Some six years ago I was staying in a little village about half a
mile from the sea, on the south-east coast of Cornwall. I had just
recovered from a severe attack of blood-poisoning, and had not yet
entirely regained my strength. My two companions were Herbert B——, a
medical student, and Sam W——, a midshipman in the royal navy, both
of whom had lived the best part of their lives at the seaside, and
had been accustomed from their boyhood to boating and yachting in all
sorts of weather. The former, about six feet in height, was a paragon
of herculean strength. The latter, four inches less, was slightly but
firmly built, and in his eyes there was a look of boldness and audacity
which was unmistakable, whilst his every action gave evidence of a
catlike activity.
That part of the Cornish coast on which we were staying was bare and
rocky; a long line of cliffs rearing themselves straight out of the
water to a height of about two hundred feet, stretched half-a-dozen
miles on either side of us, affording no shelter for boats of a large
size. The only thing resembling a haven was a small bay about a mile
from our cottage, running a hundred and fifty yards inland, and facing
south-south-east. From each side of this bay a bold reef of rocks
jutted straight out to sea for about seventy yards, acting as natural
breakwaters, and preventing a surf in the bay even in the roughest
weather. In this bay, which was very dangerous of approach to those
who did not know the landmarks, we kept a fishing-boat, about twenty
feet long by six feet and a half beam; long and somewhat narrow, being
lightly built, and meant for rowing as well as sailing.
I was sitting alone in the dining-room of our cottage about eleven
o’clock on the morning of October 25, 1879. The wind, which had been
blowing fresh for the past three days, had increased during the night
to a strong gale from the south-west, and my two friends had gone out
about an hour before to watch the very rough sea, and to see if there
were any ships or boats in distress. I felt rather unwell, and was
congratulating myself on not having gone out in such weather, when I
heard a quick step outside the door, and Herbert burst in, crying in
a decided manner: ‘There’s a dismasted schooner drifting up channel,
broadside on to the sea; there’s a heavy squall of rain over Looe [the
nearest port, about eight miles off], and the life-boat people can’t
see her; so Sam and I are going off to her in the fishing-boat; and as
none of the villagers will come to steer, I’ve come to fetch you.’
‘Fetch me!’ I ejaculated, horror-struck. ‘But my illness’——
‘Put your illness in your pocket, and keep it there till you come
back,’ said my friend. ‘You _must_ come—unless you’re afraid,’ he
added, glaring at me.
Although of a weak and nervous temperament, I am by no means a coward;
so I told him I was ready to accompany him. On our way to the bay,
Herbert told me that when first seen, the schooner was dismasted, but
that the crew had managed to keep steerage-way on her by hoisting the
jib and letting her run before the gale: the canvas being rotten,
however, as is often the case on board small traders, the sail had
blown right out of the bolt-ropes, and the vessel had swung round
broadside on to the sea.
On reaching the cliff, a thrilling sight met my gaze. Some four miles
off, a square-topsail schooner of not more than two hundred tons was
being tossed about at the mercy of the waves. Her mainmast had gone by
the board, and her fore-topmast had snapped off a few feet above the
cap; her foreyard, however, still remained. She had a tremendous list
to port—which was also her lee-side—and every sea that struck her broke
clean over her, and seemed to shake her fearfully. We did not stop half
a minute to observe this, but hurried to the bay where our boat was
beached. Sam was preparing her for sea with all speed, but as coolly
as if he were going out with a water-party on the upper reaches of the
Thames.
After taking out some of the ballast to lighten her for the heavy
pull—we could not sail, for wind and sea were dead against us—the boat
was launched. No sooner had we got beyond the points of the two natural
breakwaters, than a sea with what sailors call a ‘head’ on it struck us
on the starboard bow, sending the boat’s head flying round and filling
her quarter-full of water.
‘Gracious powers!’ I cried, ‘we’ll never get out there. And if we do,
we’ll never get back safely with the boat full of people.’
‘Pull her head round to the sea, Sam, my boy.—Mind your helm, Arthur,
and don’t talk,’ said Herbert calmly. ‘And as soon as we get beyond
the rocks, you can start baling,’ he added, as we again met the first
wave outside the bay. But this time I was prepared, and grasping the
helm firmly, kept the boat’s head dead on to the sea. With one vigorous
stroke of the oars, which Herbert and Sam handled in a masterly style,
we dashed over, almost through, the huge billow that threatened to
ingulf us, and not a moment too soon, for a second after it passed
under our stern, it broke with a roar like the report of a cannon.
Then began a tremendous battle against wind and sea; Herbert dragging
his oar through the water with that apparent ease and grace peculiar to
men endowed with enormous muscular power; whilst Sam, who was pulling
bow-oar, strained his sinewy arms and lithe body till, by their united
efforts, the spray flew over the boat’s bow as she boldly dashed over,
often through, the waves. We were wet to the skin; and it was with
great difficulty that I could keep the boat’s head straight.
After about an hour and a half of as hard work as two men ever endured
in a good cause, during which time I was kept constantly baling, we
got close under the lee of the wrecked vessel, which had now drifted
to within two miles of the shore. There were eight poor half-frozen
wretches on board, one of whom was a woman, clinging to some spars
which were securely lashed on the mainhold hatch. When we shouted and
signalled them to throw us a rope, none of them moved. The cold and
wet, and staying so long in the same position, had so stiffened them
that they were unable to render us any assistance in getting on board.
We then tried to approach the lee-quarter of the wreck; but just as
we got under the mainchains, by which my companions meant to climb on
board, a tremendous sea broke over the weather-quarter, and washing
down over the lee gunwale, half filled our boat, and almost upset it.
‘We’re gone this time!’ I exclaimed.
‘Then we’ll all go together,’ cried Sam in a tone as if he rather
enjoyed the idea than otherwise.
‘Out oars and pull back again,’ said Herbert calmly, without taking any
notice of my frightened exclamation, for the wave had washed us some
distance from the schooner.
On again approaching the wreck, we found the upper part of the
fore-topmast floating about thirty feet from her side, with the
fore-topmast backstay still fastened to it. After some trouble, Sam
managed to cut the spar adrift and make the rope secure to our boat,
the other end still being fast to the schooner. Herbert, telling me to
keep the boat as clear of water as possible with the baling bucket,
went forward. Taking hold of the rope, he jumped overboard, quickly
drew himself hand over hand to the schooner’s side, and climbed on
board by the forechains. Sam soon followed him, though he was nearly
washed away by a sea which broke over the schooner. Herbert, however,
who was clinging to the foreshrouds, quickly grasped his wrist, and
saved him.
After a short consultation, Sam went aloft with a rope, and lying
out on the lee foreyard arm, passed the end of the rope through the
brace-block. He then came down on deck again, and making a bowline on
a bight (a knot with two large loops) with it, gave it to Herbert,
who made it and the other end of the rope fast to a belaying pin. Sam
then came back to the boat to help me to receive the unfortunates.
Herbert proceeded with great difficulty to the main hatch, and waiting
till a huge wave had washed over the schooner, took the woman in his
strong arms and brought her to where he had made fast the tackle. He
then signalled us to haul the boat as near to the wreck as we dared.
Then he put the woman’s head and shoulders through one loop, and her
limbs through the other, and waiting his opportunity, swung her on
to the boat, where we unslung her, so to speak, and passed the knot
back to Herbert. The crew followed in the same manner. As Herbert was
carrying the last of them down to swing him over to the boat, the
schooner shipped a tremendous sea, which sent Herbert and his burden
flying into the lee scuppers. After remaining in suspense for half
a minute without either of them appearing above the bulwarks, Sam
jumped at once overboard, dragged himself by the rope to the wreck,
and climbed on board. Stooping, he disengaged the tightly clasped arms
of the sailor from Herbert’s neck; he then helped his friend, who was
half insensible, to rise, and propped him against the bulwarks with
his arms round the backstay. Sam was then about to stoop again to help
the sailor, when he recoiled with an exclamation of horror. The poor
fellow’s head, as he had fallen with Herbert’s huge weight on the top
of him, had struck against the main-bits, and was shattered: he was
stone-dead!
With great difficulty Sam managed to put his friend into the bowline
and sling him over to the boat, he himself following by the rope by
which we were made fast to the schooner. Herbert, who looked very pale
and ill, sank back exhausted in the stern-sheets. A thin stream of
blood was trickling from his temple; and he also suffered from pain in
his right side.
It was late in the afternoon ere we cast off our rope and prepared
for our homeward journey. We had scarcely got fifty yards from the
schooners side, when a heavy sea struck her; she shook from stem to
stern, then heeled over to port till we thought she would capsize;
but she righted herself again, as if struggling to keep afloat, then
slowly began to sink by the bow. A second wave struck her, more on
the quarter; plunging her bow into the trough of the sea, she raised
her stern in the air, and, diving like some sea monster, disappeared.
We afterwards learned from the captain that her cargo—loose limestone
blocks of about a hundredweight each—had shifted. The list this gave
to the schooner had caused the mainmast, which was already slightly
sprung, to go over the side, taking the fore-topmast with it. The
shifting of the cargo had also started one of the planks, which
accounted for the schooner springing a leak and going down.
The wind, which had chopped round to the southward, had blown us to
within half a mile of the shore. Hoisting our close-reefed lug, we
steered for the small haven, which we reached in safety in a quarter
of an hour, after having narrowly escaped being upset by the ugly
‘topping’ of a wave at the entrance between the two points of rock.
We were received with shouts of joy from the villagers and some
coastguardsmen, who, having perceived that the vessel was drifting in
shore, had prepared the rocket apparatus in case of emergency.
Poor Herbert had to be lifted out of the boat and carried to our
cottage on a stretcher. A surgeon was in immediate attendance, and we
awaited with no little anxiety the result of his examination. Three
ribs were found to be fractured; but the wound in his temple proved
very slight. Suffice it to say that our friend was able to return to
his studies in a few weeks.
Neither Sam nor myself suffered from our exposure; the former remaining
all night in attendance on Herbert; I, taking a steaming glass of grog,
turned in between the blankets.
The shipwrecked crew were well attended to by the landlord of the
village inn, and were next morning sent on to Plymouth. Nothing
was known about the man who was killed; he had shipped on board the
schooner at Falmouth, but no one knew where he came from.
A week after this event we received a letter of thanks from the owners
of the schooner, who also offered us a handsome acknowledgment for our
timely assistance, which we declined with thanks.
The captain, who is now master of a much larger vessel, and whose wife
it was we had saved, insists on repeating his expressions of gratitude
whenever we meet; but his tone becomes very grave when we laugh and
attempt to make light of the danger we encountered.