seemed--at least to men who did not know the qualities of a lifeboat--a
surer foothold than the tossed cockleshell with "only two oars and a
rudder," out of which four of her own gallant crew had just been lost.
Even landsmen can perceive that it must have required much faith to
trust a lifeboat in the circumstances.
"The next sea that struck the lifeboat," continues the coxswain, "landed
her within six feet of the foundation-stone of Tynemouth Dock, with a
quickness seldom witnessed. The crew plied the remaining two oars to
leeward against the rudder and boathook. We never saw anything till
coming near the three Shields lifeboats. We asked them for oars to
proceed back to the Friendship, but they had none to spare."
Thus the brave Constance was baffled, and had to retire, severely
wounded, from the fight. She drove, in her disabled and unmanageable
condition, into the harbour. Of the four men thrown out of her, Grant
and Robson, who had found temporary refuge in the wrecked schooner,
perished. The other two, Bell and Blackburn, were buoyed up by their
cork lifebelts, washed ashore, and saved. The schooner itself was
afterwards destroyed, and her crew of four men and a boy were lost.
Meanwhile the screams of those on board of her and the Stanley were
borne on the gale to the vast crowds who, despite darkness and tempest,
lined the neighbouring cliffs, and the Shields lifeboats just referred
to made gallant attempts to approach the wrecks, but failed. Indeed, it
seemed to have been a rash attempt on the part of the noble fellows of
the Constance to have made the venture at all.
The second cabin of the Stanley was on deck, and formed the bridge, or
outlook. On this a number of the passengers and crew had taken refuge,
but a tremendous sea carried it, and all its occupants, bodily away.
After this the fury of the sea increased, and about an hour before
midnight the steamer, with a hideous crash, broke in two amidships. The
after part remained fast; the fore part swung round. All the people who
remained on the after part were swept away and drowned. The new
position into which the fore part of the wreck had been forced was so
far an advantage to those who still clung to it, that the bows broke the
first violence of the waves, and thus partially protected the exhausted
people, thirty-five of whom still remained alive out of the sixty souls
originally on board. Ten of these were passengers--two being ladies.
Meanwhile fresh preparations were being made by the rocket-men.
Messengers had been sent in hot haste to Cullercoats for more rockets,
those at Tynemouth having been exhausted. They arrived at five o'clock
in the morning. By that time the tide had fallen considerably,
admitting of a nearer approach to the wreck, and once more a gleam of
hope cheered the hearts of the perishing as they beheld the fiery
messenger of mercy rush fiercely towards them from the shore. But hope
was still delayed. Four of the rockets missed. The fifth passed right
over them, dropping the lifeline on the wreck, and drawing from the poor
sufferers a feeble cheer, which was replied to lustily from the shore.
This time, fortunately, no mistakes were made by those on board. The
blocks and tackle were drawn out, the hawser on which the sling-lifebuoy
traversed was fastened high up on the foremast to prevent the ropes
fouling the rocks, as they had done on the first attempt; then the
lifebuoy was run out, and, eventually, every soul was drawn in safety to
the shore.
Thus did that battle end, with much of disaster and death to regret,
indeed, but with upwards of thirty-five rescued lives to rejoice over.
I have now shown the action and bearing of our coast heroes, both in
circumstances of triumphant victory and of partial success. Before
proceeding to other matters it is well to add that, when intelligence of
this disaster was telegraphed to the Lifeboat Institution, a new
lifeboat was immediately forwarded to Tynemouth, temporarily to replace
the damaged Constance. Instructions were given for the relief of the
widows and children of the two lifeboat-men who had perished, and 26
pounds was sent to the crew of the boat. At their next meeting the
committee of the Institution, besides recording their deep regret for
the melancholy loss of life, voted 100 pounds in aid of a fund raised
locally for the widows and seven children of the two men. They likewise
bestowed their silver medal and a vote of thanks, inscribed on vellum,
to Mr Lawrence Byrne, of the coastguard, in testimony of his gallant
services on the occasion. Contributions were also raised by a local
committee for the relief of the sufferers by these disasters, and a
Volunteer Corps was formed to assist in working the rocket apparatus on
future occasions of shipwreck.
Let me at this point earnestly request the reader who dwells in an
_inland_ home, and who never hears the roaring of the terrible sea,
carefully to note that in this case it was _men of the coast_ who did
the work, and _people of the coast town_ who gave subscriptions, who
sympathised with sufferers, and raised a Volunteer Corps. Ponder this
well, good reader, and ask yourself the question, "Is all as it should
be here? Have I and my fellow-inlanders nothing to do but read, admire,
and say, Well done?" A hint is sufficient at this point. I will return
to the subject hereafter.
Sometimes our gallant lifeboat-men when called into action go through a
very different and not very comfortable experience. They neither gain a
glorious victory nor achieve a partial success, but, after all their
efforts, risks, and exposure, find that their services are not required,
and that they must return meekly home with nothing to reward them but an
approving conscience!
One such incident I once had the opportunity of observing. I was living
at the time--for purposes of investigation, and by special permission--
on board of the Gull Lightship, which lies directly off Ramsgate
Harbour, close to the Goodwin Sands. It was in the month of March.
During the greater part of my two weeks' sojourn in that lightship the
weather was reasonably fine, but one evening it came on to blow hard,
and became what Jack styles "dirty." I went to rest that night in a
condition which may be described as semi-sea-sick. For some time I lay
in my bunk moralising on the madness of those who choose the sea for a
profession. Suddenly I was roused--and the seasickness instantly
cured--by the watch on deck shouting down the hatchway to the mate,
"South Sand Head Light is firing, sir, and sending up rockets!"
The mate sprang from his bunk--just opposite to mine--and was on the
cabin floor before the sentence was well finished. Thrusting the poker
with violence into the cabin fire, he rushed on deck. I jumped up and
pulled on coat, nether garments, and shoes, as if my life depended on my
speed, wondering the while at the poker incident. There was unusual
need for clothing, for the night was bitterly cold.
On gaining the deck I found the two men on duty actively at work, one
loading the lee gun, the other fitting a rocket to its stick. A few
hurried questions by the mate elicited all that it was needful to know.
The flash of a gun from the South Sand Head Lightship, about six miles
distant, had been seen, followed by a rocket, indicating that a vessel
had got upon the fatal sands in her vicinity. While the men were
speaking I saw the flash of another gun, but heard no report, owing to
the gale carrying the sound to leeward. A rocket followed, and at the
same moment we observed the distress signal of the vessel in danger
flaring on the southern tail of the sands, but very faintly; it was so
far away, and the night so thick.
By this time our gun was charged and the rocket in position.
"Look alive, Jack; fetch the poker!" cried the mate, as he primed the
gun.
I was enlightened as to the poker! Jack dived down the hatchway and
next moment returned with that instrument red-hot. He applied it in
quick succession to gun and rocket. A grand flash and crash from the
first was followed by a blinding blaze and a whiz as the second sprang
with a magnificent curve far away into surrounding darkness. This was
our answer to the South Sand Head Lightship. It was, at the same time,
our signal-call to the lookout on the pier of Ramsgate Harbour.
"That's a beauty!" said our mate, referring to the rocket. "Get up
another, Jack. Sponge her well out, Jacobs; we'll give 'em another shot
in a few minutes."
Loud and clear were both our signals, but four and a half miles of
distance and a fresh gale neutralised their influence on that dark and
dismal night. The lookout did not see them. In a few minutes the gun
and rocket were fired again. Still no answering signal came from
Ramsgate.
"Load the weather gun!" said the mate.
Jacobs obeyed, and I sought shelter under the lee of the weather
bulwarks, for the wind seemed to be made of pen-knives and needles! The
sturdy Gull straining and plunging wildly at her huge cables, trembled
as our third gun thundered forth its summons, but the rocket struck the
rigging and made a low, wavering flight. Another was therefore sent up,
but it had scarcely cut its bright line across the sky when we observed
the answering signal--a rocket from Ramsgate pier.
"That's all right now, sir; _our_ work is done," said the mate to me, as
he went below and quietly turned in, while the watch, having sponged out
and re-covered the gun, resumed their active perambulations of the deck.
I confess that I felt somewhat disappointed at the sudden termination of
the noise and excitement. I was told that the Ramsgate lifeboat could
not well be out in less than an hour. There was nothing for it,
therefore, but patience, so I turned in, "all standing," as sailors have
it, with a request that I should be called when the lights of the tug
should come in sight. Scarcely had I lain down, however, when the voice
of the watch was heard shouting hastily, "Lifeboat close alongside, sir!
Didn't see it till this moment. She carries no lights."
Out I bounced, minus hat, coat, and shoes, and scrambled on deck just in
time to see a boat close under our stern, rendered spectrally visible by
the light of our lantern. It was not the Ramsgate but the Broadstairs
lifeboat, the men of which had observed our first rocket, had launched
their boat at once, and had run down with the favouring gale.
"What are you firing for?" shouted the coxswain of the boat.
"Ship on the sands bearing south," replied Jack, at the full pitch of
his stentorian voice.
The boat which was under sail, did not pause, and nothing more was said.
With a magnificent rush it passed us, and shot away into the darkness.
Our reply had been heard, and the lifeboat, steering by compass, went
straight as an arrow to the rescue.
It was a thrilling experience to me! Spectral as a vision though it
seemed, and brief almost as the lightning flash, its visit was the
_real_ thing at last. Many a time had I heard and read of our
lifeboats, and had seen them reposing in their boat-houses, as well as
out "for exercise," but now I had _seen_ a lifeboat tearing before the
gale through the tormented sea, sternly bent on the real work of saving
human life.
Once again all became silent and unexciting on board the Gull, and I
went shivering below with exalted notions of the courage, endurance, and
businesslike vigour of our coast heroes. I now lay wakeful and
expectant. Presently the shout came again.
"Tug's in sight, sir!"
And once more I went on deck with the mate.
The steamer was quickly alongside, heaving wildly in the sea, with the
Ramsgate lifeboat "Bradford" in tow far astern. She merely slowed a
little to admit of the same brief question and reply, the latter being
repeated, as the boat passed, for the benefit of the coxswain. As she
swept by us I looked down and observed that the ten men who formed her
crew crouched flat on the thwarts. Only the steersman sat up. No
wonder. It must be hard to sit up in a stiff gale with freezing spray,
and sometimes heavy seas sweeping over one. I knew that the men were
wide awake and listening, but, as far as vision went that boat was
manned only by ten oilskin coats and sou'-westers!
A few seconds carried them out of sight, and thus, as regards the Gull
Lightship, the drama ended. There was no possibility of the dwellers in
the floating lights hearing anything of the details of that night's work
until the fortnightly visit of their "tender" should fall due, but next
morning at low tide, far away in the distance, we could see the wreck,
bottom up, high on the Goodwin Sands.
Afterwards I learned that the ship's crew had escaped in one of their
own boats, and taken refuge in the South Sand Head Lightship, whence
they were conveyed next day to land, so that the gallant men of Ramsgate
and Broadstairs had all their toil and trouble for nothing!
Thus, you see, there are not only high lights and deep shadows, but also
neutral tints in the various incidents which go to make up the grand
picture of lifeboat work.
There is a Fund connected with the Broadstairs Lifeboat which deserves
passing notice here. It was raised by the late Sir Charles Reed, in
1867, the proceeds to be distributed annually among the seamen who save
life on that coast. The following particulars of this fund were
supplied by Sir Charles Reed himself:--
"Eight boatmen of Broadstairs were interested in a lugger--the
Dreadnought--which had for years done good service on the Goodwins. One
night they went off in a tremendous sea to save a French barque; but
though they secured the crew, a steam-tug claimed the prize and towed
her into Ramsgate Harbour. The Broadstairs men instituted proceedings
to secure the salvage, but they were beaten in a London law court, where
they were overpowered by the advocacy of a powerful company. In the
meantime they lost their lugger off the coast of Normandy, and in this
emergency the lawyers they had employed demanded their costs. The poor
men had no means, and not being able to pay they were taken from their
homes and lodged in Maidstone Gaol. He (Sir Charles) was then staying
in Broadstairs, and an appeal being made to him, he wrote to the
`Times', and in one week received nearly twice the amount required. The
bill was paid, the men were liberated and brought home to their
families, and the balance of the amount, a considerable sum, was
invested, the interest to be applied to the rewarding of boatmen who, by
personal bravery, had distinguished themselves by saving life on the
coast."
CHAPTER FOUR.
CONSTRUCTION AND QUALITIES OF THE LIFEBOAT.
In previous chapters enough has been told, I think, to prove that our
lifeboats deserve earnest and thoughtful attention, not only as regards
their work, but in reference to their details of construction. It has
been said that the lifeboat possesses special qualities which
distinguish it from all other boats. Chief among these are the
self-righting and self-emptying principles. Stability, resulting from
breadth of beam, etcetera, will do much to render a boat safe in rough
seas and tempestuous weather, but when a boat has to face mighty rollers
which turn it up until it stands straight on end, like a rearing horse,
and even tumble it right over, or when it has to plunge into horrible
maelstroms which seethe, leap, and fume in the mad contention of cross
seas, no device that man has yet fallen upon will save it from turning
keel up and throwing its contents into the water.
Instead therefore, of attempting to build a boat which cannot upset, men
have deemed it wiser to attempt the construction of one which will not
remain in that position, but which will, of necessity, right itself.
The end aimed at has been achieved, and the boat now in use by the
Lifeboat Institution is absolutely perfect in this respect. What more
could be desired in any boat than that, after being upset, it should
right itself in a _few seconds_, and empty itself of water in less than
one minute?
A boat which does not right itself when overturned is only a lifeboat so
long as it maintains its proper position on the water.
Let its self-emptying and buoyant qualities be ever so good, you have
only to upset it to render it no better than any other boat;--indeed, in
a sense, it is worse than other boats, because it leads men to face
danger which they would not dare to encounter in an ordinary boat.
Doubtless, lifeboats on the non-self-righting principle possess great
stability, and are seldom overturned; nevertheless they occasionally
are, and with fatal results. Here is one example. In the month of
January, 1865, the Liverpool lifeboat, when out on service, was upset,
and seven men of her crew were drowned. This was not a self-righting
boat, and it did not belong to the Lifeboat Institution, most of whose
boats are now built on the self-righting principle. Moreover, the
unfortunate men had not put on lifebelts. It may be added that the men
who work the boats of the Institution are not allowed to go off without
their cork lifebelts on.
Take another case. On the 4th January, 1857, the Point of Ayr lifeboat,
when under sail in a gale, upset at a distance from the land. The
accident was seen from the shore, but no aid could be rendered, and the
whole boat's crew--thirteen in number--were drowned. This boat was
considered a good lifeboat, and doubtless it was so in many respects,
but it was not a self-righting one. Two or three of the poor fellows
were seen clinging to the keel for twenty minutes, by which time they
became exhausted, were washed off, and, having no lifebelts on,
perished.
Again in February, 1858, the Southwold lifeboat--a large sailing boat,
esteemed one of the finest in the kingdom, but not on the self-righting
principle--went out for exercise, and was running before a heavy surf
with all sail set, when she suddenly ran on the top of a sea, turned
broadside to the waves, and was upset. The crew in this case were
fortunately near the shore, had on their lifebelts, and, although some
of them could not swim, were all saved--no thanks, however, to their
boat, which remained keel up--but three unfortunate gentlemen who had
been permitted to go off in the boat without lifebelts, and one of whom
was a good swimmer, lost their lives.
Let it be noted here that the above three instances of disaster occurred
in the day time, and the contrast of the following case will appear all
the stronger.
One very dark and stormy night in October, 1858, the small lifeboat of
Dungeness put off through a heavy sea to a wreck three-quarters of a
mile from the shore. Eight stout men of the coastguard composed her
crew. She was a self-righting, self-emptying boat, belonging to the
Lifeboat Institution. The wreck was reached soon after midnight, and
found to have been abandoned. The boat, therefore, returned towards the
shore. Now, there is a greater danger in rowing before a gale than in
rowing against it. For the first half mile all went well, though the
sea was heavy and broken, but, on crossing a deep channel between two
shoals, the little lifeboat was caught up and struck by three heavy seas
in succession. The coxswain lost command of the rudder, and she was
carried away before a sea, broached to, and upset, throwing her crew out
of her. _Immediately_ she righted herself, cleared herself of water,
and was brought up by her anchor which had fallen out when she was
overturned. The crew meanwhile having on lifebelts, floated and swam to
the boat, caught hold of the life-lines festooned round her sides,
clambered into her, cut the cable, and returned to the shore in safety!
What more need be said in favour of the self-righting boats?
The self-emptying principle is quite equal to the self-righting in
importance.
In _every_ case of putting off to a wreck in a gale, a lifeboat ships a
great deal of water. In most cases she fills more than once.
Frequently she is overwhelmed by tons of water by every sea. A boat
full of water cannot advance, therefore baling becomes necessary; but
baling, besides being very exhausting work, is so slow that it would be
useless labour in most cases. Besides, when men have to bale they
cannot give that undivided attention to the oars which is needful. To
overcome this difficulty the self-emptying plan was devised.
As, I doubt not, the reader is now sufficiently interested to ask the
questions, How are self-righting and self-emptying accomplished? I will
try to throw some light on these subjects.
First, as to self-righting. You are aware, no doubt, that the buoyancy
of our lifeboat is due chiefly to large air-cases at the ends, and all
round the sides from stem to stern. The accompanying drawing and
diagrams will aid us in the description. On the opposite page you have
a portrait of, let us say, a thirty-three feet, ten-oared lifeboat, of
the Royal National Lifeboat Institution, on its transporting carriage,
ready for launching, and, on page 95, two diagrams representing
respectively a section and a deck view of the same (Figures 1, 2, and
3).
The breadth of this boat is eight feet; its stowage-room sufficient for
thirty passengers, besides its crew of twelve men--forty-two in all. It
is double-banked; that is, each of its five banks, benches, or thwarts,
accommodates two rowers sitting side by side. The lines festooned round
the side dip into the water, so that anyone swimming alongside may
easily grasp them, and in the middle part of the boat--just where the
large wheels come in the engraving--two of the lines are longer than the
others, so that a man might use them as stirrups, and thus be enabled to
clamber into the boat even without assistance. The rudder descends
considerably below the keel--to give it more power--and has to be raised
when the boat is being launched.
The shaded parts of the diagrams show the position and form of the
air-cases which prevent a lifeboat from sinking. The white oblong space
in Figure 2 is the free space available for crew and passengers. In
Figure 3 is seen the depth to which the air-chambers descend, and the
height to which the bow and stern-chambers rise.
It is to these large air-chambers in bow and stern, coupled with great
sheer--or rise fore and aft--of gunwale, and a very heavy keel, that the
boat owes its self-righting power. The two air-chambers are rounded on
the top. Now, it is obvious that if you were to take a model of such a
boat, turn it upside down on a table, and try to make it rest on its two
_rounded_ air-chambers, you would encounter as much difficulty as did
the friends of Columbus when they sought to make an egg stand on its
end. The boat would infallibly fall to one side or the other. In the
water the tendency is precisely the same, and that tendency is increased
by the heavy iron keel, which drags the boat violently round to its
right position.
The self-righting principle was discovered--at all events for the first
time exhibited--at the end of last century, by the Reverend James
Bremner, of Orkney. He first suggested in the year 1792 that an
ordinary boat might be made self-righting by placing two watertight
casks in the head and sternsheets of it, and fastening three
hundredweight of iron to the keel. Afterwards he tried the experiment
at Leith, and with such success that in 1810 the Society of Arts voted
him a silver medal and twenty guineas. But nothing further was done
until half a century later, when twenty out of twenty-four pilots lost
their lives by the upsetting of the non-self-righting Shields lifeboat.
Then (1850) the late Duke of Northumberland offered a prize of 100
guineas for the best lifeboat that could be produced. No fewer than 280
models and drawings were sent in, and the plans, specifications, and
descriptions of these formed five folio manuscript volumes! The various
models were in the shape of pontoons, catamarans or rafts, north-country
cobles, and ordinary boats, slightly modified. The committee appointed
to decide on their respective merits had a difficult task to perform.
After six months' careful, patient investigation and experiment, they
awarded the prize to Mr James Beeching, of Great Yarmouth. Beeching's
boat, although the best, was not, however, deemed perfect.