assistant master-shipwright at Woolwich Dockyard, to incorporate as many
as possible of the good qualities of all the other models with
Beeching's boat. From time to time various important improvements have
been made, and the result is the present magnificent boat of the
Institution, by means of which hundreds of lives are saved every year.
The self-discharge of water from a lifeboat is not so easy to explain.
It will be the more readily comprehended if the reader understands, and
will bear in remembrance, the physical fact that water will, and must,
find its level. That is--no portion of water, small or great, in tub,
pond, or sea, can for a moment remain above its flat and level surface,
except when forced into motion, or commotion. Left to itself it
infallibly flattens out, becomes calm, lies still in the lowest
attainable position--in other words, finds its level. Bearing this in
mind, let us look again at Figure 3.
The dotted double line about the middle of the boat, extending from stem
to stern, represents the _floor_ of the boat, on which the men's feet
rest when standing or sitting in it. It also represents, or very nearly
so, the waterline outside, that is, the depth to which the boat will
sink when afloat, manned and loaded. Therefore, the _boat's floor_ and
the _ocean_ _surface_ are on the same level. Observe that! The space
between the floor and the keel is filled up with cork or other ballast.
Now, there are six large holes in the boat's floor--each hole six inches
in diameter--into which are fitted six metal tubes, which pass down by
the side of the cork ballast, and right through the bottom of the boat
itself; thus making six large openings into the sea.
"But hallo!" you exclaim, "won't the water from below rush up through
these holes and fill the boat?"
It will indeed rush up into these holes, but it will not fill the boat
because it will have found its level--the level of ocean--on reaching
the floor. Well, besides having reached its level, the water in the
tubes has reached six valves, which will open downwards to let water
out, but which won't open upwards to let it in. Now, suppose a huge
billow topples into the boat and fills it quite full, is it not obvious
that all the water in the boat stands _above_ the ocean's level--being
above the boat's floor? Like a wise element, it immediately seeks its
own level by the only mode of egress--the discharging tubes; and when it
has found its level, it has also found the floor of the boat. In other
words, it is all gone! moreover, it rushes out so violently that a
lifeboat, filled to overflowing, frees itself, as I have already said,
in less than one minute!
The _buoyancy_, therefore, of a lifeboat is not affected for more than a
few seconds by the tons of water which occasionally and frequently break
into her. To prove this, let me refer you again to the account of the
Constance, given by its gallant coxswain, as recorded in the third
chapter. He speaks of the lifeboat being "buried," "sunk" by the wave
that burst over the bow of the Stanley, and "immediately," he adds, "the
men made a grasp for the spare oars!" There is no such remark as "when
we recovered ourselves," etcetera. The sinking and leaping to the
surface were evidently the work of a few seconds; and this is indeed the
case, for when the force that sinks a lifeboat is removed, she rises
that instant to the surface like a cork, and when she tumbles over she
recovers herself with the agility of an acrobat!
The transporting-carriage is a most essential part of a lifeboat
establishment, because wrecks frequently take place at some distance
from a station, and prompt assistance is of the utmost importance in all
cases of rescue. It is drawn by horses, and, with its exceedingly broad
and strong wheels, can be dragged over any kind of road or across soft
sand. It is always backed into the surf so deep that the boat may be
launched from it, with her crew seated, and the oars out, ready to pull
with might and main the instant the plunge is made. These first strokes
of a lifeboat's crew are of immense importance. Want of union or energy
on the part of steersman or crew at this critical point may be fatal.
The boat must be made to cut the breakers end-on, so as to prevent her
turning broadside on and being rolled back on the beach. Even after
these initial strokes have been made successfully, there still remains
the possibility of an unusually monstrous wave hurling the boat back end
over end.
The boat resting on its carriage on the sands (Figure 1) shows the
relative position of the two. It will be seen, from that position, that
a very slight tip will suffice to cause the bow of the boat to drop
towards the sea. As its keel rests on rollers, comparatively little
force is required to launch it. Such force is applied by means of ropes
attached to the stern, passing through pulleys at the outer end of the
carriage, so that people on shore haul the ropes inland in order to
force the boat off its carriage seaward.
Once the boat has got fairly over the surf and out upon the wild sea,
her progress is comparatively safe, simple tugging against wind and sea
being all that has to be done until the wreck is reached, where dangers
of another kind await her.
I have now shown that the great qualities of our lifeboat
are--_buoyancy_, or a tendency not to sink; _self-righting_ power, or
inability to remain upside down; _self-emptying_ power, or a capacity to
discharge any water that may get into it; and _stability_, or a tendency
not to upset. The last quality I shall refer to, though by no means the
least, is _strength_.
From what has been already written about lifeboats being hurled against
wrecks and rocks, it must be evident that the strength of ordinary boats
would not suffice.
In order to give them the requisite strength of frame for their
tremendous warfare, they are built of the best Honduras mahogany, on
what is known as the diagonal plan--that is, the boat has two distinct
"skins" of planking, one set of planks being laid on in a diagonal
position to the others. Moreover, these planks run from one gunwale
round under the boat to the other gunwale, and have a complete layer of
prepared canvas between them. Thus great strength and elasticity are
combined, so that the boat can stand an inconceivable amount of
battering on wreckage, rocks, or sand, without being destroyed.
That this is really so I will endeavour to prove by referring in the
next chapter to a particular instance in which the great strength of one
of our lifeboats was powerfully illustrated.
It may be added, in conclusion, that the oars of a lifeboat are short,
and so made as to combine the greatest possible strength with lightness.
They are fastened to the gunwale by short pieces of rope, and work in a
moveable iron crutch on an iron thole-pin. Each boat is provided with a
set of spare oars. Her equipment of compass, cables, grapnels, anchors,
etcetera, is, as may be supposed, very complete, and she rides upon the
storm in a rather gay dress of red, white, and blue, in order that she
may be readily distinguished from other boats--her lower parts being
white, her upper sides blue, and her line of "fender" all round being
scarlet.
CHAPTER FIVE.
MORE TALES OF HEROISM.
If any one should doubt the fact that a lifeboat is _all but_
indestructible, let that sceptical one read the following tale of wreck
and rescue.
On a terrible night in the year 1857 a Portuguese brig struck on the
Goodwin Sands, not far from the lightship that marks the northern
extremity of those fatal shoals. A shot was fired, and a rocket sent up
by the lightship. No second signal was needed. The Ramsgate men were,
as usual, keeping a bright lookout. Instantly they jumped into the
lifeboat, which lay calmly floating in the harbour alongside the pier.
So eager were the men to engage in the deadly struggle that the boat was
over-manned, and the last two who jumped in were obliged to go ashore
again.
The tug _Aid_ was all ready--according to custom--with steam up. She
took the boat in tow and made for the mouth of the harbour. Staggering
out in the teeth of tide and tempest they ploughed their way through a
heavy cross sea, that swept again and again over them, until they
reached the edge of the Goodwins. Here the steamer cast off the boat,
and waited for her while she dashed into the surf, and bore the brunt of
the battle alone.
It was a familiar proceeding to all concerned. Many a time before had
the Ramsgate boat and steamer rescued men and women and little ones from
the jaws of death on the Goodwins, but they were about to experience a
few novelties that night.
It was very dark, so that the boat had much difficulty in finding the
brig. On coming within about eighty yards of her they cast anchor and
veered down under her lee. At first they were in hopes of getting the
vessel off, and some hours were spent in vain attempts to do this, but
the gale increased in fury; the brig began to break up. She rolled from
side to side, and the yards swung wildly in the air. A blow from one of
these yards would have stove the boat in, so the Portuguese crew--twelve
men and a boy--were taken from the wreck, and the lifeboat-men
endeavoured to push off.
All this time the boat had been floating in a basin worked in the sand
by the motion of the wreck; but the tide had been falling, and when they
tried to pull up to their anchor the boat struck heavily on the edge of
this basin. They worked to get off the shoals with the energy of men
who believe that their lives depend on their efforts. For a moment they
succeeded in getting afloat, but again struck and remained fast.
Meanwhile the brig was lifted by each wave, that came rushing over the
shoals like a mountain chain of snow, and let fall with a thundering
crash. Her timbers began to snap like pipe-stems, and, as she worked
nearer and nearer to the boat, the wildly-swaying yards threatened
immediate destruction. The heavy seas flew continually over the
lifeboat, so that passengers and crew could do nothing but hold on to
the thwarts for their lives. At last the brig came so near that there
was a stir among the men; they were preparing for the last struggle--
some of them intending to leap into the rigging of the wreck and take
their chance. But the coxswain shouted, "Stick to the boat, boys, stick
to the boat!" and the men obeyed.
At that moment the boat lifted a little on the surf and grounded again.
New hope was inspired by this. They pulled at the cable and shoved
might and main with the oars. They succeeded in getting out of
immediate danger, but still could not pull up to their anchor in the
teeth of wind and tide. The coxswain then saw plainly that there was
but one resource left--to cut the cable and drive away to leeward right
across the Goodwin Sands, which at that place were two miles wide. But
there was not yet sufficient water on the sands even for the attempting
of that forlorn hope. As far as could be seen in that direction, ay,
and far beyond the power of vision, there was nothing but a chaos of
wild, tumultuous, whirling foam, without sufficient depth to float them
over, so they held on, intending to wait till the tide, which had
turned, should rise. Very soon, however, the anchor began to drag.
This compelled them to hoist sail, cut the cable sooner than they had
intended, and attempt to beat to windward--off the sands. It was in
vain. A moment more, and they struck with tremendous force. A breaker
came rolling towards them, filled the boat, caught her up like a
plaything on its crest, and, hurling her a few yards onwards, let her
fall with a shock that well-nigh tore every man out of her. Each
successive breaker treated her in this way!
Those who dwell by the seashore know well those familiar ripples that
mark the sands when the tide is out. On the Goodwins those ripples are
gigantic banks, to be measured by feet, not by inches. I can speak from
personal experience, having once visited the Goodwins and walked among
the sand-banks at low water. From one to another of these banks this
splendid boat was thrown. Each roaring surf caught it by the bow or
stern, and, whirling it right round, sent it crashing on the next ledge.
The Portuguese sailors gave up all hope and clung to the thwarts in
silent despair, but the crew did not lose heart altogether. They knew
the boat well, had often gone out to battle in her, and hoped that they
might yet be saved, if they could only escape striking on the pieces of
old wreck with which the sands were strewn.
Thus, literally, yard by yard, with a succession of shocks, that would
have knocked any ordinary boat to pieces, did that lifeboat drive,
during two hours, over two miles of the Goodwin Sands!
A thrilling and graphic account of this wreck and rescue is given in the
Reverend John Gilmore's book, "Storm Warriors," in which he tells us
that while this exciting work was going on, the _Aid_ lay head to wind,
steaming half power, and holding her own against the storm, waiting for
her lifeboat, but no lifeboat returned to her, and her gallant captain
became more and more anxious as time flew by. Could it be possible that
her sturdy little comrade, with whom she had gone out to battle in
hundreds of gales, was overcome at last and destroyed! They signalled
again and again, but got no reply. Then, as their fears increased, they
began to cruise about as near to the dangerous shoals as they dared--
almost playing with death--as they eagerly sought for their consort. At
last the conviction was forced upon them that the boat must have been
stove by the wreck and swamped. In the midst of their gathering despair
they caught sight of the lightship's bright beam, shining like a star of
hope through the surrounding darkness. With a faint hope they made for
the vessel and hailed her. "Have you seen anything of the lifeboat?"
was the eager question. "Nothing! nothing!" was the sad reply. Back
they went again to the place they had left, determined to cruise on,
hoping against hope, till the night should pass away. Hour after hour
they steamed hither and thither, with anxiously straining eyes. At last
grey dawn appeared and the wreck became dimly visible. They made for
it, and their worst fears were realised--the remnant of the brig's hull
was there with ropes and wreckage tossing wildly round it--but no
lifeboat!
Sadly they turned away and continued to search for some time in the
faint hope that some of her crew might be floating about, buoyed up by
their lifebelts, but none were found, and at last they reluctantly made
for the harbour.
And when the harbour was gained what saw they there? The lifeboat! safe
and sound, floating as calmly beside the pier as if nothing had
happened! As the captain of the _Aid_ himself said, he felt inclined at
once to shout and cry for wonder, and we may be sure that his wonder was
not decreased when he heard the lifeboat's story from the brave
coxswain's lips--how that, after driving right across the sands, as I
have described, they suddenly found themselves in deep water. That
then, knowing the extremity of danger to be past, they had set the
sails, and, soon after, had, through God's mercy, landed the rescued
Portuguese crew in Ramsgate Harbour!
It must not be imagined, however, that such work as this can be done
without great cost to those who undertake it.
Some of the men never recovered from the effects of that night's
exposure. The gratitude of the Portuguese seamen was very great, as
well as their amazement at such a rescue! It is recorded of them that,
before arriving in the harbour, they were observed to be in consultation
together, and that one who understood a little English spoke to one of
the crew in an undertone.
"Coxswain," said the lifeboat man, "they want to give us all their
money!"
"Yes, yes," cried the Portuguese interpreter, in broken English; "you
have saved our lives! Thank you, thank you! but all we have is yours.
It is not much, but you may take it between you." The amount was
seventeen pounds!
As might have been expected, neither the coxswain nor his men would
accept a penny of it.
This coxswain was Isaac Jarman, who for many years led the famous
Ramsgate lifeboat into action, and helped to save hundreds of human
lives. While staying at Ramsgate I had the pleasure of shaking the
strong hard hand of Jarman, and heard some of his adventures from his
own lips.
Now, from all that has been said, it will, I think, be seen and admitted
that the lifeboats of the Institution are almost indestructible.
The _lifebelt_, to which reference has been so often made, deserves
special notice at this point. The figure on the title-page shows its
appearance and the manner in which it is worn. It was designed in 1854,
by Admiral J.R. Ward, the Institution's chief inspector of lifeboats.
Its chief quality is its great buoyancy, which is not only sufficient to
support a man with head and shoulders above water when heavily clothed,
but enables the wearer easily to support another person--the extra
buoyancy being 25 pounds. Besides possessing several great advantages
over other lifebelts, that of Admiral Ward is divided in the middle by a
space, where the waistbelt is fastened. This permits of great freedom
of action, and the whole machine is remarkably flexible. It is also
very strong, forming a species of armour which protects the wearer from
severe blows, and, moreover, helps to keep him warm.
It behoves me now to say a few words about the inventor of lifeboats.
As has been told, our present splendid boat is a combination of all the
good points and improvements made in such boats down to the present
time. But the man who first thought of a lifeboat and invented one; who
fought against apathy and opposition; who completed and launched his ark
of mercy on the sea at Bamborough, in the shape of a little coble, in
the year 1785, and who actually saved many lives therewith, was a London
coachbuilder, LIONEL LUKIN by name.
Assuredly this man deserved the deepest gratitude of the nation, for his
was the first lifeboat ever brought into action, and he inserted the
small end of that wedge which we have been hammering home ever since,
and which has resulted in the formation of one of the grandest, most
thoroughly national and unsectarian of our charitable institutions.
Henry Greathead--a boatbuilder of South Shields--erroneously got the
credit of this invention. Greathead was a noted improver and builder of
lifeboats, and was well and deservedly rewarded for his work; but he was
not the inventor. Lionel Lukin alone can claim that honour.
In regard to the men who man them, enough has been written to prove that
they well deserve to be regarded as the heroes of the coast!
And let me observe in passing that there are also _heroines_ of the
coast, as the following extract from the Journal of the Institution will
show. It appeared in the January number of 1865.
"Voted the Silver Medal of the Institution, and a copy of its vote of
thanks on parchment, to Miss Alice R. Le Geyt, in admiration of her
prompt and courageous conduct in rowing a small boat into the surf at
the risk of her life, and rescuing two little boys who had fallen into
the sea from the outer pier at Lyme Regis, Dorset, on the 4th August."
Again, in October, 1879, the Committee of the National Lifeboat
Institution voted the Silver Medal of the Institution, and a copy of the
vote inscribed on vellum, to Miss Ellen Francis Prideaux Brune, Miss
Gertrude Rose Prideaux Brune, Miss Mary Katherine Prideaux Brune, Miss
Beatrice May Prideaux Brune, and Miss Nora O'Shaughnessy, in
acknowledgment of their intrepid and prompt services in proceeding
through a heavy surf in their rowing-boat, and saving, at considerable
risk of life, a sailor from a boat which had been capsized by a squall
of wind off Bray Hill, Padstow Harbour, Cornwall, on the 9th August.
When the accident occurred, the ladies' boat was being towed astern of a
fishing-boat, and Miss Ellen Prideaux Brune, with great gallantry and
determination, asked to be cast off, and, with her companions, she
proceeded with all possible despatch to the rescue of the drowning
sailor. All the ladies showed great courage, presence of mind, and
marked ability in the management of their small boat. They ran great
risk in getting the man into it, on account of the strong tide and sea
on at the time.
So it would appear that the spirit of the far-famed Grace Darling has
not yet departed from the land!
If heroism consists in boldly facing and successfully overcoming dangers
of the most appalling nature, then I hold that thousands of our men of
the coast--from Shetland to the Land's End--stand as high as do those
among our soldiers and sailors who wear the Victoria Cross. Let us
consider an example.
On that night in which the Royal Charter went down, there was a Maltese
sailor on board named Joseph Rodgers, who volunteered to swim ashore
with a rope. Those who have seen the effect of a raging sea even on a
smooth beach, know that the power of the falling waves is terrible, and
their retreating force so great that the most powerful swimmers
occasionally perish in them. But the coast to which Rodgers volunteered
to swim was an almost perpendicular cliff.
I write as an eye-witness, reader, for I saw the cliff myself, a few
days after the wreck took place, when I went down to that dreary coast
of Anglesea to identify the bodies of lost kindred. Ay, and at that
time I also saw something of the awful aspect of loss by shipwreck. I
went into the little church at Llanalgo, where upwards of thirty bodies
lay upon the floor--still in their wet garments, just as they had been
laid down by those who had brought them from the shore. As I entered
that church one body lay directly in my path. It was that of a young
sailor. Strange to say, his cheeks were still ruddy as though he had
been alive, and his lips were tightly compressed--I could not help
fancying--with the force of the last strong effort he had made to keep
out the deadly sea. Just beyond him lay a woman, and beside her a
little child, in their ordinary walking-dresses, as if they had lain
down there and fallen asleep side by side. I had to step across these
silent forms, as they lay, some in the full light of the windows, others
in darkened corners of the little church, and to gaze earnestly into
their dead faces for the lineaments of those whom I had gone to find--
but I did not find them there. Their bodies were washed ashore some
days afterwards. A few of those who lay on that floor were covered to
hide the mutilation they had received when being driven on the cruel
rocks. Altogether it was an awful sight--well fitted to draw forth the
prayer, "God help and bless those daring men who are willing to risk
their lives at any moment all the year round, to save men and women and
little ones from such a fate as this!"
But, to return to Joseph Rodgers. The cliff to which he volunteered to
swim was thundered on by seas raised by one of the fiercest gales that
ever visited our shores. It was dark, too, and broken spars and pieces
of wreck tossing about increased the danger; while the water was cold
enough to chill the life-blood in the stoutest frame. No one knew
better than Rodgers the extreme danger of the attempt, yet he plunged
into the sea with a rope round his waist. Had his motive been
self-preservation he could have gained the shore more easily without a
rope; but his motive was not selfish--it was truly generous. He reached
the land, hauled a cable ashore, made it fast to a rock, and began to
rescue the crew, and I have no doubt that every soul in that vessel
would have been saved if she had not suddenly split across and sunk.
Four hundred and fifty-five lives were lost, but before the catastrophe
took place _thirty-nine_ lives were saved by the heroism of that Maltese
sailor. The Lifeboat Institution awarded its gold medal, with its vote
of thanks inscribed on vellum, and 5 pounds, to Rodgers, in
acknowledgment of his noble conduct.