Deal beach is peculiar in more respects than one. There are a variety
of contradictory appearances about it which somewhat puzzle a visitor,
especially if he be accustomed to sea-coast towns and villages in other
parts of the country.
For one thing, all the boats seem hopelessly high and dry on the beach,
without the chance, and apparently without any intention, of ever being
got off again. Then there is, at certain seasons of the year, nothing
whatever doing. Great hard-fisted fellows, with nautical garments and
bronzed faces, are seen lounging about with their hands in their
pockets, and with a heavy slowness in their gait, which seems to imply
that they are elephantine creatures, fit only to be looked at and
wondered at as monuments of strength and laziness.
If the day happens to be fine and calm when the stranger visits the
beach, he will probably be impressed with the idea that here is an
accumulation of splendid sea-going _materiel_, which has somehow got
hopelessly stranded and become useless.
Of course, in the height of summer, there will be found bustle enough
among the visitants to distract attention from the fact to which I
allude; but in spring, before these migratory individuals arrive, there
is marvellously little doing on Deal beach in fine weather. The pilots
and boatmen lounge about, apparently amusing themselves with pipes and
telescopes; they appear to have no object in life but to kill time; they
seem a set of idle hulking fellows;--nevertheless, I should say,
speaking roughly, that at least the half of these men are heroes!
The sturdy oak, in fine weather, bends only its topmost branches to the
light wind, and its leaves and twigs alone are troubled by the summer
breeze; but when the gale lays low the trees of the forest and whirls
the leaves about like ocean spray, then the oak is stirred to wild
action; tosses its gnarled limbs in the air, and moves the very earth on
which it stands. So the heroes on Deal beach are sluggish and quiescent
while the sun shines and the butterflies are abroad; but let the storm
burst upon the sea; let the waves hiss and thunder on that steep pebbly
shore; let the breakers gleam on the horizon just over the fatal Goodwin
Sands, or let the night descend in horrid blackness, and shroud beach
and breakers alike from mortal view, then the man of Deal bestirs his
powerful frame, girds up his active loins, and claps on his sou'-wester;
launches his huge boat that seemed before so hopelessly high and dry;
hauls off through the raging breakers, and speeds forth on his errand of
mercy over the black and stormy sea with as much hearty satisfaction as
if he were hasting to his bridal, instead of, as is too often the case,
to his doom.
Near the north end of Deal beach, not very far from the ruins of Sandown
Castle, there stood an upturned boat, which served its owner as a hut or
shelter whence he could sit and scan the sea. This hut or hovel was a
roomy and snug enough place even in rough weather, and although intended
chiefly as a place of out-look, it nevertheless had sundry conveniences
which made it little short of a veritable habitation. Among these were
a small stove and a swinging oil lamp which, when lighted, filled the
interior with a ruddy glow that quite warmed one to look at. A low door
at one end of the hovel faced the sea, and there was a small square hole
or window beside it, through which the end of a telescope generally
protruded, for the owners of the hovel spent most of their idle time in
taking observations of the sea. There was a bench on either side of the
hut which was lumbered with a confused mass of spars, sails,
sou'westers, oil-skin coats and trousers; buoys, sea-chests, rudders,
tar-barrels, and telescopes.
This hovel belonged jointly to old Jeph and Captain Bluenose. Bax had
shared it with them before he was appointed to the command of the
"Nancy." In the olden time the owners of these nautical huts dwelt in
them, hence the name of "hoveller" which is used at the present day.
But with the progress of civilisation the hovellers have come to reside
in cottages, and only regard the hovels as their places of business.
Hovellers, as a class, do little else than go off to ships in distress
and to wrecks; in which dangerous occupation they are successful in
annually saving much property and many human lives. Their livelihood
from salvage, as may be supposed, is very precarious. Sometimes they
are "flush of cash," at other times reduced to a low enough ebb. In
such circumstances it almost invariably follows that men are
improvident.
Not many years ago the hovellers were notorious smugglers. Many a bold
deed and wild reckless venture was made on Deal beach in days of old by
these fellows, in their efforts to supply the country with French lace,
and brandy, and tobacco, at a low price! Most of the old houses in Deal
are full of mysterious cellars, and invisible places of concealment in
walls, and beams, and chimneys; showing the extent to which contraband
trade was carried on in the days of our fathers. Rumour says that there
is a considerable amount of business done in that way even in our own
days; but everybody knows what a story-teller Rumour is.
The only thing that gives any colour to the report is the fact that
there is still a pretty strong coast-guard force in that region; and one
may observe that whenever a boat comes to the beach a stout fellow in
the costume of a man-of-war's man, goes up to it and pries into all its
holes and corners, pulling about the ballast-bags and examining the same
in a cool matter-of-course manner that must be extremely irritating, one
would imagine, to the owner of the boat!
At night, too, if one chances to saunter along Deal beach by moonlight,
he will be sure to meet, ere long, with a portly personage of enormous
breadth, enveloped in many and heavy garments, with a brace of pistols
sticking out of his breast pockets, and a short cutlass by his side.
But whatever these sights and symptoms may imply, there can be no
question that smuggling now is not, by any means, what it was thirty or
forty years ago.
On the night of the storm, described in the last chapter, the only
individual in old Jeph's hovel was old Jeph himself. He was seated at
the inner end of it on a low chest near the stove, the light of which
shone brightly on his thin old face and long white locks, and threw a
gigantic black shadow on the wall behind. The old man was busily
engaged in forming a model boat out of a piece of wood with a clasp
knife. He muttered to himself as he went on with his work, occasionally
pausing to glance towards the door, the upper half of which was open and
revealed the dark storm raging without.
On one of these occasions old Jeph's eyes encountered those of a man
gazing in upon him.
"Is that you, Long Orrick? Come in; it's a cold night to stand out i'
the gale."
He said this heartily, and then resumed his work, as if he had forgotten
the presence of the other in an instant. It is not improbable that he
had, for Jeph was very old. He could not have been far short of ninety
years of age.
Long Orrick entered the hovel, and sat down on a bench opposite the old
man. He was a very tall, raw-boned, ill-favoured fellow, of great
muscular strength, and with a most forbidding countenance. He was clad
in oiled, rough-weather garments.
"You seem busy, old man," said he abruptly.
"Ay, I had need be busy," said old Jeph without looking up; "there are
many lives to save; many lives bein' lost this very night, and no means
of savin' 'em; leastwise not sufficient."
"Humph! ye're eternally at that bit o' humbug. It's bam, old man, all
bam; bosh and gammon," said Orrick. "It'll never come to no good, _I_
tell ye."
"Who knows?" replied the old man meekly, but going on with his work not
the less diligently because of these remarks.
"Jeph," said Orrick, leaning forward until his sharp features were
within a few inches of his companion's face, "Jeph, will ye tell me
where the `hide' is in yer old house?"
"No, Long Orrick, I won't," replied the old man with an amount of energy
of which he seemed, a few seconds before, quite incapable.
The reply did not seem to please Long Orrick, neither did the steady
gaze with which it was accompanied.
"You won't?" said Orrick between his set teeth.
"No," replied the old man, dropping his eyes on the little boat and
resuming his work.
"Why not," continued the other after a pause, "you don't require the
hide, why won't you lend it to a chum as is hard up?"
"Because I won't encourage smugglin'," said Jeph. "You've smuggled
enough in yer young days yerself, you old villain; you might help a
friend a bit; it won't be you as does it."
"It's because I have smuggled w'en I was young that I won't do it now
that I'm old, nor help anyone else to," retorted Jeph; "besides, you're
no friend o' mine."
"What if I turn out to be an enemy?" cried Orrick, fiercely; "see here,"
said he, drawing out a long knife, and holding it up so that the light
of the stove glittered on its keen blade, "what if I give you a taste of
this, old man?"
"You won't," said Jeph, calmly.
"No! why not?"
"Because you're a coward," replied Jeph, with a quiet chuckle; "you know
that you wouldn't like to be hanged, ha! ha! and you know that Bax would
be down on you if you touched my old carcase."
Long Orrick uttered a savage oath, and said, "I'm brave enough, anyhow,
to let you taste the cold steel to-night--or desperate enough if ye
prefer it."
He seized Jeph by the throat as he spoke, and pressed the blade of the
knife against his breast. The old man did not shrink, neither did he
struggle. He knew that he was in the hands of one whose type is but too
common in this world, a bully and a coward, and, knowing this, felt that
he was safe.
It seemed, however, as if the very elements scorned the man who could
thus raise his hand against unprotected age, for the wind shrieked
louder than usual in its fury, and a blinding flash of lightning,
accompanied by a deep crash of thunder, added to the horror of the
scene.
Just then an exclamation was heard at the door of the hovel. Long
Orrick released his hold hastily, and turning round, observed a round
ruddy visage scowling at him, and the glittering barrel of a pistol
levelled at his head.
"Ha! ha!" he laughed hoarsely, endeavouring to pass it off as a jest,
"so you've caught us jokin', Coleman,--actin' a bit--and took it for
arnest, eh?"
"Well, if it _is_ actin', it's oncommon ugly actin', _I_ tell ye; a deal
too nat'ral for my tastes, so I'd advise ye to drop it here, an' carry
yer talents to a theaytre, where you'll be paid according to your
desarts, Long Orrick."
"Ah! the night air don't agree with ye, Coleman, so I'll bid ye
good-bye," said the other, rising and quitting the hut.
"Wot's he bin' a doin' of, old man?" inquired Coleman, who was a huge,
ruddy, good-humoured coast-guardsman, with the aspect of a lion and the
heart of a lamb; whose garments were of the roughest and largest kind,
and who was, to adopt a time-honoured phrase, armed to the teeth,--that
is to say, provided with a brace of pistols, a cutlass, and a port-fire,
which last could, on being struck against a rock, burst into flame, and
illuminate the region for many yards around him.
"Oh, he's bin' actin'," replied the old man, with a quiet chuckle, as he
resumed his work on the boat; "he's bin' actin', that's all."
At this moment the boom of a gun fired by the Gull lightship broke on
the ears of the men of Deal, and a moment later the bright flash of a
rocket was seen. It was the well-known signal that there was a ship in
distress on the sands.
Instantly the hardy boatmen were at work. One of their largest boats
was launched through the wild surf, as if by magic, and its stout crew
were straining at the oars as if their lives depended on the result.
The boat happened to be the one belonging to Captain Bluenose and his
comrades, and the first man who leaped into her, as she was driven down
into the sea, was Long Orrick; for, bad man though he was, he was not
without his redeeming points, and, coward though he was before the face
of man, he was brave enough in facing the dangers of the sea.
It was a fearful struggle in which the Deal lugger engaged that night.
The sea threatened to bury her altogether as she pushed off through the
breakers, and some of the men seemed to think it would be too much for
them. A man named Davis took the helm; he had saved many a life on that
coast in his day.
The intense darkness of the night, coupled with the fury of the winds
and waves, were such that no men, save those who were used to such
scenes, would have believed it possible that any boat could live in so
wild a storm. In addition to this the cold was excessive, and the spray
broke over them so continuously that the pump had to be kept going in
order to prevent their getting filled altogether.
It was a long weary pull to the Gull light-ship. When they reached it
they hailed those on board, and asked where away the wreck was.
"Right down to leeward, on the Sand-head," was the reply.
Away went the lugger before the gale with just a corner of the foresail
hoisted. It was not long before they came in sight of the breakers on
the Sands. Here they were obliged to put out the oars and exercise the
utmost caution, lest they should incur the fate from which they had come
out to rescue others. Davis knew the shoals and channels well, and
dropped down as far as he dared, but no wreck of any kind was to be
seen.
"D'ye see anything?" shouted Davis to Long Orrick, who was in the bow.
Orrick's reply was inaudible, for the shrieking of the gale, and the
roar of breakers drowned his voice.
At that moment a huge wave broke at a considerable distance ahead of
them, and against its white crest something like the mast of a vessel
was discerned for an instant.
"God help them!" muttered Davis to himself; "if they're as far as that
on the sands there's no chance for them, unless, indeed, the Broadstairs
or Ramsgate lifeboat finds 'em out. Let go the anchors!" he shouted;
"look sharp, lads!"
The anchor was let go, and the lugger was veered down by its cable as
far in the direction of the wreck as possible, but the boat was so large
and drew so much water that they could not even get within sight of the
wreck. In these circumstances the men nestled as they best might under
the lee of the boat's sides, and prepared to ride out the storm, or at
least to remain at anchor there until day-light should enable them to
act with more precision and safety.
Fortunately for all parties concerned, other eyes and ears had been on
the watch that night. At Broadstairs, which lies a little to the north
of Deal, the crew of the lifeboat had been on the look-out, and no
sooner did they see the rocket and hear the gun, than they launched
their boat and put off to the rescue.
It is generally found that there are more men to man the lifeboats on
many parts of our coasts than are required, and this is specially the
case on the Kentish coast. Hence, when the signal-rocket goes up on a
stormy night, many eager eyes are on the watch, and there is a rush to
the boat in order to secure a place. On this occasion there were one or
two men who, rather than wait to pull on their oilskin coats and
pantaloons, had run down just as they happened to be clothed at the
time, and in a very unfit state to face the inclemency of a night which
might involve hours of unremitting and exhaustive labour. These jumped
into their places, however, and their less fortunate comrades, who
arrived too late, supplied them with garments. In five minutes the
lifeboat was flying under sail towards the Goodwin Sands.
Seldom had the Broadstairs boat faced so wild a storm as that which blew
on this occasion. The sea broke over her in cataracts. Again and again
she was more than half-filled with water, but this was speedily got rid
of, and in the course of an hour she was beside the lugger.
"Where away?" shouted the coxswain of the lifeboat as they passed.
"Right ahead, not two cables' lengths," roared Davis.
The sails of the lifeboat had already been lowered, and the oars were
out in a second. Gradually and slowly they dropped down towards the
breakers, and soon caught sight of the mast of the "Nancy," still
towering up in the midst of the angry waters.
The danger to the lifeboat was now very great, for there was such a wild
chopping sea on the sands that it ran great risk of being upset. The
boat was one of the old-fashioned stamp, which, although incapable of
being sunk, was not secure against being overturned, and it did not
possess that power of righting itself which characterises the lifeboats
of the present day.
In a few minutes they were near enough to see the mast of the "Nancy"
dimly in the dark. The coxswain immediately gave the order to let go
the anchor and veer down towards the wreck. Just as he did so, a
terrific sea came rolling towards them like a black mountain.
"Look out, men!" he shouted.
Every man let go his oar, and, throwing himself on the thwart, embraced
it with all his might. The wave went right over them, sweeping the boat
from stem to stern; but as it had met the sea stern-on it was not
overturned. It was completely filled however, and some time was
necessarily lost in freeing it of water. The oars, being attached to
the sides of the boat by lanyards, were not carried away.
In a few minutes they had veered down under the lee of the wreck.
The crew and passengers of the "Nancy" were still clinging to the
cross-trees, benumbed and almost unable to speak or move when the
lifeboat approached. With the exception of Bax and Bluenose, they were
all so thoroughly exhausted as to have become comparatively indifferent
to, and therefore ignorant of, all that was going on around them. All
their energies were required to enable them simply to retain their
position on the rigging. At first the sight of the rockets from the
light-ship, and her lanterns gleaming in the far distance, had aroused
feelings of hope, but as hour after hour passed away the most of the
unhappy people fell into a sort of stupor or indifference, and the
lights were no longer regarded with hopeful looks.
When the lugger came towards them and anchored outside the Sands, it was
so dark that none but sharp eyes could make her out through the blinding
spray. Bax and Bluenose descried her, but both of them were so well
aware of the impossibility of a large boat venturing among the shoals
and breakers that they tacitly resolved not to acquaint their comrades
with its presence, lest they should raise false hopes, which, when
disappointed, might plunge them into still deeper despair.
Very different, however, were the feelings with which they beheld the
approach of the lifeboat, which the practised eye of Bax discerned long
before she came alongside.
"The lifeboat!" said Bax sharply in the ear of Bluenose, who was close
beside him. "Look! am I right?"
"So 'tis, I _do_ believe," cried the captain, staring intently in the
direction indicated by his friend's outstretched hand.
"Lifeboat ahoy!" shouted Bax, in a voice that rang loud and strong above
the whistling winds, like the blast of a brazen trumpet.
"Wreck ahoy!" cried the coxswain of the boat, and the cry, borne towards
them by the gale, fell upon the ears of those on the mast like the voice
of Hope shouting "Victory!" over the demon Despair.
"Cheer up, Lucy! Ho! comrades, look alive, here comes the lifeboat!"
Bax accompanied these words with active preparations for heaving a rope
and otherwise facilitating their anticipated escape. Guy was the first
to respond to the cry. Having placed himself in a very exposed position
in order that his person might shelter Lucy Burton, he had been benumbed
more thoroughly than his comrades, but his blood was young, and it only
wanted the call to action to restore him to the full use of his powers
and faculties. Not so with the missionary. He had become almost
insensible, and, but for the effort to protect his child which animated
and sustained him, must certainly have fallen into the sea. Some of the
men, too, were utterly helpless. Their stiffened hands, indeed,
maintained a death-like gripe of the ropes, but otherwise they were
quite incapable of helping themselves.
As for Lucy, she had been so well cared for and protected from the
bitter fury of the wind, that, although much exhausted, terrified, and
shaken, she was neither so be-numbed nor so helpless as some of her less
fortunate companions.
Presently the lifeboat was close on the lee side of the mast, and a
cheer burst from her crew when they saw the number of survivors on the
cross-trees.
"Look out!" cried the man in the bow of the boat, as he swung a
heavily-loaded stick round his head, and flung it over the mast. The
light line attached to this was caught by Bax, and by means of it a
stout rope was drawn from the boat to the mast of the "Nancy" and made
fast.
And now came the most dangerous and difficult part of the service.
Besides the danger of the mast being broken by the violence of the
increasing storm and hurled upon the lifeboat, an event which would have
insured its destruction, there was the risk of the boat herself being
stove against the mast by the lashing waves which spun her on their
white crests or engulfed her in their black hollows, as if she had been
a cork. The greatest care was therefore requisite in approaching the
wreck, and when this was accomplished there still remained the
difficulty of getting the exhausted crew into the boat.
Had they all been young and strong like Bax or Guy, they could have slid
down the rope at the risk of nothing worse than a few bruises; but with
several of them this method of escape was impossible;--with Lucy and her
father it was, in any circumstances, out of the question. A block and
tackle was therefore quickly rigged up by Bluenose, by which they were
lowered.
Poor Lucy had not the courage to make the attempt until one or two of
the seamen had preceded her, it seemed so appalling to be swung off the
mast into the black raging chaos beneath her feet, where the lifeboat,
shrouded partially in darkness and covered with driving spray, appeared
to her more like a phantom than a reality.
"Come, Miss Lucy," said Bax, tenderly, "I'll fasten the rope round
myself and be swung down with you in my arms."
Lucy would not hear of this. "No," said she, firmly, "I will conquer my
silly fears; here, put the rope round me."
At that moment a wave tossed the boat so high that it came up almost to
the level of the mast-head, and an involuntary cry rose from some of the
men, who thought she must infallibly be dashed against it and upset.
One of the men on the mast, seeing the boat at his very feet, made a
sudden spring towards it, but it plunged into the hollow of the passing
wave, and, missing his grasp, he fell with a wild shriek into the water.
He was swept away instantly. This so unnerved Lucy that she almost
fainted in her father's arms.
"Come," cried Bax, putting the end of the rope round his waist, "we must
not trifle thus."
"The rope won't bear ye both," said Bluenose. "You're too heavy, lad."
"True," interrupted Guy, "let me do it. I'm light, and strong enough."
Bax, at once admitting the force of the argument, undid the rope without
hesitation, and fastened it quickly round Guy's waist. The latter
seized Lucy in his arms, and in a moment they were both swinging in the
air over the wild sea.
Every incident in this thrilling scene now passed with the speed almost
of thought. The boat rose under them. Bax at once let the rope run.
Down they went, but a swirl in the treacherous waves swept the boat two
or three fathoms to leeward. Instantly they were both in the sea, but
Guy did not loosen his hold or lose his presence of mind for a moment.
Bax hauled on the rope and raised him half out of the water for a few
seconds; the boat made a wild sheer towards them, and the missionary
uttered a cry of agony as he fancied his child was about to be run down,
perhaps killed, before his eyes; but the cry was transformed into a
shout of joy and thanksgiving when he saw one of the lifeboat's crew
seize Guy by the hair, and another catch his daughter by a portion of
her dress. They were quickly pulled into the boat.
To save the remainder was now a matter of less difficulty. The
missionary was the only one left on the mast who was not able more or
less to take care of himself; but the joy consequent on seeing his
daughter saved infused new vigour into his frame. He and the others
were finally got off--Bax being the last to quit the wreck--and then the
lifeboat pulled away from the dangerous shoals and made for the land.
Finding it impossible to reach Broadstairs, owing to the direction of
the gale, they pulled in an oblique direction, and, after narrowly
escaping an upset more than once, gained Deal beach not far from Sandown
Castle, where the boat was run ashore.
Here there was a large concourse of boatmen and others awaiting them.
The men in the lugger,--seeing the lifeboat come up and feeling that the
storm was almost too much for them, and that their services were not now
required,--had returned to the shore and spread the news.
The instant the lifeboat touched the shingle, a huge block and tackle
were hooked on to her, the capstan connected with these was already
manned, and the boat was run up high and dry with the crew in her.
The cheers and congratulations that followed were checked however, when
the discovery was made that Guy Foster was lying in a state of
insensibility!
When the boat sheered towards him and Lucy, as already described, he had
seen the danger and warded it away from the girl by turning his own
person towards it. No one knew that he had been hurt. Indeed, he
himself had scarcely felt the blow, but a deep cut had been made in his
head, which bled so copiously that he had lain down and gradually became
insensible.
His head was bandaged by Bluenose in a rough and ready fashion; a couple
of oars with a sail rolled round them were quickly procured, and on this
he was borne off the beach, followed by his friends and a crowd of
sympathisers.
"Where to?" inquired one of the men who supported the litter.
"To Sandhill Cottage," said Bax; "it's his mother's house, and about as
near as any other place. Step out, lads!"
Before they were off the beach the dull report of a cannon-shot was
heard. It came from the light-ship, and immediately after a rocket flew
up, indicating by the direction in which it sloped that another vessel
was in distress on the shoals.
All thought of those who had just been rescued was forgotten by the crew
of the lifeboat. Those of them who had not been too much exhausted by
previous toil and exposure leaped into their seats. The places of those
who were unable to go off again were instantly filled by eager boatmen.
Dozens of stout arms thrust her--crew and all seated as they were--down
into the lashing surf. There was a short sharp struggle between the
sturdy men and the heavy rollers, which threatened not only to swamp the
boat but to hurl her back, stem over stern, upon the shingle, and in a
few minutes more she was forcing her way through wind, and waves, and
spray, on this her second errand of mercy that night to the Goodwin
Sands.