Goes in for salvage, sir; and when a ship's going on to the sands, where
she must be knocked to pieces in no time, and a party of our company
goes off and saves her, why we deserves it, don't we? That's our place,
you see; and them's old names of ships and bits o' wreck nailed up again
it. We keeps oars, and masts, and sails in there; ropes, and anchors,
and things as don't want to be lying out on the beach; and then, too, it
serves for a shelter and lookout place. Them's our boats--them two--
yawls we call 'em; and I mean to say that, lifeboat, or other boat,
you'll never find aught to come anigh 'em for seaworthiness. There's a
build! there's fine lines! Why, she goes over the water like a duck;
and when we've a lot of our chaps in, some o' them sand-bags and irons
at the bottom for ballast, the two masts, and a couple o' lug sails up,
it'll be such a storm as I ain't seen yet as'll keep us from going out.
Why, we've gone out, when in five minutes--ah! less than that--you
couldn't see the shore--nought but wild sea and spray all round; but
there, we're used to it, you see; and when we get to a ship in trouble,
and save her, why, there's some satisfaction in it. And, after all,
'tain't half so bad as being in a light-ship.
Light-ship? yes, there's one out yonder. No, not that--that's one o'
the harbour lights. Out more to sea. There, you can't see her now; but
if you take a look you'll see her directly. Not the ship, o' course,
but the light. There; that's her, bo. Don't you see her? That's a
revolving light. Goes round and round, you know, so that sometimes you
see it, and sometimes you don't; and that's on the top of a mast aboard
a light-ship, moored head and starn on the sands, two mile out; and
sooner than spend a night aboard her when there's a storm on, I'd go out
to fifty wrecks.
Pretty sight that, ain't it? Surprises many people as comes to the
sea-side. Seems as if the sea's on fire, don't it? There now, watch
that boat as the oars dip--quite gives flashes o' light. But that ain't
nothing, that ain't, to what I've seen abroad. I was in one of the
Queen's frigates out in the Pacific, and when we lay in the harbour at
Callao one night, the officers had a ball on board, and we chaps had
plenty to do taking the ladies backwards and forwards. Well, when it
was over we in the first cutter were taking a party ashore--officers and
ladies--when they were singing, and so on, and they made us pull slowly,
for it was just as if the whole bay was afire, and when we dipped the
flash was enough to light up all our faces with the soft pale light.
But you should be out in the light-ship there for a night when there's a
heavy sea on and the waves makes a clean breach over you. It's a dull
life out there at any time, for there's not much to do--only the light
to keep trimmed and the glass and reflectors well polished. When I was
there we used to pass the time away making models of ships and rigging
them, or doing any little nick-nack jobs as took our fancies. Four of
us used to be there at a time; and when the dark winter's night was
setting in, and the wind and sea getting up, you couldn't help feeling
melancholy and low. The place we were in, you see, was a dangerous one,
and one where there had been no end of wrecks; while in more than one
place you could see the timbers of a half broke-up ship, lying stuck in
the sands. Then, as it got dark, and you stood on deck, you could
almost fancy the tall white waves were the ghosts of them as had gone
down and been lost there--hundreds upon hundreds of them; and that puts
me in mind of one night when a full-rigged ship came on the sands.
It was a horribly rough afternoon, with a heavy gale blowing; cold, and
dark, and dismal it looked all round, and there we were watching this
here ship trying hard to give the sands a wide berth, but all to no
good, for there she was slowly drifting down nearer and nearer--now lost
to sight almost in the fog and spray, and now when it lifted, plain
again before us, till she seemed close in amongst the heavy surf.
At times our light-ship, heavily moored and strong-built as she was,
pitched and strained dreadful, so that it seemed as she must drag or
break away, while every now and then a wave would come with such a shock
that the heavy timbers quivered again; and of us four men there, every
one would have gladly been ashore, and out of those fierce roaring
breakers. But no one showed the white feather, and there we were, as I
said, watching the big ship, till just as the gloomy winter's night set
in, and the gale came shouting by as though the storm meant to make a
night of it, we saw the ship for a moment, lost sight of her again, and
then, just as there was a bit of an opening in the fog, there she came
with a regular leap starn on to the sands, and "snap, snap," two of her
masts went overboard in an instant.
We had to hold on pretty tightly ourselves, I can tell you, and the
water that came aboard at times almost choked us; but with such a scene
as that before us, not a man could have gone below, and we stood
straining our eyes and trying to make out what was going on.
She was too far off for us to make out anything very plainly; but as we
looked, up went a rocket, rush into the air, and, leaving its fiery
train behind, broke into a shower of sparks. Then there was another and
another sent up, and in the flashes of light we could make out as one
mast crowded with people still stood, while a regular shudder went
through one to think what it would be if that fell.
What seemed so cruel was that though we were only a quarter of a mile
off we couldn't help the poor creatures; all the good we were was to
keep our light burning brightly to warn ships off, but once they were on
the sands, with a heavy sea running, the stoutest shoremen shook their
heads, and when the lifeboat was run out knew well enough that the
chances were ever so much against the lives being all saved.
"Hooray!" says Bob Gunnis all at once; "here they come."
"Where?" I says; "and who's coming?"
Looking where he pointed, for the wind swept his words away, I held on
my tarpaulin hat, and peered out to leeward, where every now and then I
could just see the white and blue sides of the lifeboat with her sail
up, and seeming to dance like a gull on the top of the water. Now she'd
be quite hid in the dim misty clouds that kept flying across, half rain,
half spray. Now she'd be seen plainer and nearer, coming on between us
and the wreck; and then it would come over so dark again we could make
nothing out. But the lightly-painted boat and her white sail soon
showed again quite pale and ghost-like, now getting fast on towards the
vessel; though I couldn't help giving my head a shake as I held on and
looked.
"What water is there where she lies?" I says to Bob Gunnis--for, you
see, he was a chap as knew to a foot what water there was anywhere for
far enough round.
"Let's see," he says, "it's about low water now, or should be if there
warn't this gale on, but she won't go down no lower anyhows. Let's see,
there'll be just enough to float the lifeboat over, and that's all;
while if they give a scrape or a bump once it won't be no wonder."
And now we could just make out the lifeboat lay out for a bit, and then
let go her kedge and drop down towards the ship, as seemed at times to
be completely buried under water. It made your eyes ache to watch, for
the spray came dashing into your face, while the lanthorn looked quite
dull and dripping, with the water splashing and beating against it.
All at once we had a grand view of the lifeboat, for she lay just where
the light from our lanthorn fell. All four of us saw her as we hung
together by the bulwarks, and then there seemed something wrong, for she
was lifted on a great wave; and then one's heart seemed to come in one's
mouth, for she capsized.
I remember it all so well--the white frothy water, with the strong light
from our lanthorn upon it, and the pale, ghostly-looking boat capsizing,
while we held our breath to see her come right again; but she didn't,
but lay tossing in the water, for there was not depth enough for the
mast to pass under, or else the boat, being made self-righting, would
have come up again all right.
Just then, the light turning round, all was darkness again, and whether
it was fancy, or only the wind rushing by, there came one of the wildest
and most awful shrieks I ever heard in my life. Then the light worked
round again, and shone down towards where the lifeboat and the ship lay;
but we could see nothing but the tremendous sea beating upon the sands,
boiling up and rising like mountains of foam, whilst our light-ship
rolled and plunged and tugged at her moorings, so that we could not keep
our feet.
Bound come the light again, and we strained our eyes to look, but there
was nothing but the tumbling sea in one great froth; and then darkness,
and light once more as the lanthorn revolved; and we then fancied that
in the dark part, between where the light fell and our ship, we could
make out the lifeboat drifting along on one side, with here and there
something dark clinging to it; but we couldn't be sure, and even if they
had floated close by us, we could have done nothing to help them, for
the sea on was something fearful.
There wasn't a man of us that night as didn't feel sure as the old
light-ship would be dragging her anchors and going ashore somewhere,
when, "Lord ha' mussy upon us," I says. Of course, it was watch and
watch of a night; but, there, who could go and turn in with the sea
thundering on deck, and washing over you--the chain cables groaning and
creaking; the wind shrieking by, and the mast, atop of which stood the
lanthorn, quivering and jarring and shaking, as though it would snap off
by the deck? Sleep! No, not much of that; for we all stayed on deck,
talking when there was a lull, and holding on so as to keep from being
swept overboard.
Ah! it's a nice berth--tenter of a light-ship, moored at the end of the
dangerous sands--a place too bad for other vessels to come; so, fair
weather or foul, there you are, to keep your light bright and trimmed so
that you may warn other folks off.
We could see the lights ashore now and then, and knew how the folks
would be looking out for the lifeboat, and the very thought of it all
gave one a shudder, for it seemed that they were all lost--ship's crew
and lifeboat's crew--while we four had been looking idly on.
I'd crept along to the bows of the ship, and was trying to peer out into
the thick haze ahead, when all at once I gave a start, for I seemed to
hear a cry like some one hailing very faintly.
I looked out again and again on both sides, and then settled as it was
fancy, for the noise of the wind and water was deafening; but just as
I'd made up my mind that it was nothing I hears the cry again, and this
time it made me shiver, for I knew that any one of the ship's crew, or
the lifeboat's crew, must have been swept away half an hour before. So,
as I said, I gave quite a shiver and crept back to where my mates stood,
and shouts in Bob Gunnis's ear, "There's some one a hailing of us!"
"Don't be a fool," he says, quite crusty; but I stuck out as there was,
and then he crept forward too, and stood listening. "Now then," he
says, "where's your hailin' now? Why, it was the--"
"Help!" came a faint cry from somewhere ahead, and Bob stopped short
with his mouth open, and his hand over his eyes, gazing out to sea.
"Say, mate," he says, ketching hold of my arm, and whispering in my ear,
with his mouth quite close--"say, mate, let's get back; 'taint nat'ral."
Well, feeling a bit queer after hearing that wild cry from somewhere off
the water, and knowing that nothing could live in the sea then on, we
thought it was what Alick Frazer, another of our chaps, called "No
canny," and we crept back along the bulwarks to where t'other two stood,
and "I say, bo," says Bob to Alick, "you can hear 'em drowning out there
now;" and Bob was obliged to shout it all.
"Ah!" says Alick, "and so we shall every storm night as comes, laddie;
and I'll no stay in the ship if we do."
"Help!" came the cry again off the water--such a long low cry, heard in
the lull, that it seemed to go through us all, and we stood there
trembling and afraid to move.
"'Tain't human," says Alick--"it's a sperrit;" but somehow or other we
all went up to the ship's head again, and stood trying to make something
out as the light turned round. All just in front of us was dark, for it
was some little way out before the light struck the water; but we could
see nothing; and shaking our heads, we were about going back again, when
a sea came aboard with a rush, and made us hold on for dear life; and
then directly after came very faintly the cry, "Help!" so close at hand
that it seemed on board.
"Why, there's a chap on the chain?" cried Bob Gunnis excitedly. "Look
here, mates," he cried; and there right below, and evidently lashed on
to the big mooring cable, we could make out a figure, sometimes clear of
the water, and sometimes with it washing clean over him.
"Ahoy!" I sings out; but there was no answer, and during the next
minute as we stood there no cry for help came, for it seemed the poor
fellow was beat out.
"Well," I says, "we must fetch him aboard somehow."
"Ah!" says Bob Gunnis, "that's werry easy said, mate; p'raps you'll go
down the cable and do it."
That was home certainly, for with the sea, as we kept shipping, it was
hard enough to hold your own in the shelter of the bulwarks, without
going over the bows, where you would have to hang on, and get the full
rush. "Well, but," I say, "some one must go;" and I shouted it out, and
looked at the other two. But they wouldn't see it, and Bob Gunnis only
said it was bad enough there as we were; so I goes down below, feeling
all of a shiver as if something was going to happen, and they shouted at
me, but I came up again, and shoved the hatch on, and then crept forward
with some inch rope in my hand; makes one end fast round my waist, and
gives them the rest to pay out; and then gets ready to go over the bows
and slip down the cable.
I waited till a sea had struck us, and then climbed over and began to
swarm down the cold, slippery iron links; and not being far, I soon got
hold of the poor fellow hanging there; then the sea came right over us,
and it seemed as if I was going to be torn away; but I held on, and then
as it went down I got lower, and held tight hold of the poor chap--both
arms round him, and fancying how it would be if my knot wasn't fast, or
the rope parted. I shouted for them to haul us aboard; but they
couldn't have heard me, for while I was watching the black bows of the
ship, another wave come over us, and I was almost drowned before it
sank. But now they began to haul on tight, and dragged so that the rope
cut awfully, for I found that the poor chap didn't move; and loosing one
hand as they slackened a moment, I could feel as he had lashed himself
to the cable, and then the rope tightened again, and before I could
shout I was being dragged away, and the next moment they had me over the
side.
But I was a bit up now, and, opening my knife, I tried the knot, got my
breath, and went over again, slid down the chain, and getting where I
was afore, managed to cut through the poor fellow's lashings; and then
holding on tightly, shouted to them to haul; but as I shouted, the sea
washed right over us, and dashed us bang up against the ship's bows, so
that I was half stunned; but I held on, and then as the wave was sucking
us back, and I felt that it was all over, the rope tightened, the
fellows hauled in fast, and once more I was aboard, and this time not
alone--though, mind you, it was no easy task to get us over the side,
for I couldn't help them a bit.
After a bit I was able to crawl down the hatchway, and as they were
trying to pour rum into the poor fellow's mouth, I lay down in the
cabin, for my head felt heavy and stupid, and there I was watching them
as by the light of the swinging lanthorn they did what they could for
the poor fellow; and at last, lying there listening to the sea beating
up against the side, I fell into a half-stupid sort of sleep--part owing
to the way my head was struck, and partly from being worn-out.
Next morning when I woke, wet and shivering, the dull light through the
skylight showed me as the poor fellow lay on the other side, and there
was no one else in the cabin. Close aside him was a life-belt; so I
knew that he had been one of the lifeboat crew, and, not wanting to
disturb him, I was going to creep out, when I thought I'd have a look to
see who it was I'd saved, and so I crept back a bit, and stooped down,
when my heart seemed to stop, for I saw as it was my own brother--and he
was dead!
Can't help feeling a bit soft about it, sir, though it's years ago now.
Poor chap! he volunteered, as the crew were short-handed, and was one of
the many lost, for only two or three got ashore.
Plucky young chap, he was; but the sea was too much for him; and, Lord,
sir, you'd be surprised how many the sea takes every year.