There is a great war in which the British Nation is at all times
engaged.
No bright seasons of peace mark the course of this war. Year by year it
is waged unceasingly, though not at all times with the same fury, nor
always with the same results.
Sometimes, as in ordinary warfare, there are minor skirmishes in which
many a deed of heroism is done, though not recorded, and there are
pitched battles in which all our resources are called into action, and
the papers teem with the news of the defeats, disasters, and victories
of the great fight.
This war costs us hundreds of lives, thousands of ships, and millions of
money every year. Our undying and unconquerable enemy is the storm, and
our great engines of war with which, through the blessing of God, we are
enabled to fight more or less successfully against the foe, are the
Lifeboat and the Rocket.
These engines, and the brave men who work them, are our sentinels of the
coast. When the storm is brewing; when grey clouds lower, and muttering
thunder comes rolling over the sea, men with hard hands and bronzed
faces, clad in oilskin coats and sou'westers, saunter down to our quays
and headlands, all round the kingdom. These are the Lifeboat crews on
the look-out. The enemy is moving, and the sentinels are being posted--
or, rather, they are posting themselves--for the night, for all the
fighting men in this great war are volunteers. They need 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 men seize
the oars; 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 and women and children are landed
in safety on our shores.
In the winter of 1863 my enthusiasm in the Lifeboat cause was aroused by
the reading in the papers of that wonderful achievement of the famous
Ramsgate Lifeboat, which, on a terrible night in that year, fought
against the storm for sixteen hours, and rescued a hundred and twenty
souls from death.
A strange fatality attaches to me somehow--namely, that whenever I have
an attack of enthusiasm, a book is the result!
Immediately after reading this episode in the great war, I called on the
Secretary of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution, who kindly gave me
minute information as to the working of his Society, and lent me its
journals.
Then I took train to the coast of Deal, and spent a considerable part of
the succeeding weeks in the company of Isaac Jarman--at that time the
coxswain of the Ramsgate Lifeboat, and the chief hero in many a gallant
fight with the sea.
The splendid craft which he commanded was one of the self-righting,
insubmergible boats of the Institution. Jarman's opinion of her was
expressed in the words "she's parfect, sir, and if you tried to improve
her you'd only spile her." From him I obtained much information, and
many a yarn about his experiences on the famous and fatal Goodwin Sands,
which, if recorded, would fill a volume. Indeed a volume has already
been written about them, and other deeds of daring on those Sands, by
one of the clergymen of Ramsgate.
I also saw the captain of the steam-tug that attends upon that boat. He
took me on board his vessel and showed me the gold and silver medals he
had received from his own nation, and from the monarchs of foreign
lands, for rescuing human lives. I chatted with the men of Deal whose
profession it is to work in the storm, and succour ships in distress,
and who have little to do but lounge on the beach and spin yarns when
the weather is fine. I also listened to the thrilling yarns of Jarman
until I felt a strong desire to go off with him to a wreck. This,
however, was not possible. No amateur is allowed to go off in the
Ramsgate boat on any pretext whatever, but the restriction is not so
absolute in regard to the steamer which attends on her. I obtained
leave to go out in this tug, which always lies with her fires banked up
ready to take the Lifeboat off to the sands, if her services should be
required. Jarman promised to rouse me if a summons should come. As in
cases of rescue from fire, speed is all-important. I slept for several
nights with my clothes on--boots and all--at the hotel nearest to the
harbour. But it was not to be. Night after night continued
exasperatingly calm.
No gale would arise or wreck occur. This was trying, as I lay there,
wakeful and hopeful, with plenty of time to study the perplexing
question whether it is legitimate, under any circumstance, to wish for a
wreck or a fire!
When patience was worn out I gave it up in despair.
At another time, however, I had an opportunity of seeing the Lifeboat in
action. It was when I was spending a couple of weeks on board of the
"Gull" Lightship, which lies between Ramsgate and the Goodwins.
A "dirty" day had culminated in a tempestuous night. The watch on deck,
clad in drenched oil-skins, was tramping overhead, rendering my repose
fitful. Suddenly he opened the skylight, and shouted that the Southsand
Head Lightship was firing, and sending up rockets. As this meant a
wreck on the sands we all rushed on deck, and saw the flare of a
tar-barrel in the far distance. Already our watch was loading, and
firing our signal-gun, and sending up rockets for the purpose of calling
off the Ramsgate Lifeboat. It chanced that the Broadstairs boat
observed the signals first, and, not long after, she flew past us under
sail, making for the wreck.
A little later we saw the signal-light of the Ramsgate tug, looming
through the mist like the great eye of the storm-fiend. She ranged
close up, in order to ask whereaway the wreck was. Being answered, she
sheared off, and as she did so, the Lifeboat, towing astern, came full
into view. It seemed as if she had no crew, save only one man--
doubtless my friend Jarman--holding the steering lines; but, on closer
inspection, we could see the men crouching down, like a mass of oilskin
coats and sou'westers. In a few minutes they were out of sight, and we
saw them no more, but afterwards heard that the wrecked crew had been
rescued and landed at Deal.
In this manner I obtained information sufficient to enable me to write
_The Lifeboat: a Tale of our Coast Heroes_, and _The Floating Light of
the Goodwin Sands_.
A curious coincidence occurred when I was engaged with the Lifeboat
story, which merits notice.
Being much impressed with the value of the Lifeboat service to the
nation, I took to lecturing as well as writing on this subject. One
night, while in Edinburgh in the spring of 1866, a deputation of working
men, some of whom had become deeply interested in Lifeboat work, asked
me to re-deliver my lecture. I willingly agreed to do so, and the
result was that the working men of Edinburgh resolved to raise 400
pounds among themselves, and present a boat to the Institution. They
set to work energetically; appointed a Committee, which met once a week;
divided the city into districts; canvassed all the principal trades and
workshops, and, before the year was out, had almost raised the necessary
funds.
In the end, the boat was ordered and paid for, and sent to Edinburgh to
be exhibited. It was drawn by six magnificent horses through the
principal streets of the city, with a real lifeboat crew on board, in
their sou'westers and cork life-belts. Then it was launched in Saint
Margaret's Loch, at the foot of Arthur's Seat, where it was upset--with
great difficulty, by means of a large erection with blocks and ropes--in
order to show its self-righting and self-emptying qualities to the
thousands of spectators who crowded the hill-sides.
At this time the good people of Glasgow had been smitten with a desire
to present a lifeboat to the Institution, and, in order to create an
interest in the movement, asked the loan of the Edinburgh boat for
exhibition. The boat was sent, and placed on view in a conspicuous part
of the city.
Among the thousands who paid it a visit was a lady who took her little
boy to see it, and who dropped a contribution into the box, which stood
invitingly alongside. That lady was the wife of a sea-captain, who lost
his ship on the coast of Wigton, where the Edinburgh boat was stationed,
and whose life was saved by that identical boat. And not only so, but
the rescue was accomplished on the anniversary of the very day on which
his wife had put her contribution into the collecting-box!
Sixteen lives were saved by it at that time, and, not long afterwards,
fourteen more people were rescued by it from the insatiable sea; so that
the working men of Edinburgh have reason to be thankful for the success
which has attended them in their effort to "rescue the perishing."
Moreover, some time afterwards, the ladies of Edinburgh--smitten with
zeal for the cause of suffering humanity, and for the honour of their
"own romantic town"--put their pretty, if not lusty, shoulders to the
wheel, raised a thousand pounds, and endowed the boat, so that, with
God's blessing, it will remain in all time coming on that exposed coast,
ready for action in the good cause.