A stern chase never was and never will be a short one. Old Coleman, in
the course of quarter of a mile's run, felt that his powers were limited
and wisely stopped short; Bax, Guy, and Tommy Bogey held on at full
speed for upwards of two miles along the beach, following the road which
wound along the base of the chalk cliffs, and keeping the fugitive well
in view.
But Long Orrick was, as we have seen, a good runner. He kept his ground
until he reached a small hamlet named Kingsdown, lying about two and a
half miles to the north of Saint Margaret's Bay. Here he turned
suddenly to the left, quitted the beach, and made for the interior,
where he was soon lost sight of, and left his disappointed pursuers to
grumble at their bad fortune and wipe their heated brows.
The strength of the gale had now increased to such an extent that it
became a matter not only of difficulty but of danger to pass along the
shore beneath the cliffs. The spray was hurled against them with great
violence, and as the tide rose the larger waves washed up with a
magnificent and overwhelming sweep almost to their base. In these
circumstances Guy proposed to go back to Saint Margaret's Bay by the
inland road.
"It's a bit longer," said he, as they stood under the lee of a wall,
panting from the effects of their run, "but we shall be sheltered from
the gale; besides, I doubt if we could pass under the cliffs now."
Bax made no reply, but, placing his hand on his friend's arm, stood for
a few seconds in the attitude of one who listens with profound
attention.
"There it is," said he at last. "Do ye hear that, Guy?"
"_I_ hear it," cried Tommy Bogey, with some excitement.
"I hear nothing but the howling of the wind," said Guy, "and the roaring
of the sea."
"Hush! listen! the minute-gun," said Bax in a low voice; "it comes from
Saint Margaret's Bay; there, did you not--"
"Ah! I heard it," cried the other; "come, let us run down along the
beach a bit, and see if we can make out whereabouts she is."
Guy spoke as if he had no doubt whatever of the cause of the sounds
which had attracted the attention of himself and his friends. Without
another word they all bent their heads to the storm, and forced their
way out upon the exposed beach, where they found some fishermen
assembled in the lee of a boat-house, looking eagerly towards the
direction whence the sounds came.
"I'm afear'd she's got on the rocks to the nor'ard o' the bay," said one
of the men, as Bax and his companions ran towards them; "there goes
another gun."
A faint flash was seen for an instant away to the southward. It was
followed in a few seconds by the low boom of a distant gun. Almost at
the same moment the black heavens seemed to be cleft by a sheet of vivid
flame, which towered high into the sky, and then went out, leaving the
darkness blacker than before.
"That's a rocket," cried the fishermen.
"Heaven help them," said Bax, as he hastily buttoned his oilskin coat
close up to his chin. "Come, Guy, we'll away and do what we can. Will
any of you lads join us?"
Most of the younger men on the ground at once volunteered.
"Stop," cried one of the older men, "the tide's too high; ye can't pass
the cliff, I tell ye."
The man was left abruptly by the whole party, for they knew well enough
that if they took the inland road they might be too late to render
effectual assistance, and any needless delay in attempting the beach
road could only make matters worse.
There was no lifeboat on this part of the Kentish coast at that time,
and the great distance of the spot from Ramsgate or Broadstairs rendered
it highly improbable that either of the lifeboats belonging to these
ports could be in time to render effectual assistance. Besides, the men
knew well that on such a night the crews of these boats would have
enough of work to do in attending to the wrecks in their own immediate
neighbourhood.
They followed Bax, therefore, at a steady trot until they reached a part
of the perpendicular cliff which projected somewhat towards the sea. At
the foot of this the waves which on this coast roll to the shore with
tremendous volume and power, burst with a loud roar and rushed up in
thick foam.
"Don't any of you come on that don't feel up to it," cried Bax, as he
awaited the retreat of a wave, and prepared to make a dash. At that
moment he wheeled round with the look and air of one who had forgotten
something.
"Tommy," said he, laying his hand on the boy's head, "go back, lad,
round by the land road."
"No, Bax, _I won't_," replied Tommy, with a fervour of determination
that would at any other time have raised a laugh in those who heard it.
"Come along, then, you obstinate beggar," said Bax, sternly, seizing the
boy by the arms, and throwing him over his shoulder as if he had been a
lamb!
Tommy's dignity was hurt. He attempted to struggle, but he might as
well have hoped to free himself from the hug of a brown bear as to
escape from the vice-like grip of his big friend. In another moment Bax
was whelmed in spray and knee-deep in rushing water.
It was a short dangerous passage, but the whole party got round the
cliff in safety, and hastened as rapidly as possible towards the scene
of the wreck.
We must now beg the reader to follow us to another scene, and to go back
a few hours in time.
Shortly after the sun set that night, and before the full fury of the
storm broke forth, a noble ship of two thousand tons' burden beat up the
Channel and made for the Downs. She was a homeward bound ship, just
arrived from Australia with a valuable cargo, and between two and three
hundred passengers, many of whom were gold-diggers returning to their
native land, and nearly all of whom were possessed of a considerable sum
in nuggets and gold-dust. The ship was owned by the house of Denham,
Crumps, and Company. Her arrival had been already telegraphed to the
firm in Redwharf Lane.
There was rejoicing that evening on board the "Trident." Men and women
and children crowded the high sides of the weather-worn ship, and,
holding on by shrouds, ratlines and stays, standing on tip-toe,
clambering on carronades, and peeping through holes, gazed long and
ardently at the white cliffs of dear Old England.
Some of them had not set eyes on the "old country," as it is
affectionately called in our colonies, for many years. Some there were
who had gone out as boys, and were returning bald-headed and
grey-bearded men. There were others who had been out only a few years,
but who, happening to be on the spot when the goldfields were
discovered, had suddenly made fortunes. They were returning to surprise
and gladden the hearts of those who, perchance, had sent them off to
seek their fortunes with the sad feeling that there was little chance of
seeing them again in this world.
There were ladies, also, who had gone out to the distant land with an
unbelieving, almost despairing, hope of finding employment for those
talents which they had, alas! found to be of but little value at home.
These were, in some cases, returning with lucky gold-diggers and
blooming children to their native land. In other cases they were merely
about to visit home to induce some parent or sister, perhaps, to venture
out to the land of gold.
But all, whether young or old, male or female, gentle or simple, were
merry and glad of heart that night as they clustered on the bulwarks of
the "Trident," and gazed at the longed-for and much loved shore. There
was no distinction of ranks now. The cabin and the 'tween-deck
passengers mingled together and tried to relieve the feelings of their
hearts by exchanging words of courtesy and goodwill.
The stormy and threatening aspect of the sky had no terrors now for the
passengers on board the "Trident." For weeks and months they had tossed
on the bosom of the great deep. They were familiar with the varied
moods of wind and wave; they had faced the dangers of the sea so often
that they scarce believed that any real dangers could exist. The very
children had become sailors; they were precociously weather-wise, and
rather fond of being tossed on the waves than otherwise. The prospect
of a storm no longer filled them with alarm, as it used to do at the
beginning of the voyage, for they had encountered many storms and
weathered them all. Yes, they had experienced all the dangers of the
sea, but it was reserved for that night--that last night of the long,
long voyage--to teach them the dangers of the land; the terrors of a
storm in narrow waters, among shallows and on a lee-shore,--and to
convince them that for man there is no real safety whatever in this
life, save, only, in the favour and love of God.
There were some on board the "Trident," however, who knew the danger of
their position full well, but who were too considerate of the feelings
of the women and children to let their knowledge appear even in their
looks. The sailors knew the danger of a lee-shore; but sailors are to a
large extent a reckless and hopeful class of men, whose equanimity is
not easily upset. The captain, too, and the pilot, were alive to their
critical position, but both were sanguine and hoped to get into the
Downs before the storm should break.
A few of the male passengers also seemed to be aware of the fact that
approaching the Downs on such a night was anything but matter of
gratulation. One in particular, a tall strong man of about forty, with
a bushy black beard and a stern aspect, walked about the quarterdeck
with a frown on his countenance that betokened a mind ill at ease.
Going up to the captain, who stood near the wheel, this man asked him
what he thought of the weather.
"It don't look well; we shall have a dirty night, I fear," replied the
captain.
"Do you expect to make the Downs before the storm breaks?" inquired the
passenger.
"Well, I _hope_ so," said the Captain.
"Supposing you do," continued the dark man, "do you consider your cables
and ground-tackle strong enough to hold the ship in the face of an
easterly gale?"
"Why do you ask that?" said the Captain in surprise.
"Because," replied the passenger, "I have my doubts on the point."
"Well, to tell you the truth," said the other, in a low tone, "I confess
that my mind is more uneasy on that score than on any other. The cables
are fit enough to hold her in ordinary weather; but if we were obliged
to anchor off a lee-shore in a heavy gale on an exposed coast like this
I would be somewhat anxious."
"Why is the ground tackle _not_ strong enough?" asked the passenger.
"Well, it's not easy to answer that," replied the Captain, with a smile,
"and yet it ain't difficult to conceive that it would cost a good deal
to supply new and heavier chains and anchors to the ship."
"Ay, the old story--_economy_!" said the passenger bitterly, almost
fiercely; "a set of selfish land-lubbers who know nothing whatever about
the sea, and care for nothing on earth but their own pockets and
bellies, are allowed by the Government of this land to send ships loaded
with human beings to sea in such a state that it almost calls for the
performance of a miracle to secure their safe arrival in port. This is
pointed out again and again to them without effect. The sea throws its
dead by dozens on our shores every gale that blows, crying out, `Look
here at the result of economy and selfishness!' Goods to the extent of
thousands of pounds are destroyed annually, and the waves that swallow
them belch out the same complaint. Even the statistics that stare in
the face of our legislators, and are published by their own authority,
tell the same tale,--yet little or nothing is done to prevent misers
from sending ships to sea in a totally unfit condition to face even
ordinary dangers. Bah! the thing is past remedy, for the men who should
act are deaf and blind. Mark my words, Captain; if we don't weather the
South Foreland before ten o' the clock this night, the `Trident' will be
a total wreck before morning."
The passenger turned on his heel with an angry fling and went below,
while the Captain, who was somewhat overawed by his vehemence, walked
aft to converse with the pilot.
The gale soon burst on the ship, sending nearly all the passengers
below, and compelling the Captain to reduce sail. Darkness overspread
the scene, and as the night wore on, the gale increased to such a degree
that the ship laboured heavily. Soon the lights on the South Foreland
were descried and passed in safety.
"Get the anchors clear," said the pilot. "Ready about there!"
No one ever knew the reason of the order given at that time. Perhaps
the pilot thought he was a little too near the land, and meant to haul
off a little; but whatever the reason might have been, the command was
only half carried out when the sheet of the jib gave way; the loosened
sail flapped itself to shreds in a second, and the ship, missing stays,
fell off towards the shore.
"Better wear ship," cried the Captain, springing in alarm to the pilot's
side.
"Too late for that. Shore's close under our lee. Let go the anchors!"
The shout with which the command was given proved the necessity of its
being instantly obeyed; but the men needed no urging, for at that moment
a temporary lull in the furious blast allowed them to hear the roaring
of the breakers at the foot of the cliffs.
Two anchors were at once let go, and the ship was brought up with a
tremendous shock.
And now commenced that prolonged struggle for life which is, alas! too
often the lot of those who venture out upon the stormy sea. Yet it was
some time before the passengers of the "Trident" could be brought fully
to realise their danger. It was hard to believe that, after weathering
the cyclones of the southern seas, and the gales of the Atlantic, they
had reached home at last to be cast a wreck upon their own threshold,
and to perish within hail almost of relatives and friends.
For a long time they refused to credit the appalling truth that their
case was all but hopeless,--anchored as they were close to a lee shore,
with inadequate ground tackle, and an increasing gale. When the chain
of the smaller anchor snapped, and the Captain ordered the minute-gun to
be fired, and rockets to be thrown up, then the wail of terror began:--
"Then shrieked the timid, and stood still the brave."
"You'd better order the boats to be lowered," said the dark passenger to
the Captain, with a sneer that seemed unnatural as well as unfeeling in
the circumstances.
The Captain, who was standing by the starboard mizzen shrouds at the
time, glanced angrily at him for a moment, and said:--
"Ha! You know well enough that there ain't boats enough in the ship to
carry all the passengers, and if there were, they could not live for a
moment in such a sea."
"Yes," replied the dark man, vehemently, "I know that well enough; and I
know, too, that there's no lifeboat of any kind aboard, nor
life-jackets, nor life-buoys, beyond what would suffice to float some
half dozen men; and the owners knew this before sending their ship to
sea, and, knowing it, they cared not a rap, because they had insured
ship and cargo to the full value. Human life, not being counted part of
the cargo, is of no value whatever to _them_."
"Come, Mr Clelland," said the Captain, reproachfully, "is this a time
for a Christian man to encourage bitter feelings against his fellows
because of systems and customs, bad or good?"
"Ay, it _is_ the time," answered the other; "at least if I don't let out
my mind now, it's not likely I'll find a fitter time to do it in this
world."
He said this somewhat sadly, and turned away, just as the Captain gave
orders to throw up another rocket.
Far along that stormy coast the rocket was seen by hundreds who knew
well what the signal meant, and many of whom, no doubt, offered up
prayer to God for those who were in danger. Most of them, however, felt
that they could do nothing in the way of affording aid. Our friend Bax
and his companions were not of this mind, as we have seen.
Some of the stout-hearted boatmen of Deal also thought that something
might be done, and launched their luggers, but were in some cases
obliged to desist owing to the ever-increasing fury of the storm.
The rockets were seen also by another party of seamen, who stood grouped
under the lee of a boat-house far away to the southward. This was the
crew of a small lifeboat which stood ready to be launched. The boat was
quickly run out of its house by command of its coxswain, and the crew
hastily equipped themselves for their dangerous work.
They put on life-jackets made of a number of pieces of cork sewed on
canvas, in such a way as to cover their bodies from shoulder to waist
without interfering with the play of the arms. Some of the men objected
to put these on at first, feeling afraid lest their courage should be
called in question, in consequence of their using a contrivance which
was not in such general use at that time as it is now. Their objections
were overcome, however, except in the case of one young man, who
exclaimed, "No, no, none o' yer floats for me. When my time comes I
must go, and them things won't save me."
The poor man did not see that the same argument, if correct, would have
justified his going off in a coble instead of a lifeboat. The want of
perception on this point, and false pride, cost him his life.
Several young women, wives of some of the men, had assembled there to
dissuade their husbands from going out on such a terrible night. These
were so alarmed at the terrific thunder of the surf on the shores of the
little bay, and the howling of the wind, that they clung to the men and
entreated them with tears not to venture. Is it a matter of wonder that
these bold fellows, who could not be appalled by the storm, found it
difficult to resist the power of woman's tears? They wavered for a few
seconds; but when the coxswain, who was a cool, intrepid old
man-of-war's man, cried in a hearty voice, "Now then, lads, look alive;
shove off and jump in!" every man sprang to his post, and the lifeboat
was afloat in an instant. Through some mismanagement, however, she
turned broadside to the sea, was overturned instantly, and rolled over
on the beach. The women shrieked; the men on shore ran to the rescue,
and fortunately saved every man with the exception of the one who had
refused to put on the life-jacket, and who being less able to support
himself than his companions when washed back into deep water by each
retiring wave, became at length exhausted and ceased to struggle for
life. When he was at last laid hold of and dragged ashore, he was dead.
While some of the men were engaged in fruitless efforts to save this
man, the rest of the crew, having suffered little, were about to launch
the boat a second time, when the women again rushed forward and clung to
them with such eager entreaties, that they began at last to entertain
the idea of the storm being too wild for them to venture off.
Lest the reader should unjustly censure these men, we must remind him of
the fact that the self-righting principle not having at that time been
discovered, the danger incurred in case of an upset was very great, and
the boat about which we are writing, being small, ran considerable risk
of being capsized by the heavy seas. In fact, almost the only
difference between lifeboats and ordinary boats, at this time, was the
incapacity of the former to sink when filled with water, owing to the
buoyancy of the air-chambers fitted round their sides. If filled by a
sea, much valuable time had to be lost in baling out the water before
the oars could be effectively resumed, and if overturned it was a matter
of the greatest difficulty for the men in the water to right them again;
in some cases it had proved impossible. All these defects are remedied
now-a-days; but more on this head hereafter.
While the men were in this undecided state of mind, regardless alike of
the commands and the taunts of the coxswain, two men were seen to leap
down the slope that lay between the cliffs and the sea, and make for the
group of boatmen at full speed. As they drew near they were recognised
to be Mr Hamilton, a young midshipman, then on leave of absence, and
his friend Thompson, an old college companion.