Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
BATTLES WITH THE SEA, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE.
CHAPTER ONE.
HEROES OF THE LIFEBOAT AND ROCKET.
SKIRMISHES WITH THE SUBJECT GENERALLY.
It ought to be known to all English boys that there is a terrible and
costly war in which the British nation is at all times engaged. No
intervals of peace mark the course of this war. Cessations of
hostilities there are for brief periods, but no treaties of peace. "War
to the knife" is its character. Quarter is neither given nor sought.
Our foe is unfeeling, unrelenting. He wastes no time in diplomatic
preliminaries; he scorns the courtesies of national life. No
ambassadors are recalled, no declarations of war made. Like the Red
Savage he steals upon us unawares, and, with a roar of wrathful fury,
settles down to his deadly work.
How does this war progress? It is needful to put and reiterate this
question from time to time, because new generations of boys are always
growing up, who, so far from being familiar with the stirring episodes
of this war, and the daring deeds of valour performed, scarcely realise
the fact that such a war is being carried on at all, much less that it
costs hundreds of lives and millions of money every year.
It may be styled a naval war, being waged chiefly in boats upon the sea.
It is a war which will never cease, because our foe is invincible, and
we will never give in; a war which, unlike much ordinary warfare, is
never unjust or unnecessary; which cannot be avoided, which is conducted
on the most barbarous principles of deathless enmity, but which,
nevertheless, brings true glory and honour to those heroes who are ever
ready, night and day, to take their lives in their hands and rush into
the thick of the furious fray.
Although this great war began--at least in a systematic manner--only
little more than fifty years ago, it will not end until the hearts of
brave and generous Britons cease to beat, and the wild winds cease to
blow, for the undying and unconquerable enemy of whom we write is--the
Storm!
"Death or victory!" the old familiar warwhoop, is not the final war-cry
here. Death is, indeed, always faced--sometimes met--and victory is
often gained; but, final conquests being impossible, and the "piping
times of peace" being out of the question, the signal for the onset has
been altered, and the world's old battle-cry has been exchanged for the
soul-stirring shout of "Rescue the perishing!"
Though our foe cannot be slain, he can, like the genii of Eastern story,
be baffled.
In the days of old, the Storm had it nearly all his own way. Hearts,
indeed, were not less brave, but munitions of war were wanting. In this
matter, as in everything else, the world is better off now than it was
then. Our weapons are more perfect, our engines more formidable. We
can now dash at our enemy in the very heart of his own terrible
strongholds; fight him where even the boldest of the ancient Vikings did
not dare to venture, and rescue the prey from the very jaws of death
amid the scenes of its wildest revelry.
The heroes who recruit the battalions of our invincible army are the
bronzed and stalwart men of our sea-coast towns, villages, and hamlets--
men who have had much and long experience of the foe with whom they have
to deal. Their panoply is familiar to most of us. The helmet, a
sou'wester; the breastplate, a lifebelt of cork; the sword, a strong
short oar; their war-galley, a splendid _lifeboat_; and their shield--
the Hand of God.
In this and succeeding chapters I purpose to exhibit and explain in
detail our Lifeboats, and the great, the glorious work which they
annually accomplish; also the operations of the life-saving Rocket,
which has for many years rescued innumerable lives, where, from the
nature of circumstances, Lifeboats could not have gone into action. I
hold that we--especially those of us who dwell in the interior of our
land--are not sufficiently alive to the deeds of daring, the thrilling
incidents, the terrible tragedies and the magnificent rescues which are
perpetually going on around our shores. We are not sufficiently
impressed, perhaps, with the _nationality_ of the work done by the Royal
National Lifeboat Institution, which manages our fleet of 270 lifeboats.
We do not fully appreciate, it may be, the personal interest which we
ourselves have in the great war, and the duty--to say nothing of
privilege--which lies upon us to lend a helping hand in the good cause.
Before going into the marrow of the subject, let us put on the wings of
imagination, and soar to such a height that we shall be able to take in
at one eagle glance all the coasts of the United Kingdom--a sweep of
about 5000 miles all round! It is a tremendous sight, for a storm is
raging! Black clouds are driving across the murky sky; peals of thunder
rend the heavens; lightning gleams at intervals, revealing more clearly
the crested billows that here roar over the sands, or there churn and
seethe among the rocks. The shrieking gale sweeps clouds of spray high
over our windward cliffs, and carries flecks of foam far inland, to tell
of the dread warfare that is raging on the maddened sea.
Near the shore itself numerous black specks are seen everywhere, like
ink-spots on the foam. These are wrecks, and the shrieks and the
despairing cries of the perishing rise above even the roaring of the
gale. Death is busy, gathering a rich harvest, for this is a notable
night in the great war. The Storm-fiend is roused. The enemy is abroad
in force, and has made one of his most violent assaults, so that from
Shetland to Cornwall, ships and boats are being battered to pieces on
the rocks and sands, and many lives are being swallowed up or dashed
out; while, if you turn your gaze further out to sea, you will descry
other ships and boats and victims hurrying onward to their doom. Here,
a stately barque, with disordered topsails almost bursting from the
yards as she hurries her hapless crew--all ignorant, perchance, of its
proximity--towards the dread lee-shore. Elsewhere, looming through the
murk, a ponderous merchantman, her mainmast and mizzen gone, and just
enough of the foremast left to support the bellying foresail that bears
her to destruction.
Think you, reader, that this sketch is exaggerated? If so, let us
descend from our lofty outlook, and take a nearer view of facts in
detail. I quote the substance of the following from a newspaper article
published some years ago.
The violence of the storm on Wednesday and Thursday night was terrific.
The damage to shipping has been fearful. On sea the tremendous gale
proved disastrous beyond precedent. Falmouth Harbour was the scene of
several collisions, and one barque and a tug steamer sank at their
anchors. A wreck is reported at Lelant, to which the Penzance lifeboat
with a stout-hearted crew had started, when our despatch left, to rescue
thirteen men who could be descried hanging in the shrouds. A fine new
ship is on Hayle bar, and another vessel is believed to be wrecked there
also. Doubtless we have not yet heard of all the wrecks on the Cornish
coast; but it is in the magnificent bay which includes Torquay,
Paignton, and Brixham that the most terrible havoc has occurred. On
Wednesday, about sixty sail were anchored in Torbay. Eleven have gone
ashore at Broadsands, five of which are total wrecks. The names of
those we could ascertain were the Fortitude, of Exeter; the Stately, of
Newcastle; the Dorset, of Falmouth, and a French brigantine. At five
o'clock on Thursday evening some of the crews were being drawn ashore by
lines and baskets. At Churston Cove one schooner is ashore and a total
wreck; there is also another, the Blue Jacket, which may yet be saved.
At Brixham there are two fine ships ashore inside the breakwater. At
the back of the pier ten vessels have been pounded to matchwood, and all
that remains are a shattered barque, her masts still standing, two
brigs, and a schooner, all inextricably mingled together. Twelve
trawlers have been sunk and destroyed. Out of the sixty ships at anchor
on Wednesday night there were not more than ten left on Thursday
afternoon. Many of these are disabled, some dismasted. A fishing-boat
belonging to Brixham was upset in the outer harbour about eight o'clock,
and two married fishermen of the town and a boy were drowned. At Elbury
a new brig, the Zouave, of Plymouth, has gone to pieces, and six out of
her crew of ten are drowned. Eleven other vessels are on shore at
Elbury, many of the men belonging to which cannot be accounted for. One
noble woman, named Wheaton, wife of a master mariner, saved two lives by
throwing a rope from the window of her house, which is built on the
rocks overhanging the bay at Furzeham Hill. Scores of poor shipwrecked
men are wandering distractedly about Brixham and Churston, the greater
part of them having lost all they possessed. The total loss of life
arising from these disasters is variously estimated at from seventy to a
hundred.
Is not this a tremendous account of the doings of one gale? And let it
be observed that we have lifted only one corner of the curtain and
revealed the battlefield of only one small portion of our far-reaching
coasts. What is to be said of the other parts of our shores during that
same wild storm? It would take volumes instead of chapters to give the
thrilling incidents of disaster and heroism in full detail. To convey
the truth in all its force is impossible, but a glimmering of it may be
obtained by a glance at the Wreck Chart which is published by the Board
of Trade every year.
Every black spot on that chart represents a wreck more or less
disastrous, which occurred in the twelve months. It is an appalling
fact that about two thousand ships, upwards of seven hundred lives, and
nearly two millions sterling, are lost _every_ year on the shores of the
United Kingdom. Some years the loss is heavier, sometimes lighter, but
in round numbers this is our annual loss in the great war. That it
would be far greater if we had no lifeboats and no life-saving rockets
it will be our duty by-and-by to show.
The black spots on the Wreck Chart to which we have referred show at a
single glance that the distribution of wrecks is very unequal--naturally
so. Near the great seaports we find them thickly strewn; at other
places, where vessels pass in great numbers on their way to these ports,
the spots are also very numerous, while on unfrequented parts they are
found only here and there in little groups of two, three, or four. Away
on the nor'-west shores of Scotland, for instance, where the seal and
the sea-mew have the ocean and rugged cliffs pretty much to themselves,
the plague-spots are few and far between; but on the east coast we find
a fair sprinkling of them, especially in the mouths of the Forth and
Tay, whither a goodly portion of the world's shipping crowds, and to
which the hardy Norseman now sends many a load of timber--both log and
batten--instead of coming, as he did of old, to batten on the land. It
is much the same with Ireland, its more important seaports being on the
east.
But there is a great and sudden increase of the spots when we come to
England. They commence at the border, on the west, where vessels from
and to the busy Clyde enter or quit the Irish Sea. Darkening the
fringes of the land on both sides, and clustering round the Isle of Man,
they multiply until the ports have no room to hold them, and, as at
Liverpool, they are crowded out into the sea. From the deadly shores of
Anglesea, where the Royal Charter went down in the great and memorable
storm of November, 1859, the signs of wreck and disaster thicken as we
go south until we reach the Bristol Channel, which appears to be choked
with them, and the dangerous cliffs of Cornwall, which receive the
ill-fated vessels of the fleets that are perpetually leaving or entering
the two great channels. But it is on the east coast of England that the
greatest damage is done. From Berwick to the Thames the black spots
cluster like bees. On the coasts of Norfolk and Suffolk, off Great
Yarmouth, where lie the dangerous Haisborough Sands, the spots are no
longer in scattered groups, but range themselves in dense battalions;
and further south, off the coast of Kent, round which the world's
commerce flows unceasingly into the giant metropolis, where the famous
Goodwin Sands play their deadly part in the great war, the dismal spots
are seen to cluster densely, like gnats in a summer sky.
Now, just where the black spots are thickest on this wreck chart,
lifeboats and rocket apparatus have been stationed in greatest numbers.
As in ordinary warfare, so in battles with the sea, our "Storm Warriors"
[See an admirable book, with this title, written by the Reverend John
Gilmore, of Ramsgate. (Macmillan and Company)] are thrown forward in
force where the enemy's assaults are most frequent and dangerous. Hence
we find the eastern shores of England crowded at every point with
life-saving apparatus, while most of the other dangerous parts of the
coast are pretty well guarded.
Where and how do our coast heroes fight? I answer--sometimes on the
cliffs, sometimes on the sands, sometimes on the sea, and sometimes even
on the pierheads. Their operations are varied by circumstances. Let us
draw nearer and look at them while in action, and observe how the enemy
assails them. I shall confine myself at present to a skirmish.
When the storm-fiend is abroad; when dark clouds lower; when blinding
rain or sleet drives before the angry gale, and muttering thunder comes
rolling over the sea, men with hard hands and weather-beaten faces, clad
in oilskin coats and sou'-westers, saunter down to our quays and
headlands all round the kingdom. These are the lifeboat crews and
rocket brigades. They are on the lookout. The enemy is moving, and the
sentinels are being posted for the night--or rather, they are posting
themselves, for nearly all the fighting men in this war are volunteers!
They require no drilling to prepare them for the field; no bugle or drum
to sound the charge. Their drum is the rattling thunder; their trumpet
the roaring storm. They began to train for this warfare when they were
not so tall as their fathers' boots, and there are no awkward squads
among them now. Their organisation is rough-and-ready, like themselves,
and simple too. The heavens call them to action; the coxswain grasps
the helm, the oars are manned, the word is given, and the rest is
straightforward fighting--over everything, through everything, in the
teeth of everything, until the victory is gained, and rescued men,
women, and children are landed in safety on the shore.
Of course they do not always succeed, but they seldom or never fail to
do the very uttermost that it is in the power of strong and daring men
to accomplish. Frequently they can tell of defeat and victory on the
same battlefield.
So it was on one fearful winter night at the mouth of the Tyne in the
year 1867. The gale that night was furious. It suddenly chopped round
to the South South East, and, as if the change had recruited its
energies, it blew a perfect hurricane between midnight and two in the
morning, accompanied by blinding showers of sleet and hail, which seemed
to cut like a knife. The sea was rising mountains high.
About midnight, when the storm was gathering force and the sentinels
were scarcely able to keep a lookout, a preventive officer saw a vessel
driving ashore to the south of the South Pier. Instantly he burnt a
blue light, at which signal three guns were fired from the Spanish
Battery to call out the Life Brigade. The men were on the alert. About
twenty members of the brigade assembled almost immediately on the pier,
where they found that the preventive officer and pier-policeman had
already got out the life-saving apparatus; but the gale was so fierce
that they had been forced to crawl on their hands and knees to do so. A
few minutes more and the number of brigade men increased to between
fifty and sixty. Soon they saw, through the hurtling storm, that
several vessels were driving on shore. Before long, four ships, with
their sails blown to ribbons, were grinding themselves to powder, and
crashing against each other and the pier-sides in a most fearful manner.
They were the Mary Mac, the Cora, and the Maghee, belonging to
Whitstable, and the Lucern of Blyth.
Several lifeboats were stationed at that point. They were all launched,
manned, and promptly pulled into the Narrows, but the force of the
hurricane and seas were such that they could not make headway against
them. The powers of man are limited. When there is a will there is not
always a way! For two hours did these brave men strain at the tough
oars in vain; then they unwillingly put about and returned, utterly
exhausted, leaving it to the men with the life-lines on shore to do the
fighting. Thus, frequently, when one arm of the service is prevented
from acting; the other arm comes into play.
The work of the men engaged on the pier was perilous and difficult, for
the lines had to be fired against a head wind. The piers were covered
with ice, and the gale was so strong that the men could hardly stand,
while the crews of the wrecks were so benumbed that they could make
little effort to help themselves.
The men of the Mary Mac, however, made a vigorous effort to get their
longboat out. A boy jumped in to steady it. Before the men could
follow, the boat was stove in, the rope that held it broke, and it drove
away with the poor lad in it. He was quickly washed out, but held on to
the gunwale until it drifted into broken water, when he was swallowed by
the raging sea and the boat was dashed to pieces.
Meanwhile the crew of the Cora managed to swing themselves ashore, their
vessel being close to the pier. The crew of the Lucern, acting on the
advice of the brigade men, succeeded in scrambling on board the Cora and
were hauled ashore on the life-lines. They had not been ten minutes out
of their vessel when she turned over with her decks towards the terrible
sea, which literally tore her asunder, and pitched her up, stem on end,
as if she had been a toy. The crew of the Maghee were in like manner
hauled on to the pier, with the exception of one lad from Canterbury.
It was the poor boy's first voyage. Little did he think probably, while
dreaming of the adventures of a sailor's career, what a terrible fate
awaited him. He was apparently paralysed with fear, and could not
spring after his comrades to the pier, but took to the rigging. He had
scarcely done so when the vessel heeled over, and he was swung two or
three times backwards and forwards with the motion of the masts.
It is impossible to imagine the feelings of the brave men on the pier,
who would so gladly have risked their lives to save him--he was so near,
and yet so hopelessly beyond the reach of human aid!
In a very brief space of time the waves did their work--ship and boy
were swallowed up together.
While these events were enacting on the pier the Mary Mac had drifted
over the sand about half a mile from where she had struck. One of her
crew threw a leadline towards a seaman on the shore. The hero plunged
into the surf and caught it. The rest of the work was easy. By means
of the line the men of the Life Brigade sent off their hawser, and
breeches-buoy or cradle (which apparatus I shall hereafter explain), and
drew the crew in safety to the land.
That same morning a Whitby brig struck on the sands. The lifeboat
Pomfret, belonging to the Royal National Lifeboat Institution, put out
and rescued her crew. In the morning the shores were strewn with
wreckage, and amongst it was found the body of the boy belonging to the
Mary Mac.
All these disasters were caused by the masters of the vessels mistaking
the south for the north pier, in consequence of having lost sight of
Tynemouth light in the blinding showers.
Of course many lifeboats were out doing good service on the night to
which I have referred, but I pass all that by at present. The next
chapter will carry you, good reader, into the midst of a pitched battle.
CHAPTER TWO.
DESCRIBES A TREMENDOUS BATTLE AND A GLORIOUS VICTORY.
Before following our brilliant lifeboat--this gaudy, butterfly-like
thing of red, white, and blue--to the field of battle, let me observe
that the boats of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution have several
characteristic qualities, to which reference shall be made hereafter,
and that they are of various sizes. [A full and graphic account of the
Royal National Lifeboat Institution--its boats, its work, and its
achievements--may be found in an interesting volume by its late
secretary, Richard Lewis, Esquire, entitled _History of the Lifeboat and
its Work_--published by Macmillan and Company.]
One of the largest size is that of Ramsgate. This may be styled a
privileged boat, for it has a steam-tug to wait upon it named the Aid.
Day and night the Aid has her fires "banked up" to keep her boilers
simmering, so that when the emergency arises, a vigorous thrust of her
giant poker brings them quickly to the boiling point, and she is ready
to take her lifeboat in tow and tug her out to the famed and fatal
Goodwin Sands, which lie about four miles off the coast--opposite to
Ramsgate.
I draw attention to this boat, first because she is exceptionally
situated with regard to frequency of call, the means of going promptly
into action, and success in her work. Her sister-lifeboats of
Broadstairs and Margate may, indeed, be as often called to act, but they
lack the attendant steamer, and sometimes, despite the skill and courage
of their crews, find it impossible to get out in the teeth of a tempest
with only sail and oar to aid them.
Early in December, 1863, an emigrant ship set sail for the Antipodes;
she was the Fusilier, of London. It was her last voyage, and fated to
be very short. The shores of Old England were still in sight, the eyes
of those who sought to "better their circumstances" in Australia were
yet wet, and their hearts still full with the grief of parting from
loved ones at home, when one of the most furious storms of the season
caught them and cast their gallant ship upon the dangerous Sands off the
mouth of the Thames. This happened on the night of the 3rd, which was
intensely dark, as well as bitterly cold.
Who can describe or conceive the scene that ensued! the horror, the
shrieking of women and children, and the yelling of the blast through
the rigging,--for it was an absolute hurricane,--while tons of water
fell over the decks continually, sweeping them from stem to stern.
The Fusilier had struck on that part of the sands named the Girdler. In
the midst of the turmoil there was but one course open to the crew--
namely, to send forth signals of distress. Guns were fired, rockets
sent up, and tar-barrels set a-blaze. Then, during many hours of agony,
they had to wait and pray.
On that same night another good ship struck upon the same sands at a
different point--the Demerara of Greenock--not an emigrant ship, but
freighted with a crew of nineteen souls, including a Trinity pilot.
Tossed like a plaything on the Sands--at that part named the Shingles--
off Margate, the Demerara soon began to break up, and the helpless crew
did as those of the Fusilier had done and were still doing--they
signalled for aid. But it seemed a forlorn resource. Through the
thick, driving, murky atmosphere nothing but utter blackness could be
seen, though the blazing of their own tar-barrels revealed, with awful
power, the seething breakers around, which, as if maddened by the
obstruction of the sands, leaped and hissed wildly over them, and
finally crushed their vessel over on its beam-ends. Swept from the
deck, which was no longer a platform, but, as it were, a sloping wall,
the crew took refuge in the rigging of one of the masts which still held
fast. The mast overhung the caldron of foam, which seemed to boil and
leap at the crew as if in disappointed fury.
By degrees the hull of the Demerara began to break up. Her timbers
writhed and snapped under the force of the ever-thundering waves as if
tormented. The deck was blown out by the confined and compressed air.
The copper began to peel off, the planks to loosen, and soon it became
evident that the mast to which the crew were lashed could not long hold
up. Thus, for ten apparently endless hours the perishing seamen hung
suspended over what seemed to be their grave. They hung thus in the
midst of pitchy darkness after their blazing tar-barrels had been
extinguished.
And what of the lifeboat-men during all this time? Were they asleep?
Nay, verily! Everywhere they stood at pierheads, almost torn from their
holdfasts by the furious gale, or they cowered under the lee of boats
and boat-houses on the beach, trying to gaze seaward through the
blinding storm, but nothing whatever could they see of the disasters on
these outlying sands.
There are, however, several sentinels which mount guard night and day
close to the Goodwin and other Sands. These are the Floating Lights
which mark the position of our extensive and dangerous shoals. Two of
these sentinels, the Tongue lightship and the Prince's lightship, in the
vicinity of the Girdler Sands, saw the signals of distress. Instantly
their guns and rockets gleamed and thundered intelligence to the shore.
Such signals had been watched for keenly that night by the brave men of
the Margate lifeboat, who instantly went off to the rescue. But there
are conditions against which human courage and power and will are
equally unavailing. In the teeth of such a gale from the
west-nor'-west, with the sea driving in thunder straight on the beach,
it was impossible for the Margate boat to put out. A telegram was
therefore despatched to Ramsgate. Here, too, as at Broadstairs, and
everywhere else, the heroes of the coast were on the lookout, knowing
well the duties that might be required of them at any moment.
The stout little Aid was lying at the pier with her steam "up." The
Ramsgate lifeboat was floating quietly in the harbour, and her sturdy
lion-like coxswain, Isaac Jarman, was at the pier-head with some of his
men, watching. The Ramsgate men had already been out on service at the
sands that day, and their appetite for saving life had been whetted.
They were ready for more work. At a quarter past eight p.m. the
telegram was received by the harbour-master. The signal was given. The
lifeboat-men rushed to their boats.
"First come, first served," is the rule there. She was over-manned, and
some of the brave fellows had to leave her. The tight little tug took
the boat in tow, and in less than half an hour rushed out with her into
the intense darkness, right in the teeth of tempest and billows.
The engines of the Aid are powerful, like her whole frame. Though
fiercely opposed she battled out into the raging sea, now tossed on the
tops of the mighty waves, now swallowed in the troughs between.
Battered by the breaking crests, whelmed at times by "green seas,"
staggering like a drunken thing, and buffeted by the fierce gale, but
never giving way an inch, onward, steadily if slowly, until she rounded
the North Foreland. Then the rescuers saw the signals going up
steadily, regularly, from the two lightships. No cessation of these
signals until they should be answered by signals from the shore.
All this time the lifeboat had been rushing, surging, and bounding in
the wake of her steamer. The seas not only roared around her, but
absolutely overwhelmed her. She was dragged violently over them, and
sometimes right through them. Her crew crouched almost flat on the
thwarts, and held on to prevent being washed overboard. The stout cable
had to be let out to its full extent to prevent snapping, so that the
mist and rain sometimes prevented her crew from seeing the steamer,
while cross seas met and hurled her from side to side, causing her to
plunge and kick like a wild horse.
About midnight the Tongue lightship was reached and hailed. The answer
given was brief and to the point: "A vessel in distress to the
nor'-west, supposed to be on the high part of the Shingles Sand!"
Away went the tug and boat to the nor'-west, but no vessel could be
found, though anxious hearts and sharp and practised eyes were strained
to the uttermost. The captain of the Aid, who knew every foot of the
sands, and who had medals and letters from kings and emperors in
acknowledgment of his valuable services, was not to be balked easily.
He crept along as close to the dangerous sands as was consistent with
the safety of his vessel.
How intently they gazed and listened both from lifeboat and steamer, but
no cry was to be heard, no signal of distress, nothing but the roaring
of the waves and shrieking of the blast, and yet they were not far from
the perishing! The crew of the Demerara were clinging to their
quivering mast close by, but what could their weak voices avail in such
a storm? Their signal fires had long before been drowned out, and those
who would have saved them could not see more than a few yards around.
Presently the booming of distant cannon was heard and then a faint line
of fire was seen in the far distance against the black sky. The
Prince's and the Girdler lightships were both firing guns and rockets to
tell that shipwreck was taking place near to them. What was to be done?
Were the Shingles to be forsaken, when possibly human beings were
perishing there? There was no help for it. The steamer and lifeboat
made for the vessels that were signalling, and as the exhausted crew on
the quivering mast of the Demerara saw their lights depart, the last
hope died out of their breasts.
"Hope thou in God, for thou shalt yet praise Him," perchance occurred to
some of them: who knows?
Meanwhile the rescuers made for the Prince's lightship and were told
that a vessel in distress was signalling on the higher part of the
Girdler Sands.
Away they went again, and this time were successful. They made for the
Girdler lightship, and on the Girdler Sands they found the Fusilier.
The steamer towed the lifeboat to windward of the wreck into such a
position that when cast adrift she could bear down on her. Then the
cable was slipped and the boat went in for her own special and hazardous
work. Up went her little foresail close-reefed, and she rushed into a
sea of tumultuous broken water that would have swamped any other kind of
boat in the world.
What a burst of thrilling joy and hope there was among the emigrants in
the Fusilier when the little craft was at last descried! It was about
one o'clock in the morning by that time, and the sky had cleared a very
little, so that a faint gleam of moonlight enabled them to see the boat
of mercy plunging towards them through a very chaos of surging seas and
whirling foam. To the rescuers the wreck was rendered clearly visible
by the lurid light of her burning tar-barrels as she lay on the sands,
writhing and trembling like a living thing in agony. The waves burst
over her continually, and, mingling in spray with the black smoke of her
fires, swept furiously away to leeward.
At first each wave had lifted the ship and let her crash down on the
sands, but as the tide fell this action decreased, and had ceased
entirely when the lifeboat arrived.
And now the point of greatest danger was reached. How to bring a
lifeboat alongside of a wreck so as to get the people into her without
being dashed to pieces is a difficult problem to solve. It was no new
problem, however, to these hardy and fearless men; they had solved it
many a time, before that night. When more than a hundred yards to
windward of the wreck, the boat's foresail was lowered and her anchor
let go. Then they seized the oars, and the cable was payed out; but the
distance had been miscalculated. They were twenty yards or so short of
the wreck when the cable had run completely out, so the men had to pull
slowly and laboriously back to their anchor again, while the emigrants
sent up a cry of despair, supposing they had failed and were going to
forsake them! At length the anchor was got up. In a few minutes it was
let go in a better position, and the boat was carefully veered down
under the lee of the vessel, from both bow and stern of which a hawser
was thrown to it and made fast. By means of these ropes and the cable
the boat was kept somewhat in position without striking the wreck.
It was no easy matter to make the voice heard in such a gale and turmoil
of seas, but the captain of the Fusilier managed to give his ship's name
and intended destination. Then he shouted, "How many can you carry? We
have more than a hundred souls on board; more than sixty of them women
and children."
This might well fill the breasts of the rescuers with anxiety. Their
boat, when packed full, could only carry about thirty. However, a
cheering reply was returned, and, seizing a favourable opportunity, two
of the boatmen sprang on the wreck, clambered over the side, and leaped
among the excited emigrants. Some seized them by the hands and hailed
them as deliverers; others, half dead with terror, clung to them as if
afraid they might forsake them. There was no time, however, to humour
feelings. Shaking them all off--kindly but forcibly--the men went to
work with a will, briefly explained that there was a steamer not far
off, and began to get the women first into the boat.
Terror-stricken, half fainting, trembling in every limb, deadly pale,
and exhausted by prolonged anxiety and exposure, the poor creatures were
carried rather than led to the ship's side. It needed courage even to
submit to be saved on such a night and in such circumstances. Two
sailors stood outside the ship's bulwarks, fastened there by ropes,
ready to lower the women. At one moment the raging sea rose with a roar
almost to the feet of these men, bearing the kicking lifeboat on its
crest. Next moment the billow had passed, and the men looked down into
a yawning abyss of foam, with the boat surging away far out of their
reach, plunging and tugging at the ropes which held it, as a wild horse
of the plains might struggle with the lasso. No wonder that the women
gazed appalled at the prospect of such a leap, or that some shrieked and
wildly resisted the kind violence of their rescuers. But the leap was
for life; it had to be taken--and quickly, too, for the storm was very
fierce, and there were many to save!
One of the women is held firmly by the two men. With wildly-staring
eyes she sees the boat sweep towards her on the breast of a rushing sea.
It comes closer. Some of the men below stand up with outstretched
arms. The woman makes a half spring, but hesitates. The momentary
action proves almost fatal. In an instant the boat sinks into a gulf,
sweeps away as far as the ropes will let her, and is buried in foam,
while the woman is slipping from the grasp of the men who hold her.
"Don't let her go! don't let her go!" is roared by the lifeboat-men, but
she has struggled out of their grasp. Another instant and she is gone;
but God in His mercy sends the boat in again at that instant; the men
catch her as she falls, and drag her inboard.
Thus, one by one, were the women got into the lifeboat. Some of these
women were old and infirm; some were invalids. Who can conceive the
horror of the situation to such as these, save those who went through
it?
The children were wrapped up in blankets and thus handed down. Some of
the husbands or fathers on board rolled up shawls and blankets and
tossed them down to the partially clothed and trembling women. It
chanced that one small infant was bundled up in a blanket by a frantic
passenger and handed over the side. The man who received it, mistaking
it for merely a blanket, cried, "Here, Bill, catch!" and tossed it into
the boat. Bill, with difficulty, caught it as it was flying overboard;
at the same moment a woman cried, "My child! my child!" sprang forward,
snatched the bundle from the horrified Bill, and hugged it to her bosom!
At last the boat, being sufficiently filled, was hauled up to her
anchor. Sail was hoisted, and away they flew into the surging darkness,
leaving the rest of the emigrants still filled with terrible anxiety,
but not now with hopeless despair.
The lifeboat and her tender work admirably together. Knowing exactly
what must be going on, and what would be required of him, though he
could see nothing, the captain of the Aid, after the boat had slipped
from him, had run down along the sands to leeward of the wreck, and
there waited. Presently he saw the boat coming like a phantom out of
the gloom. It was quickly alongside, and the rescued people--
twenty-five women and children--were transferred to the steamer, taken
down to her cabin, and tenderly cared for. Making this transfer in such
a sea was itself difficult in the extreme, and accompanied with great
danger, but difficulty and danger were the rule that night, not the
exception. All went well. The Aid, with the warrior-boat in tow,
steamed back to windward of the wreck; then the lifeboat slipped the
cable as before, and returned to the conflict, leaping over the seething
billows to the field of battle like a warhorse refreshed.
The stirring scene was repeated with success. Forty women and children
were rescued on the second trip, and put on board the steamer. Leaden
daylight now began to dawn. Many hours had the "storm warriors" been
engaged in the wild exhausting fight, nevertheless a third and a fourth
time did they charge the foe, and each time with the same result. All
the passengers were finally rescued and put on board the steamer.
But now arose a difficulty. The tide had been falling and leaving the
wreck, so that the captain and crew determined to stick to her in the
hope of getting her off, if the gale should abate before the tide rose
again.
It was therefore agreed that the lifeboat should remain by her in case
of accidents; so the exhausted men had to prepare for a weary wait in
their wildly plunging boat, while the Aid went off with her rescued
people to Ramsgate.
But the adventures of that night were not yet over. The tug had not
been gone above an hour and a half, when, to the surprise of those in
the lifeboat, she was seen returning, with her flag flying half mast
high, a signal of recall to her boat. The lifeboat slipped from the
side of the wreck and ran to meet her. The reason was soon explained.
On his way back to Ramsgate the captain had discovered another large
vessel on her beam-ends, a complete wreck, on that part of the sands
named the Shingles. It was the Demerara, and her crew were still seen
clinging to the quivering mast on which they had spent the livelong
night.
More work for the well-nigh worn out heroes! Away they went to the
rescue as though they had been a fresh crew. Dashing through the surf
they drew near the doomed ship, which creaked and groaned when struck by
the tremendous seas, and threatened to go to pieces every moment. The
sixteen men on the mast were drenched by every sea. Several times that
awful night they had, as it were, been mocked by false hopes of
deliverance. They had seen the flashing of the rockets and faintly
heard the thunder of the alarm-guns fired by the lightships. They had
seen the lights of the steamer while she searched in vain for them on
first reaching the sands, had observed the smaller light of the boat in
tow, whose crew would have been so glad to save them, and had shouted in
vain to them as they passed by on their errand of mercy to other parts
of the sands, leaving them a prey to darkness and despair. But a
merciful and loving God had seen and heard them all the time, and now
sent them aid at the eleventh hour.
When the lifeboat at last made in towards them the ebb tide was running
strongly, and, from the position of the wreck, it was impossible to
anchor to windward and drop down to leeward in the usual fashion. They
had, therefore, to adopt the dangerous plan of running with the wind,
right in upon the fore-rigging, and risk being smashed by the mast,
which was beating about with its living load like an eccentric
battering-ram. But these Ramsgate men would stick at nothing. They
rushed in and received many severe blows, besides dashing into the iron
windlass of the wreck. Slowly, and one by one, the enfeebled men
dropped from the mast into the boat. Sixteen--all saved! There was
great shaking of hands, despite the tossings of the hungry surf, and
many fervid expressions of thankfulness, as the sail was hoisted and the
men of the Demerara were carried away to join the other rescued ones,
who by that time thronged the little Aid almost to overflowing.
At Ramsgate that morning--the morning of the 4th--it was soon known to
the loungers on the pier that the lifeboat was out, had been out all
night, and might be expected back soon. Bright and clear, though cold,
was the morn which succeeded that terrible night; and many hundreds of
anxious, beating, hopeful hearts were on the lookout. At last the
steamer and her warrior-boat appeared, and a feeling of great gladness
seemed to spread through the crowd when it was observed that a flag was
flying at the mast-head, a well-known sign of victory.
On they came, right gallantly over the still turbulent waves. As they
passed the pier-heads, and the crowd of pale faces were seen gazing
upwards in smiling acknowledgment of the hearty welcome, there burst
forth a deep-toned thrilling cheer, which increased in enthusiasm as the
extent of the victory was realised, and culminated when it became known
that at one grand swoop the lifeboat, after a fight of sixteen hours,
had rescued a hundred and twenty souls from the grasp of the raging sea!
Reader, there was many a heart-stirring incident enacted that night
which I have not told you, and much more might be related of that great
battle and glorious victory. But enough, surely, has been told to give
you some idea of what our coast heroes dare and do in their efforts to
rescue the perishing.
CHAPTER THREE.
LIGHT AND SHADE IN LIFEBOAT WORK.
But victory does not always crown the efforts of our lifeboats.
Sometimes we have to tell of partial failure or defeat, and it is due to
the lifeboat cause to show that our coast heroes are to the full as
daring, self-sacrificing, and noble, in the time of disaster as they are
in the day of victory.
A splendid instance of persevering effort in the face of absolutely
insurmountable difficulty was afforded by the action of the Constance
lifeboat, belonging to Tynemouth, on the night of the 24th November,
1864.
On that night the coast of Northumberland was visited by one of the
severest gales that had been experienced for many years, and a
tremendous sea was dashing and roaring among the rocks at the mouth of
the Tyne. Many ships had sought refuge in the harbour during the day,
but, as the shades of evening began to descend, the risk of attempting
an entrance became very great. At last, as the night was closing in,
the schooner Friendship ran on the rocks named the Black Middens.
Shortly afterwards a large steamer, the Stanley, of Aberdeen, with
thirty passengers (most of whom were women), thirty of a crew, a cargo
of merchandise, and a deckload of cattle, attempted to take the river.
On approaching she sent up rockets for a pilot, but none dared venture
out to her. The danger of putting out again to sea was too great. The
captain therefore resolved to attempt the passage himself. He did so.
Three heavy seas struck the steamer so severely as to divert her from
her course, and she ran on the rocks close to the Friendship, so close
that the cries of her crew could be heard above the whistling winds and
thundering waves. As soon as she struck, the indescribable
circumstances of a dread disaster began. The huge billows that had
hitherto passed onward, heaving her upwards, now burst over her with
inconceivable violence and crushed her down, sweeping the decks
continuously--they rocked her fiercely to and fro; they ground her sides
upon the cruel rocks; they lifted her on their powerful crests, let her
fall bodily on the rocks, stove in her bottom, and, rushing into the
hold, extinguished the engine fires. The sound of her rending planks
and timbers was mingled with the piercing cries of the female passengers
and the gruff shouting of the men, as they staggered to and fro, vainly
attempting to do something, they knew not what, to avert their doom.
It was pitch dark by this time, yet not so dark but that the sharp eyes
of earnest daring men on shore had noted the catastrophe. The men of
the coastguard, under Mr Lawrence Byrne, their chief officer, got out
the rocket apparatus and succeeded in sending a line over the wreck.
Unfortunately, however, owing to mismanagement of those on board the
steamer, it proved ineffective. They had fastened the hawser of the
apparatus to the forecastle instead of high up on the mast, so that the
ropes became hopelessly entangled on the rocks. Before this
entanglement occurred, however, two men had been hauled ashore to show
the possibility of escape and to give the ladies courage. Then a lady
ventured into the sling-lifebuoy, or cradle, with a sailor, but they
stuck fast during the transit, and while being hauled back to the wreck,
fell out and were drowned. A fireman then made the attempt. Again the
cradle stuck, but the man was strong and went hand over hand along the
hawser to the shore, where Mr Byrne rushed into the surf and caught
hold of him. The rescuer nearly lost his life in the attempt. He was
overtaken by a huge wave, and was on the point of being washed away when
he caught hold of a gentleman who ran into the surf to save him.
The rocket apparatus having thus failed, owing to the simple mistake of
those in the wreck having fastened the hawser _too low_ on their vessel,
the crew attempted to lower a boat with four seamen and four ladies in
it. One of the davits gave way, the other swung round, and the boat was
swamped. Three of the men were hauled back into the steamer, but the
others perished. The men would not now launch the other boats. Indeed
it would have been useless, for no ordinary boat could have lived in
such a sea. Soon afterwards all the boats were washed away and
destroyed, and the destruction of the steamer itself seemed about to
take place every moment.
While this terrible fight for dear life was going on, the lifeboat-men
were not idle. They ran out their good boat, the Constance, and
launched her. And what a fearful launching that was! This boat
belonged to the Institution, and her crew were justly proud of her.
According to the account given by her gallant coxswain, James Gilbert,
they could see nothing whatever at the time of starting but the white
flash of the seas as they passed over boat and crew, without
intermission, twelve or thirteen times. Yet, as quickly as the boat was
filled, she emptied herself through her discharging-tubes. Of these
tubes I shall treat hereafter. Gilbert could not even see his own men,
except the second coxswain, who, I presume, was close to him. Sometimes
the boat was "driven to an angle of forty or forty-five degrees in
clearing the rocks." When they were in a position to make for the
steamer, the order was given to "back all oars and keep her end-on to
the sea." The men obeyed; they seemed to be inspired with fresh vigour
as they neared the wreck. Let Gilbert himself tell the rest of the
story as follows.
"When abreast of the port bow, two men told us they had a rope ready on
the starboard bow. We said we would be there in a moment. I then
ordered the bow-man to be ready to receive the rope. As soon as we were
ready we made two dashing strokes, and were under the bowsprit,
expecting to receive the rope, when we heard a dreadful noise, and the
next instant the sea fell over the bows of the Stanley, and buried the
lifeboat. Every oar was broken at the gunwale of the boat, and the
outer ends were swept away. The men made a grasp for the spare oars.
Three were gone; two only remained. We were then left with the rudder
and two oars. The next sea struck the boat almost over end on board the
Friendship, the boat at the time being nearly perpendicular. We then
had the misfortune to lose four of our crew. As the boat made a most
fearful crash, and fell alongside the vessel, James Grant was, I
believe, killed on the spot, betwixt the ship and the boat; Edmund
Robson and James Blackburn were thrown out, Joseph Bell jumped as the
boat fell. My own impression is that the men all jumped from the boat
on to the vessel. We saw them no more. There were four men standing in
a group before the mainmast of the schooner. We implored them to come
into the boat, but no one answered."