rivals. They
are a loving brother and sister. Comparatively little could be done in
the grand work of saving human life without the mighty strength of the
"big brother;" and, on the other hand, nothing at all could be done
without the buoyant activity and courage of the "little sister."
Observe, also, that although the lifeboat floats in idleness, like a
saucy little duck, in time of peace, her men, like their mates in the
"big brother," are hard at work like other honest folk about the
harbour. It is only when the sands "show their teeth," and the floating
lights send up their signals, and the storm-blast calls to action, that
the tug and boat unite, and the men, flinging down the implements of
labour, rise to the dignity of heroic work with all the pith and power
and promptitude of heroes.
As they ploughed through the foam together, the tug was frequently
obliged to ease-steam and give herself time to recover from the shock of
those heavy cross seas. Suddenly a bright flaring light was observed in
the vicinity of a shoal called the _Break_, which lies between the
Goodwins and the shore. It went out in a few seconds, but not before
the master of the tug had taken its bearings and altered his course. At
the same time signal-guns and rockets were observed, both from the North
sandhead light-vessel and the Gull, and several flaring lights were also
seen burning on or near the Goodwin sands.
On nearing the _Middle Break_, which was easily distinguishable from the
surrounding turmoil by the intensity of its roar as the seas rolled over
it, the coxswain of the lifeboat ordered the sail to be hoisted and the
tow-rope slipped. Pike, who was a thoroughly intelligent and
sympathetic bowman, had all in readiness; he obeyed the order instantly,
and the boat, as if endued with sudden life, sprang away on its own
account into the broken water.
Broken water! who but a lifeboat-man can conceive what that means?--
except, indeed, those few who have been saved from wreck. A chaos of
white water, rendered ghostly and grey by darkness. No green or liquid
water visible anywhere; all froth and fury, with force tremendous
everywhere. Rushing rivers met by opposing cataracts; bursting against
each other; leaping high in air from the shock; falling back and
whirling away in wild eddies,--seeking rest, but finding none! Vain
indeed must be our attempt to describe the awful aspect, the mad music,
the fearful violence of "broken water" on the Break!
In such a sea the boat was tossed as if she were a chip; but the gale
gave her speed, and speed gave her quick steering power. She leaped
over the foam, or dashed through it, or staggered under it, but always
rose again, the men, meanwhile, holding on for life. Pike was ready in
the bow, with an arm tightly embracing the bollard, or strong post,
round which the cable runs. The coxswain's figure, towering high in the
stern, with the steering tackles in his hands, leaned forward against a
strong strap or band fixed across the boat to keep him in position.
They made straight for the spot where the flare light had been seen. At
first darkness and thick spray combined prevented them from seeing
anything, but in a few minutes a dark object was seen looming faintly
against the sky, and the coxswain observed with anxious concern that it
lay not to leeward, but to windward of him.
"Out oars! down with the sail!" he shouted.
His voice was very powerful, but it was swept away, and was only heard
by those nearest to him. The order was instantly obeyed, however; but
the gale was so heavy and the boat so large that headway could not be
made. They could see that the wreck was a small vessel on her
beam-ends. Being to leeward, they could hear despairing cries
distinctly, and four or five human beings were seen clinging to the
side. The lifeboat-men strained till their sinews well-nigh cracked; it
seemed doubtful whether they had advanced or not, when suddenly an
unusually large wave fell in thunder on the Break; it rushed over the
shallows with a foaming head, caught the boat on its crest and carried
it far away to leeward.
Sail was again made. A box near the coxswain a feet was opened, and a
blue-light taken out. There was no difficulty in firing this. A sharp
stroke on its butt lighted the percussion powder within, and in a moment
the scene was illumined by a ghastly glare, which brought out the blue
and white boat distinctly, and gave corpse-like colour to the faces of
the men. At the same time it summoned the attendant steamer.
In a few minutes the tug ran down to her; the tow-rope was taken on
board, and away went the brother and sister once more to windward of the
wreck; but now no wreck was to be seen! They searched round the shoal
in all directions without success, and finally were compelled to come to
the conclusion that the same sea which had carried the boat to leeward
had swept the wreck away.
With sad hearts they now turned towards the Goodwins, but the melancholy
incident they had just witnessed was soon banished from their minds by
the urgent signals for aid still seen flaring in all directions. For
the nearest of these they made at full speed. On their way, a dark
object was seen to sweep past them across their stern as if on the wings
of the wind. It was the Broadstairs lifeboat, which had already done
good service that night, and was bent on doing more. Similarly occupied
were the lifeboats of Deal, Walmer, and other places along the coast. A
Deal lugger was also seen. The hardy beachmen of Kent fear no storm.
They run out in all weathers to succour ships in distress, and much good
service do they accomplish, but their powers are limited. Like the
steam-tugs, they can hover around the sands in heavy gales, and venture
gingerly near to them; but thus far, and no farther, may they go. They
cannot, like the noble lifeboats, dash right into the caldron of surf,
and dare the sands and seas to do their worst!
The lifeboat men felt cheered, no doubt, to know that so many able hands
were fighting around them in the same battle, but they had little time
to think on such things; the work in hand claimed their exclusive
attention--as it must now claim ours.
One vessel was seen burning three very large flare lights. Towards this
the steamer hastened, and when as near as prudence would permit her to
approach the Goodwin sands--something less than quarter of a mile--the
hawser was again slipped, sail was made on the lifeboat, and she once
more entered the broken water alone.
Here, of course, being more exposed, it was still more tremendous than
on the Break. It was a little after midnight when they reached the
sands, and made the discovery that they were on the wrong hide of them.
The tide was making, however, and in a short time there was sufficient
water to enable the boat to run right over; she struck many times, but,
being tough, received no serious damage. Soon they drew near the wreck,
and could see that she had sunk completely, and that the crew were
clinging to the jibboom.
When about fifty yards to windward, the anchor was let go, the lifeboat
veered down towards the wreck, and with much difficulty they succeeded
in taking off the whole crew of seven men. Signalising the tug with
another blue-light, they ran to leeward into deep water, and were again
taken in tow; the saved men being with some difficulty put on board the
tug. They were Dutchmen; and the poor master of the lost vessel could
find no words sufficiently forcible to express his gratitude to the
coxswain of the lifeboat. When he afterwards met him on shore, he wrung
his hand warmly, and, with tears in his eyes, promised never to forget
him. "Me never tinks of you," said he (meaning the reverse), "so long's
I live; me tell the King of Holland!"
It is but just to add that the poor fellow faithfully redeemed his
ill-expressed promise, and that the coxswain of the lifeboat now
possesses a medal presented to him by the King of Holland in
acknowledgment of his services on that occasion.
But the great work of that night still remained to be done. Not far
from the light-vessel a flare-light was seen burning brightly. It
seemed to be well tended, and was often renewed. Towards this the tug
now steered with the little sister in tow. They soon came near enough
to observe that she was a large ship, going to pieces on the sands.
Slipping the cable once more, the lifeboat gallantly dashed into the
thickest of the fight, and soon got within hail of the wreck.
Then it was that, for the first time, a ray of hope entered the hearts
of the passengers of the luckless Wellington, and then it was that Jim
Welton and Stanley Hall, with several young officers, who had kept the
tar-barrels burning so briskly for so many hours, despite the drenching
seas, sent up a loud thrilling cheer, and announced to the
terror-stricken women and children that _the lifeboat was in sight_!
What a cry for those who had been for three hours dashing on the sands,
expecting every moment that the ship would break up! The horrors of
their situation were enhanced by the novelty of their sensations! All
of us can realise to some extent, from hearsay and from paintings, what
is meant by billows bursting high over ships' mast-heads and washing
everything off the decks, but who that has not experienced it can
imagine what it is to see gigantic yards being whipped to and fro as a
light cane might be switched by a strong man, to see top-masts snapping
like pipe-stems, to hear stout ropes cracking like pliant whipcord, and
great sails flapping with thunder-claps or bursting into shreds? Above
all, who can realise the sensation caused by one's abode being lifted
violently with every surge and dropped again with the crashing weight of
two thousand tons, or being rolled from side to side so that the floor
on which one stands alternates between the horizontal and perpendicular,
while one's frame each time receives a shock that is only too much in
dread harmony with the desperate condition of the mind?
"The lifeboat in sight!" Who at such a time would not pray God's best
blessing on the lifeboat, on the stalwart men who man it, and on the
noble Society which supports it?
Certain it is that many a prayer of this kind was ejaculated on board
the Wellington that night, while the passengers re-echoed the good news,
and hurriedly went on deck. But what an awful scene of dreary
desolation presented itself when they got there! The flares gave forth
just enough light to make darkness visible--ropes, masts, yards, sails,
everything in indescribable confusion, and the sea breaking over all
with a violence that rendered it extremely difficult to maintain a
footing even in the most sheltered position.
Fortunately by this time the vessel had been beaten sufficiently high on
the shoal to prevent the terrible rolling to which she had been at first
subjected; and as the officers and seamen vied with each other in
attentions to the women and children, these latter were soon placed in
comparative security, and awaited with breathless anxiety the arrival of
the boat.
In order to keep the flare-lights burning all kinds of materials had
been sacrificed. Deluged as they were continually by heavy seas,
nothing but the most inflammable substances would burn. Hence, when
their tar-barrels were exhausted, Stanley Hall and his assistants got
hold of sheets, table-cloths, bedding, and garments, and saturated these
with paraffine oil, of which, fortunately, there happened to be a large
quantity on board. They now applied themselves with redoubled diligence
to the construction and keeping alight of these flares, knowing well
that the work which remained to be done before all should be rescued,
was of a nature requiring time as well as care and courage.
On rushed the lifeboat through the broken water. When almost within
hail, the coxswain heard the roar of an unusually heavy sea rushing
behind him.
"Let go the fore-sheet," he shouted, "and hold on for your lives."
The wave--a billow broken to atoms, yet still retaining all its weight
and motive force--overwhelmed the boat and passed on. Before she had
quite recovered, another sea of equal size engulfed her, and as she had
been turned broadside on by the first, the second caught her in its
embrace and carried her like the wind bodily to leeward. Her immense
breadth of beam prevented an upset, and she was finally launched into
shallower water, where the sand had only a few feet of sea above it.
She had been swept away full quarter of a mile in little more than a
minute! Here the surf was like a boiling caldron, but there was not
depth enough to admit of heavy seas.
The same sea that swept away the boat carried the fore and main masts of
the Wellington by the board, and extinguished all her lights.
The boat drove quite two miles to leeward before the tug got hold of her
again. To have returned to the wreck against wind and tide alone, we
need scarcely repeat, would have been impossible, but with the aid of
the tug she was soon towed to her old position and again cast loose.
Once more she rushed into the fight and succeeded in dropping anchor a
considerable distance to windward of the wreck, from which point she
veered down under her lee, but so great was the mass of broken masts,
spars, and wreckage--nothing being now left but parts of the mizzen and
bowsprit--that the coxswain was obliged to pay out 117 fathoms of cable
to keep clear of it all.
The difficulty and danger of getting the boat alongside now became
apparent to the people on the wreck, many of whom had never dreamed of
such impediments before, and their hopes sank unreasonably low, just as,
before, they had been raised unduly high.
With great difficulty the boat got near to the port quarter of the ship,
and Pike stood up ready in the bow with a line, to which was attached a
loaded cane, something like a large life-preserver.
"Heave!" shouted the coxswain.
The bowman made a deliberate and splendid cast; the weighted cane fell
on the deck of the ship, and was caught by Jim Welton, who attached a
hawser to it. This was drawn into the boat, and in a few seconds she
was alongside. But she was now in great danger! The wild waters that
heaved, surged, and leaped under the vessel's lee threatened to dash the
boat in pieces against her every moment, and it was only by the
unremitting and strenuous exertions of the men with boat-hooks, oars,
and fenders that this was prevented. Now the boat surged up into the
chains as if about to leap on board the ship; anon it sank into a gulf
of spray, or sheered wildly to leeward, but by means of the hawser and
cable, and a "spring" attached to the latter, she was so handled that
one and another of the crew of the wreck were taken into her.
The first saved was a little child. It was too small and delicate to be
swung over the side by a rope, so the captain asked Jim Welton, as being
the most agile man in the ship and possessed of superabundant animal
courage, to take it in his arms and leap on board. Jim agreed at once,
handed over the care of his flare-lights to one of the men, and prepared
for action. The poor child, which was about a year old, clung to its
mother's neck with terror, and the distracted woman--a soldier's widow--
could scarce be prevailed on to let the little one out of her arms.
"Oh, let me go with him," she pleaded most earnestly, "he is all that is
left to me."
"You shall follow immediately; delay may be death," said the captain,
kindly, as he drew the child gently but firmly from her grasp.
It was securely bound to Jim's broad bosom by means of a shawl.
Watching his opportunity when the boat came surging up on the crest of a
billow almost to his feet, and was about to drop far down into the
trough of the sea, the young sailor sprang from the side and was caught
in the outstretched arms of the lifeboat men.
It had occurred to Stanley Hall, just before this happened, that there
was every probability of some of the passengers falling overboard during
the process of being transferred to the boat. Stanley was of a somewhat
eccentric turn of mind, and seldom allowed his thoughts to dissipate
without taking action of some kind. He therefore got into the mizzen
chains and quietly fastened a rope round his waist, the other end of
which he tied to a stanchion.
"You'll get crushed by the boat there," cried the captain, who observed
him.
"Perhaps not," was the reply.
He stood there and watched Jim Welton as he leaped. The mother of the
child, unable to restrain herself, climbed on the bulwarks of the
vessel. Just as she did so the boat surged up again,--so close that it
required but a short step to get into her. Some of the passengers
availed themselves of the chance--the poor widow among them. She sprang
with a cry of joy, for she saw her child's face at the moment as they
unbound him from Jim's breast, but she sprang short. Little wonder that
a woman should neglect to make due allowance for the quick swooping of
the boat! Next moment she was in the boiling foam. A moment later and
she was in Stanley Hall's grasp, and both were swept violently to
leeward, but the rope brought them up. Despite darkness and turmoil the
quick-eyed coxswain and his mate had noted the incident. Pike payed out
the hawser, the coxswain eased off the spring; away went the boat, and
next moment Pike had Stanley by the hair. Short was the time required
for their strong arms to pull him and his burden in-board; and, oh! it
was a touching sight to witness the expressions of the anxious faces
that were turned eagerly towards the boat, and glared pale and ghastly
in the flaring light, as her sturdy crew hauled slowly up, hand over
hand, and got once more under the vessel's lee.
No sooner were they within reach than another impatient passenger leaped
overboard. This was Jim's faithful dog Neptune! Watching his time with
the intelligence of a human being, he sprang, with much greater
precision and vigour than any human being could have done, and,
alighting on Pike's shoulders, almost drove that stout boatman into the
bottom of the boat.
Soon the boat was as full as it could hold. All the women and children
had been got into her, and many of the male passengers, so that there
was no room to move; still there remained from twenty to thirty people
to be rescued. Seeing this, Jim seized Neptune by the neck and flung
him back into the wreck. Catching a rope that hung over the side, he
also swung himself on board, saying,--"You and I must sink or swim
together, Nep! Shove off, lads, and come back as soon as you can."
The hawser was slipped as he spoke; the lifeboat was hauled slowly but
steadily to windward up to her anchor. Tons of water poured over her
every moment, but ran through her discharging tubes, and, deeply loaded
though she was, she rose buoyant from each immersion like an invincible
sea-monster.
When the anchor was reached, a small portion of the foresail was set,
and then, cutting the cable with one blow of a hatchet, away they went
like the scudding foam right over the boiling shallows on the spit of
sand.
"Hand out a blue-light there," cried the coxswain. A sharp blow caused
the blue-fire to flare up and shed a light that fell strong as that of
the full moon on the mingled grave, pale, stern, and terrified faces in
the lifeboat.
"Safe!" muttered one of the crew.
"Safe?" was echoed in surprise, no doubt, from several fluttering
hearts.
As well might that have been said to the hapless canoe-man rushing over
the Falls of Niagara as to the inexperienced ones there, while they
gazed, horror-struck, on the tumult of mad waters in that sudden blaze
of unearthly light. Their faith in a trustworthy and intelligent
boatman was not equal to their faith in their own eyes, backed by
ignorance! But who will blame them for lack of faith in the
circumstances? Nevertheless, they _were_ safe. The watchful master of
the tug,--laying-to off the deadly banks, now noting the compass, now
casting the lead, anon peering into the wild storm,--saw the light, ran
down to it, took the rescued ones on board, and, having received from
the coxswain the information that there were "more coming," sent them
down into his little cabin, there to be refreshed and comforted, while
the lifeboat sheered off again, and once more sprang into the "broken
water." So might some mighty warrior spur from the battle-field charged
with despatches of the highest import bearing on the fight, and, having
delivered his message, turn on his heel and rush back into the whirling
tide of war to complete the victory which had been so well begun!
Once more they made for the wreck, which was by that time fast breaking
up. Running right before the wind in such an awful gale, it was
necessary to make the men crowd aft in order to keep the boat's head
well out of the water. On this occasion one or two of the seamen of the
Wellington, who had been allowed inadvertently to remain in the boat,
became alarmed, for the seas were rolling high over the gunwale on each
side, and rushing into her with such force as to make it a difficult
matter to avoid being washed out. It was a new sensation to these men
to rush thus madly between two walls of foam eight or ten feet high!
They glanced backward, where another wall of foaming water seemed to be
curling over the stern, as if about to drop inboard. The coxswain
observed their looks, and knew their feelings. He knew there was no
lack of courage in them, and that a little experience would change their
minds on this point.
"Never look behind, lads," he cried; "look ahead; always look right
ahead."
"Ay, Geordy," remarked one of the men,--a Scotchman,--to his mate, "it's
rum sailin' this is. I thocht we was a' gaun to the bottom; but nae
doot the cox'n kens best. It's a wonderfu' boat!"
Having so said, the sedate Scot dismissed his anxieties, and thereafter
appeared to regard the surrounding chaos of water with no other feelings
than philosophic interest and curiosity.
On nearing the wreck the second time, it was found that the tide had
fallen so low that they could scarcely get alongside. Three times they
struck on the shoal; on the third occasion the mizzen-mast and sail were
blown out of the boat. They managed to drop anchor, however, and to
veer down under the port bow of the Wellington, whence the anxious
survivors threw ropes to them, and, one after another, leaped or swung
themselves into the boat. But they were so long about it that before
all had been got out the coxswain was obliged to drop to leeward to
prevent being left aground. In spite of this, the boat got fast, and
now they could neither advance to the wreck for the nine men who still
remained in her, nor push off to rejoin the tug.
The space between the boat and vessel was crossed by such a continuous
rush of broken water that for a time it was impossible to attempt
anything, but as the tide fell the coxswain consulted with his bowman,
and both agreed to venture to wade to the wreck, those on board having
become so exhausted as to be unable or unwilling to make further effort
to save themselves.
Acting on this resolve they with one of their men sprang into the raging
surf and staggered to the wreck, where they induced two of the crew to
leap overboard and brought them safely to the boat. Others of the
lifeboat crew then joined them and four more were rescued. [See note
1.]
The tide had been at its lowest when this desperate work was begun,--
before it was finished it had turned. This, coupled with the fact that
they had all been nearly swept away during the last effort; and that
there was a fresh burst of violence in the gale, induced them to wait
until the tide should rise. When it did so sufficiently, they hauled
and shoved the boat alongside, and the captain, who was one of the three
remaining men, made a desperate spring, but missed the boat and was
whirled away. Pike made a grasp at him but missed. The coxswain seized
a life-buoy and hurled it towards him. It fell within his reach, and it
was supposed that he had caught it, but they could not be certain. The
boat was now afloat and bumping violently. If they had cut the cable in
order to rescue the captain, which they could by no means make sure of
doing, the improbability of being able to return in time to save the two
remaining men would have been very great. It seemed to be life or death
in either case, so they stuck by the wreck.
It was grey dawn now, and the wreckage was knocking against and around
them to such an extent that the coxswain began to fear for the safety of
his boat. Yet he was loath to leave the men to perish.
"Jump now, lads!" he cried, sheering up alongside, "it's your last
chance. It's death to all of us if we stop longer here!"
The men sprang together. One gained the side of the boat and was saved,
the other was swept away. He made frantic efforts to gain the boat, but
before his companion had been got inboard he was out of sight, and
although the cable was promptly cut and the sail set he could not be
found. The boat was then run down along the sands in search of the
captain. The coxswain knew well from experience that he must certainly
have been swept by the current in the same direction as the wreckage.
He therefore followed this, and in a short time had the inexpressible
satisfaction and good fortune to find the captain. He had caught the
life-buoy, and having managed to get it under his arms had floated about
for the greater part of an hour. Though nearly dead he was still
sensible, and, after being well chafed and refreshed with a little rum
from the coxswain's case-bottle--provided for occasions of this sort--he
recovered.
The great work of the lifeboat had now been accomplished, but they could
not feel that it had been thoroughly completed without one more effort
being made to save the lost man. They therefore ran still farther down
the sand in the direction where he had been last seen. They followed
the drift of wreckage as before. Presently the bowman uttered a
thrilling shout, for, through the turmoil of dashing spray, he saw the
man clinging to a spar!
So unexpected was this happy event that the whole crew involuntarily
gave vent to a ringing cheer, although, in the circumstances, and
considering the nature of their exhausting work and the time they had
been exposed to it, one might have supposed them incapable of such a
burst of enthusiasm.
In a few moments he was rescued, and now, with light hearts, they ran
for the tug, which was clearly visible in the rapidly increasing
daylight. They did not put off time in transferring the saved men to
the steamer. The big hawser,--their familiar bond of attachment,--was
made fast to them, and away went that noble big brother and splendid
little sister straight for Ramsgate harbour. [See note 2.]
But the work of that wild night was not yet finished. On their way home
they fell in with a schooner, the foretopmast and bowsprit of which were
gone. As she was drifting towards the sands they hailed her. No reply
being made, the lifeboat was towed alongside, and, on being boarded, it
was found that she was a derelict. Probably she had got upon the sands
during the night, been forsaken by her crew in their own boat--in which
event there was small chance of any being saved--and had drifted off
again at the change of the tide.
Be that as it might, six lifeboat men were put on board. Finding no
water in her, they slipt her two cables, which were hanging from the
bow, a rope was made fast to the steamer, and she was taken in tow.
It was drawing towards noon when they neared the harbour. Very
different indeed was the aspect of things there then from what it had
been when they went out on their errand of mercy thirteen hours before.
Although the gale was still blowing fresh it had moderated greatly. The
black clouds no longer held possession of the sky, but were pierced,
scattered, and gilded, as they were rolled away, by the victorious sun.
The sea still raged and showed its white "teeth" fiercely, as if its
spirit had been too much roused to be easily appeased; but blue sky
appeared in patches everywhere; the rain had ceased, and the people of
the town and visitors swarmed out to enjoy the returning sunshine,
inhale the fresh sea-breeze, and await, anxiously, the return of the
lifeboat--for, of course, every one in the town was aware by that time
that she had been out all night.
When, at length, the smoke of the "big brother" was observed drawing
near, the people flocked in hundreds to the piers and cliffs.--Wherever
a point of vantage was to be had, dozens of spectators crowned it.
Wherever a point of danger was to be gained, daring spirits--chiefly in
the shape of small boys--took it by storm, in absolute contempt of the
police. "Jacob's Ladder"--the cliff staircase--was crowded from top to
bottom. The west pier was rendered invisible to its outer extremity by
human beings. The east pier, as far as it was dry, was covered by the
fashion and beauty--as well as by the fishy and tarry--of the town.
Beyond the point of dryness it was more or less besieged by those who
were reckless, riotous, and ridiculously fond of salt-water spray. The
yards and shrouds of the crowded and much damaged shipping in the
harbour were manned, and the windows of the town that commanded the sea
were filled with human faces. An absolute battery of telescopes, like
small artillery, was levelled at the approaching tug. Everywhere were
to be seen and heard evidences of excitement, anxiety, and expectation.
It was not long before it was announced that flags were seen flying at
the mast-heads of the tug and lifeboat--a sure evidence that a rescue
had been successfully accomplished. This caused many a burst of
cheering from the crowds, as the fact and its import became gradually
known. But these were as nothing compared with the cheers that arose
when the steamer, with the lifeboat and the schooner in tow, drew near,
and it could be seen that there were many people on board--among them
women and children. When they finally surged past the pier-head on the
crest of a tremendous billow, and swept into the harbour under a vast
shower of spray that burst over the pier and rose above the mast-heads
of the shipping within--as if to pour a libation on the gallant crews--
then a succession of cheers, that cannot be described, welcomed the
victors and re-echoed from the chalk-cliffs, to be caught up and sent
out again and again in thrilling cadence on the mad sea, which had thus
been plundered of its booty and disappointed of its prey!
Scarfs and hats and kerchiefs and hands were waved in wild enthusiasm,
strangely mingled with tender pity, when the exhausted women and
children and the worn-out and battered lifeboat-men were landed. Many
cheered, no doubt, to think of the strong hearts and invincible courage
that dwelt in the breasts of Britain's sons; while others,--tracing
things at once to their true source,--cheered in broken tones, or were
incompetent to cheer at all, when they thought with thankfulness of
Britain's faith in the Word of God, which, directly or indirectly, had
given that courage its inspiration, and filled those hearts with fire.
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Note 1. The coxswain--Mr Isaac Jarman--who has rendered heroic service
in the Ramsgate Lifeboat during the last ten years, has been personally
instrumental in saving between four and five hundred lives.
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Note 2. If the reader should desire to know something more of the
history of the celebrated Ramsgate lifeboat, which, owing to its
position, opportunities, and advantages, has had the most stirring
career of all the lifeboat fleet, we advise the perusal of a work (at
present in the press, if it be not already published) named _Storm
Warriors, or the Ramsgate Lifeboat and the Goodwin Sands_, by the
Reverend John Gilmore, whose able and thrilling articles on the
lifeboat-service in _Macmillan's Magazine_ are well known.