RESOURCEFULNESS AND SHIPWRECK
If the oceans of the world could speak, what marvellous
tales of heroism they could relate that are hidden in the
oblivion of their depths. Sailors generally are singularly
reticent about their adventures. They are sensitive about
being thought boastful; the nature of their training and
employment is so pregnant with danger that they become
accustomed to treat what most people would consider very
daring acts as a part of their ordinary business that should
not be made a fuss about. Hence many a gallant deed has been
done that was never heard of beyond the ocean and the vessel
where it took place.
There is not a crew that sails on salt water that could not
relate after every voyage they make events and doings
thrilling with interest which would be considered stirring
and brave if they had taken place on shore among persons
other than sailors. It is no uncommon thing to hear the cry
"A man overboard!" while a vessel is being rushed through a
heavy sea at a great speed, and the alarm is no sooner given
than some gallant fellow is seen to jump overboard to his
rescue. Not long ago a large vessel bound out to the west
coast of South America was running before heavy north-east
trade winds and a high following roller. A man was seen to
fall from the foretopsail yard right overboard before the
order could be given to haul the vessel to the wind. One of
his shipmates plunged into the bosom of a mountainous sea
without divesting himself of any clothing; even his boots
had to be taken off in the water. The ship was promptly
brought to the wind, and skilfully manipulated towards the
drowning man and his rescuer. The order was given to lower
the cutter, and a scramble was made for the distinction of
being one of the crew. The two men battled with the waves
until the boat reached them. They were taken into her and
saved. A short paragraph in the newspapers telling the
simple story was all that was heard of it.
Three years ago, Mr. Barney Barnato, the millionaire, was
coming home from South Africa, and when off the Western
Islands, from some cause or other he fell overboard. The
mail steamer must have been going sixteen or seventeen knots
an hour at the time, but it did not prevent the second
officer (I think it was) from jumping in after him and
recovering his body, though, alas! it was inanimate. This
brave fellow's act was made famous by a gifted and wealthy
young lady passenger falling in love with him, and he of
course with her. They have since been married, and I wish
them all the blessings that earth and heaven can bestow upon
them. I believe Mrs. Barnato and the executors of the genial
Barney showed their appreciation in a suitable way also.
Few people except sailors and passengers who may have
witnessed it can fully realise how difficult it must be to
keep an eye on a person in the sea, even if it is perfectly
smooth. It is one of the most exciting experiences of
sea-life. All except the rescuing party and the man at the
wheel run up the rigging and gaze with frantic eagerness to
keep in view and direct the boat towards where they think
the object of their mission is. It often happens that all
their efforts are unavailing, and when the search has to be
given up a creepy sensation, like some shuddering hint of
death, takes possession of you. I have more than once felt
it. Sailors on these occasions are subdued and divinely
sentimental, though their courage remains undaunted.
There are, however, phases of bravery, endurance, and
resourcefulness that test every fibre of the seaman's
versatile composition; and a communication to the outer
world of the tremendous struggles he is called upon to bear
would be calculated to stagger the lay imagination. It would
take a spacious library to contain all that could be
written of his bitter experiences and toilsome pilgrimages
throughout ages of storm and stress. The pity is so much of
it is lost to us, but this again is owing to the sailor's
habitual reticence about his own career. A characteristic
instance of this occurred to me about six months ago. I had
business in a shipyard, and the gateman who admitted me is
one of the last of the seamen of the middle of the century.
He was for many years master of sailing vessels belonging to
a north-east coast port. He is a fine-looking, intelligent
old fellow. I knew him by repute in my boyhood days; he had
the reputation then of being a smart captain, and owners
readily gave him employment. After greeting me with
sailor-like cordiality, he commenced to converse about the
old days, and as the conversation proceeded the weird
sadness of his look gradually disappeared, his eyes began to
sparkle, and joy soon suffused his ruddy face. His soul was
ablaze with reminiscences, and his unaffected talk was easy
and delightful to listen to. I was reluctant to break the
charm of it by introducing a subject that might be
distasteful to him. It was my desire to hear _from his own
lips_ a tale of shipwreck which is virtually without
parallel in its ghastly tragedy. I instinctively felt myself
creeping on to sacred ground. As soon as I mentioned the
matter his countenance changed and he became pensive. A
far-off look came over him, which indicated that a tender
chord had been touched. Obviously his thoughts were
revisiting the scene of a fierce conflict for life. The
sight was sublime, and when I saw the moisture come into his
eyes and his breast heave with emotion, it made me wish that
I had not reminded him of it. At length he began to unfold
the awful story. He was master of a brig called the _Ocean
Queen_. I think he said it was in the month of December,
1874. They sailed from a Gulf of Finland port laden with
deals. After many days they reached the longitude of
Gotland; they were then overtaken by a hurricane from the
west which battered the vessel until she became water-logged
and dismasted. The crew lashed themselves where they could,
and huddled together for warmth to minimise the effects of
the biting frost and the mad turmoil of boiling foam which
continuously swept over the doomed vessel, and caked itself
into granite-like lumps of ice. At intervals they would try
to keep their blood from freezing by watching a "slant" when
there was a comparative smooth, and run along the deckload a
few times, keeping hold of the life-line that was stretched
fore and aft for this purpose. After twelve hours the force
of the tempest was broken, and they were able to take more
exercise, but they were without food and water, and no
succour came near them. They held stoutly out against the
privations for two days, then one after another began to
succumb to the combined ravages of cold, thirst, and
hunger. Some of them died insane, and others fought on until
Nature became exhausted, and they also passed into the
Valley of Death. There were now only the captain and a
coloured seaman left. The wind and sea were drifting the
vessel towards the Prussian coast, and on the fifth morning
after she became water-logged the wreck stranded on a sandy
beach two hours before daylight. The captain and his
coloured companion attached themselves to a plank, and by
superhuman effort reached the shore. They buried their
bodies up to the waist in sand under the shelter of a hill,
believing it would generate some warmth into their
impoverished systems. Their extremities were badly
frostbitten, and when they were discovered at daylight by a
man on horseback who had been attracted to the scene of the
wreck, they were both in a condition of semi-consciousness.
He galloped off for assistance, and speedily had them placed
under medical treatment, and under the roof of hospitable
people. A few days' rest and proper attention made them well
enough to be removed to a hospital. It was soon found
necessary to amputate both of the coloured man's legs, and
also some of his fingers. The captain had the soles of his
feet cut off; and he told me that he always regretted not
having the feet taken off altogether, as he had never been
free from suffering during all these years. He said the
doctor advised it, but that he himself was so anxious to
save them that he preferred to have the soles scraped to the
bone, hoping that the diseased parts would heal; "but," said
he with an air of sober melancholy, "they never have."
Long before this story of piercing sadness, and horror, and
heroism, and superb endurance was finished, I felt a big
lump in my throat, and every nerve of me was tingling with
emotion; and as I passed from the presence of this noble old
fellow and pondered over all he had so reluctantly and
modestly told me of himself, it made me conclude that I had
been holding converse with a hero! I have been obliged to
confine myself to a brief outline of this tale of shipwreck.
There are incidents of it too painful to relate, and I am
quite sure I am consulting the wishes of the narrator by
abstaining from going too minutely into detail. The main
facts are given, and they may be relied on as absolutely
true.
The seamen of the middle of the nineteenth century were
trained to be ingenious and resourceful in emergencies, and,
as a rule, they did not disgrace their training. If a
jib-boom was carried away, a mast sprung, or a yard
fractured, they had only to be told to have it fished. They
knew how to do this as well as their officers did, and would
not brook being instructed. If a mast was carried away they
regarded it as a privilege to obey the captain's
instructions to have jury masts rigged, and it is not an
exaggeration to say that astonishing feats of genius have
been done on occasions such as these.
In 1864 I was an apprentice aboard a brig bound from the
Tyne to the Baltic; Tynemouth Castle bore west 60 miles. A
strong north-west wind was blowing, and the sea was very
cross. A press of canvas was being carried. The second mate
being in charge, orders were given to take in the
foretopgallant sail. It was clewed up, and just as another
apprentice and myself were getting into the rigging to go up
and furl it one of the chain-plates of the maintopmast
backstays carried away. The maintopmast immediately snapped
and went over the side, dragging the foretopmast with it.
Fortunately we had not as yet got aloft, or we would have
come to a precipitate end. The storm was increasing, and the
confusion of ropes, chains, sails, spars, &c, all lurching
against the side, caused the captain and his crew much
concern, lest the vessel should be so injured as to endanger
her safety. The men worked like Trojans to minimise danger,
and to save as much gear as possible to rig jury masts with.
The accident happened at 6 a.m., and at 8 p.m. the wreck had
been cleared away and all the necessary gear saved. Over and
over again during that toilsome day men risked their lives
to save a few pounds' worth of gear; indeed, it was a day of
brave deeds. On the following days it blew a hard northerly
gale so that the vessel had to be hove-to. After that it
gradually fined down, and the task of rigging jury topmasts
began. It took four days to accomplish all that was
necessary; and, although the men were fagged, they were also
proud of their work. Any adverse criticism would have been
visited with rigorous penalties. They were not boastful
about it, though they quite believed a smart job had been
carried out; and perhaps they took some credit to themselves
for saving the vessel from total destruction. I have reason
to know that neither the owner nor his underwriters
estimated their services as being worthy of any recognition
whatever. It was a custom in those days to guard strictly
against the sin of generosity, even to recompense brave
deeds done or valuable services rendered!
A fine clipper barque in those old days, one that was
originally built for the tea trade, and had made many
successful passages with that cargo from China to London,
acquired an enviable reputation for her sailing qualities,
but, like many others, she was driven out of the trade by
the introduction of steam and more modern methods of
transit. She, however, still continued to make for her
owners large profits in the West Indian and American trades.
In 1873 freights were very good out and home from the higher
Baltic ports, and the owner decided to make a short voyage
in that direction before resuming the West Indian
employment. She had made a rapid passage from the Tyne, and
was sailing along the island of Gotland with a strong
northerly wind. The season was far advanced, and the captain
was carrying a press of canvas which made her plunge along
at the rate of at least twelve knots an hour. The captain,
who had been on deck nearly the whole passage, set the
course, and gave strict instructions to the second mate,
whom he left in charge, to keep a sharp look-out while he was
below having a wash.
It was 8 p.m.; the moon was just coming from below a hazy
horizon, which made it difficult to see anything under sail
except at a short distance. The look-out suddenly reported a
vessel under sail right ahead without lights. The helm of
the barque was starboarded; but it was too late. The vessel,
which proved to be a brig, struck and raked along the
starboard side, carrying away nearly the whole of the fore,
main, and mizzen rigging, irreparably damaging some
important sails. As soon as it was discovered that the
colliding vessel had suffered no material damage, the
captain gave orders for the vessel to be put on her course,
and to unbend the torn sails and bend a fresh set before
starting to secure the lee rigging, so that as little time
as possible might be lost. While this was being done a
minute survey was being made by the captain and the
carpenter to ascertain the extent of the damage to rigging,
chain-plates, and hull. It was found that the latter was
uninjured; but the shrouds and chain-plates were badly
damaged, especially the latter, and the only way of
securing the rigging thoroughly was to heave-to for a while
and pass two bights of hawser chain under the bottom so that
some of the starboard fore and main rigging could be set up
to it. This was soon done, and the barque put on her course
once more. The men worked with commendable skill and energy
during the whole night, and when the livid grey of the dawn
came they had all but finished their arduous task.
Fortunately the wind kept steady on the port beam, so that
the damage to the starboard rigging could be secured without
interrupting the progress of the voyage, it being on the
leeside. At 9 a.m. the watches were again resumed, and those
whose duty it was to be on deck proceeded to carry out the
finishing touches. These were satisfactorily completed, and
by the time the evening shadows had fallen the temporary
repairs were closely scrutinised and pronounced so strong
that no gale could destroy them. The moaning of the hoarse
wind through the rigging, and the sinister appearance of the
lowering clouds as they hurried away to leeward, indicated
that mischief was in the air, and that there was every
probability of the soundness of the renovated rigging being
promptly tested. The wind and sea were making, with swift
roaring anger, but not a stitch of canvas was taken in,
every spar and rope-yarn aboard was feeling the strain as the
clipper was crashed into the surging waves which flowed
between the shores of an iron-bound gulf. The vessel was
swept with exciting rapidity towards her destination, but
before morning dawned the gale had become so fierce sail was
ordered to be shortened. Soon the course had to be altered,
and the full weight of the tempest was thrown on the damaged
parts. The crew had the encouraging satisfaction of seeing
that their hastily accomplished work refused to yield to the
vast strain it was suddenly called upon to bear. They
arrived at their discharging port without further mishap,
and, with the exception of fitting new chain-plates to
connect the shrouds to, everything else was secured by the
crew, and she was brought home without incurring any further
cost to her owners and underwriters. A very profitable
voyage was made, and the captain had the distinction of
receiving a condescending benediction from the manager on
his arrival home. He was told with an air of unequalled
majesty that in many ways the mishap was disastrous, "but,"
said the manager, "I am impelled to confess that it is
atoned for by the singular display of merit which has been
shown in not only extricating your vessel from a perilous
position, but for your expedition and economy in carrying
out the repairs!" The captain responded to this eloquent
tribute by assuring his employer that he was deeply grateful
for this further token of his confidence, and very shortly
after he was materially rewarded from quite an unexpected
source by being offered the command of a fine steamer, which
he only accepted after considerable pressure had been
brought to bear on him by the owners of the steamer and his
own friends.
Long before steamers had captured the coasting trade of the
northern coal ports, a brig which carried coal from the
Tyne, Blyth, or Amble to Calais, was caught by a terrific
gale from the east when returning north in ballast. She
managed to scrape round all the points until Coquet Island
was reached, when it became apparent from the shore that it
would be a miracle if she weathered the rocks which surround
that picturesque islet. Her movements had been watched from
the time she passed Newbiggin Point, and grave fears for her
safety spread along the coast. The Coquet was closely
shaved, but she was driven ashore between Alnmouth and
Warkworth Harbour. The position was excitingly critical. It
was low tide, and the storm raged with malignant force, so
that when the flood made there seemed little hope of saving
the crew. As to the vessel herself, it was only a question
of time until she would be shattered into fragments.
A large crowd of people had congregated as near to the wreck
as it was prudent, for the waves swept far up the beach. The
crew sought refuge in the forerigging, as heavy seas were
sweeping right over the hull, and as no succour came to them
one brave fellow made a small line fast to his waist, and
sprang into the cauldron of boiling breakers. He reached the
shore almost lifeless, and his gallant act was the means of
saving several of the crew, who dared to risk being hauled
through the surf. Alas! as often happens, some of them still
clung to the rigging that held the oscillating mast. It was
assumed that they must be benumbed, or that they dreaded
being dashed to death in the attempt to attach themselves to
the rope that had been the means of rescuing their
shipmates. The people gesticulated directions for them to
take the plunge, but it seemed as though they were riveted
to a tragic destiny.
Darkness had come on, and some one in the crowd shouted at
the top of his voice, "Silence! I hear some one shouting."
Instantly there was a deathlike hush, and mingling with the
hurricane music of the storm, the sweet feminine voice which
was said to be that of the cabin-boy was heard singing--
"Jesu, lover of my soul
Let me to Thy bosom fly,
While the nearer waters roll,
While the tempest still is high.
Hide me, oh my Saviour, hide,
Till the storm of life be past,
Safe into the haven guide,
Oh receive my soul at last."
These sentences came tossing through the troubled darkness,
and when the last strains had faded away the subdued anguish
of the people was let loose. Women became hysterical, and
strong men were smitten with grief. It was a soul-stirring
experience to them; and their impotence to save the
perishing men was an unbearable agony. A shriek from some of
the crowd told that something dreadful had happened. All
eyes were directed towards the wreck, but nothing could be
seen now but a portion of the half-submerged hull. The masts
had gone by the board, and soon the coast was strewn with
wreckage; she had broken all to pieces. When daylight broke,
a search-party found the little songster's cold, clammy
body. They wiped the yellow sand from his eyes and closed
them, and in the course of the day his fellow-victims were
laid at rest beside him.