Storm Warriors; or, Life-Boat Work on the Goodwin Sands

The emigrants describe their perils to the men on board the steamer, and mention that during the previous evening, while their ship was driving, and some time before she struck, they saw a large ship in great distress, and drifting fast in the direction of the Sands, but that as darkness set in, they lost sight of her.

The crew of the steamer keep a sharp look-out for this vessel, or for any signs of her. She is evidently the one of which they had already heard, and of which they had been in search before they discovered the Fusilier.

After some time they discover part of a mast and other wreckage entangled in the Sands, and can only conclude that the vessel has gone utterly to pieces, with the loss of all hands, during the night; they must speed on, and get the poor emigrants cared for on shore with all possible haste. But for the delay that had been occasioned, the steamer would have been far on its way to Ramsgate by this time, while it was yet too dark for them to see any distance; now in the grey light that increases rapidly they can search for any other signs of wreckage. As they proceed down the Prince's channel, and get near to the light-vessel, they see the small remnant of a wreck, which they think may be the bowsprit and jib-boom of a vessel dismasted and on her beam ends; they get nearer to her, and find that she is well over on the north-east side of the Girdler or Shingle Sands. Some of the crew wish to launch the steam tug's small life-boat, eighteen feet long, and make in through the surf to the wreck, to which they think they can see some of the crew clinging; but it is considered too great a risk to take so small a boat through such a broken sea, and it is agreed that they had better go back for the large life-boat.

They put back, and passing to leeward of the Fusilier, strike the flag half-mast high, as a sign that the boat is to join them. This she speedily does, and they together make for the newly-found wreck; as they approach her, they can see that she is a vessel on her beam ends, with only her foremast standing. The life-boat makes in for her; the men wonder greatly that the vessel has held together so long, for she is broken and torn almost to pieces; the copper is peeled off her bottom, the timbers are started, rent, and twisted; the planking is wrenched off, almost all the cargo is washed out of the shattered hull, and here, and there, the light is to be seen through her bottom; there remains now little more than the skeleton of the ship that a few hours before, taut and trim, had buoyantly bounded over the seas; and where was her gallant crew that had so bravely sailed her then? The foremast, feebly held in position by a remnant of the deck, lies stretched a few feet above the water. The crew and pilot have been lashed to it for many hours, and have, for that time, seemed to be trembling over a fearful and yawning grave; the heavy waves foam up and beat against the hull, and the doomed ship is, bit by bit, being torn further to pieces. The crew, as they cling on, hear the timbers creaking and snapping; the deck was blown up as the water covered it, by the force of the confined air, and its fragments have been swept away in the swift tide.

The heavy waves make a greater and greater breach over the ship; at times the ship lifts a little from the mere force of the blows given by the tremendous seas; at any moment the foremast may break off short, and the wreck be rolled right over. The mast quivers at every shake and heave of the wreck; the fierce tide rushes five feet beneath where the trembling sailors cling, over whom the waves are continually breaking. An hour passes, and the men are to their wonder still spared; another and another hour, but they have no means of giving any signals of distress, and there seems no room whatever for hope. How can there be? they ask each other. Suddenly they make out a steamer's lights in the distance, and watch them with a wistful curiosity; to their astonishment the steamer seems to make directly for them, and then to cruise backwards and forwards within a few hundred feet of them.

A few of the trembling sailors shout out once or twice, but the rest smile grimly at the idea of any voice being heard, even a few yards off, in the roar of such a gale.

They watch the steamer's lights in a very agony of suspense, but without any hope that they themselves can be discovered in the darkness.

They see a smaller light some distance astern of the steamer, and imagine it to be that of a life-boat. As they hopelessly watch the movement of the vessels, they hear the dull throb of heavy guns from the distant light-ships. They see the faint flashes of light from the rockets: they know that these signals are calling to the steamer and life-boat to speed on elsewhere, to the rescue of other drowning ones; yes, the steamer, in answer to these signals, is leaving them, and abandoning her vain search, and with a deepening despair they watch her lights grow fainter and fainter, and at last disappear in the distance. So they are left alone in their desolation, while the wild winds roar and the hungry waves rage around them.

The moon goes down, the darkness deepens, the gale rushes by more furiously than ever; then comes a slight lull, and a faint light streaks the horizon. They tighten their grasp upon the trembling mast and torn rigging, and speak a few words of hope.

They may yet witness another sun-rise; for in the dull grey light of the early dawn they can see faintly a steamer in the distance. She is approaching, but her course will hardly bring her near enough to discover them, lying as they are up on one torn mast only just out of the water. How intensely they watch her! and many an earnest beseeching prayer is uplifted, and from some hearts that were withal not much accustomed to prayer. Eagerly! eagerly! they watch her! How some feebly speak words of hope, while others will not be aroused out of their despair! Thank God! she changes her course, and makes in directly for the Sands, upon the edge of which their frail wreck rests. They may all begin to hope again, and joy comes in upon them like a flood. They shout aloud, and wave a rag of canvas, the only means of signalling that is left to them. The steamer sees them, she dips her flag as a signal that they are seen; and then, to the unspeakable horror of the poor men, slowly turns round, and steams away full speed in the direction from which she came. An agony of fear again comes over the poor fellows; they feel that they cannot be altogether deserted. Upon reflection, they see that no ordinary boat could live through the surf which separates them from the steamer; and the steamer would only have been herself wrecked if she had come any nearer the Sands. She must have gone for a life-boat. How long will she be away? They shudder as the creaking mast trembles beneath them; and look with heart dread at the yawning gulf of wild waters which gapes a few feet below; and they cannot but have a dismal fear that the steamer on her return with assistance, may find no vestige left either of them, or of the remnant of wreck to which they cling.

A short time, which however seems long indeed to them in their great suspense, and they again see the steamer, and soon they can make out, to their great joy, that she has the life-boat in tow. Still the flying surf beats upon them, and drives them, with its sheer weight, still closer to the mast; still the water rages around, while they cling with all desperate energy to the quivering shrouds; they are cold, and drenched, and exhausted, but they are full of hope; their hearts are lightened, their strength seems to return, the long hours during which they have seemed hopelessly face to face with death are passed, for the life-boat is near, and her gallant crew are speeding to their rescue.

The life-boat comes swiftly on, running before the still heavy gale; now rising like a cork to the mounting seas, or plunging boldly through the surf and broken water. Her men forget the long night-struggle of fatigue and danger through which they have passed; much noble, self-denying, and dangerous work have they done, but they have still noble work to do—more lives to save, by the help of God—and with cool determination they cheerfully proceed to their new labours.

They find the water more and more broken as they near the ship; the waves are flying high over the lost vessel; the ebb-tide is running strongly. From the breaking seas, and from the position of the wreck, now on her broadside with her keel to windward, they cannot anchor on the windward side and let the boat drop gradually in upon the wreck, their only chance is to run with the wind abeam right in upon the fore-rigging. It is true that there is considerable danger in this, but at such times the life-boat men cannot stop to calculate danger, and must be ready oftentimes to risk their own lives in their attempts to save the lives of others. They, therefore, charge in straight amid the floating wreckage, and the boat hits hard upon the iron windlass, which is still hanging to the deck of the vessel.

A rope is thrown round the fore-rigging, and the group of exhausted sailors shout with joy as they greet the glad friendly faces of the life-boat men coming in upon them out of the storm of desolation that rages around. The crew, sixteen in number, including the pilot and a boy of about eleven years of age, are to the last extent exhausted and feeble, and slowly drop one by one from the mast into the boat, and leave to its fate the last storm-torn fragment of the Demerara, which has been for so many hours their only hope.

"Oars out, and pull hard; let us get clear of all this wreckage before we have a hole knocked in the boat's bottom," and every boatman strains his hardest; soon they are clear; now a moment's delay ere they hoist the sail, and a great shaking of hands all round, and warm greetings, and heartfelt thanks from the saved ones, and the boat's sail is again hoisted, and away they make through the surf.

It is now nearly ten o'clock in the morning; they soon reach the steamer, which is waiting to leeward. The emigrants have been watching the movements of the boat with the keenest interest; their feelings of sympathy are moved to their very depths, by the fact of their having passed so lately through similar scenes of danger and rescue.

They crowd the deck, and shout after shout greets the boat; the women cheer at the top of their voices, and welcome, with outstretched arms, alike the rescued and the rescuers.

One warm-hearted Irishwoman seizes the coxswain's hands in both hers, and shakes them with might and main, sobbing out, as the tears roll down her cheeks, "I'll pray the Holy Father for you the longest day that I live."

The steamer is literally crowded with rescued people; the cabins are given up to the women and children, and the poor people half forget their present misery in great thankfulness for their safety; they are wet and cold, and trembling with excitement and with the effects of their long hours of fear and exposure; the cabin is small and crowded to the extreme; the steamer rolls and pitches tremendously, as she makes her way through the cross seas which still run high and broken, though the height of the tempest is past.

It is no unusual occurrence for a crowd of people to be grouped at the pier-head, watching with interest for the appearance of one of the many steamers which, with flags flying in token of goodly freight, and with gay appearance, as fitly betokens holiday time, makes swiftly for the harbour; but with a deeper interest than ever is excited by such holiday scenes is the steamer waited for now.

It is one of those bright, genial winter mornings of which Ramsgate has so goodly a share. Many persons have been attracted to the pier to take, on that pleasant promenade, a good instalment of the fresh breeze, and to watch the sea, bright with sunshine, and the waves glistening and flashing in their turmoil of unrest.

Intelligence spreads that the steamer and life-boat have been away all night, and are now every minute expected to round the Point and appear in sight.

Great is the feeling of gladness, and deep the satisfaction, as the gallant Aid appears with her flags flying, and flags flying too at the life-boat's mast-heads, telling the glad tale of successful effort. The crowd rejoices greatly in the good work done; and as the steamer comes nearer it is seen that never on a summer's day did steamer bear a fuller freight of holiday-seekers than does the Aid now bear of those who have been rescued from deadly peril.

From the pier the crowd look down upon the multitude on board, and feel that that throng of fellow-beings have been just snatched from death, and a thrill of wonder and gladness passes through the on-lookers, and combines with that half formed sense of fear, which a realization of danger recently escaped either by ourselves, or by others, always gives.

The crowd waves, and shouts, and hurrahs, and gives every sign of glad welcome and hearty congratulation, and as the steamer sweeps round the pier-head, the pale upturned faces of one hundred and twenty rescued men, women, and children, smile back a glad acknowledgment of the welcome so warmly given. It is a scene almost overpowering in the deep feeling that it produces. The emigrants land; they toil weakly up the steps to the pier, all bearing signs of the dangers and hardships through which they have passed.

Some are barely clothed, some have blankets wrapped round them, and all are weary and worn and faint with cold and wet and long suspense. There are aged women among the emigrants; some who had been unwilling to be left behind when those most dear to them were about to seek their fortunes abroad; others had been sent for by their friends, and to them the thoughts of the terrors and trials of a sea-voyage had been overcome by the longing to see, once again before they died, the faces so long loved and so much missed; to see perhaps the grand-children upon whom, although they had never looked, yet they had thought of until they had become almost part of their daily life. It is piteous to see these aged women totter from the steamer to the pier.

And young men and young women are of the number; they, crowded in the race at home, determined to seek in a wider field to make better way.

Here a poor stricken woman looks wistfully upon the white face and almost closed eyes of the baby in her husband's arms. This is the child that was so nearly lost overboard as it was thrown into the boat wrapped up in a blanket; the mother's fears were not realised—the baby speedily recovered.

It now becomes the glad office of the people of Ramsgate to bestir themselves on behalf of those suddenly thrown upon their charity.

The agent of the Shipwrecked Fishermen and Mariners' Society at once takes charge of the sailors. Accommodation is found for the emigrants in houses near the pier, and a plentiful meal at once supplied; many of the residents busy themselves most heartily; clothes, dresses, coats, boots, and all necessary garments are most liberally given; the people are ready to spoil themselves on behalf of the poor emigrants.

And thus warmed, fed, clothed and consoled by the heartfelt sympathy that is so evidently and practically manifested, the poor emigrants recover in a wonderfully short space of time from the state of physical and nervous exhaustion to which they had been reduced; but they are never likely to forget the terrors of the night, or the debt of gratitude they owe to the gallant Ramsgate life-boat men, who so nobly effected their rescue.

Subscriptions in the meantime have been raised in the town to pay all expenses, and to put into the hands of the poor emigrants some little ready money.

One of the shipping agents has telegraphed to the owners of the ship, and been empowered to provide the emigrants all needed board and lodging; he does so, and on the next morning forwards them to London. A crowd of Ramsgate people bid them good-bye at the station, and receive grateful acknowledgments of the kindness and sympathy that have been shown, and they from their hearts wish their poor friends God speed.

The emigrants were cared for in London by the owners of the Fusilier. The weather moderating the morning after the wreck, the emigrants' things were got out of the vessel and sent on to them; and the owners of the Fusilier soon obtained another ship, in which they forwarded their passengers, and they had a prosperous voyage to Melbourne.

The Fusilier was ultimately got off the Sands, but no vestige of the Demerara was ever again seen.

CHAPTER XIII. THE WRECK OF THE "MARY"—GALES ABROAD.

The year was fast dying out. Inland the wild winds did little to disturb the progress of Christmas preparations, or the happiness of Christmas gatherings. The blasts swept ragingly along, and the last of the dead leaves were torn from the withering branches. The stalwart trees battled sturdily in the woods; but many a stout veteran that had long laughed at storms, at last was bowed in the grasp of the gale, and fell prostrate, or, like a fainting giant, leant with arms all abroad against his fellow-strugglers in the strife.

In the towns there was much wondering gossip at the force of the wind, and here and there some trivial disasters to record; but for all its rage and bluster, the gale did not gather on shore many trophies of its strength, and swept moaningly out to sea, to find in the yielding waters a more ready ally, as it would visit with its wrath man and his works.

The brave ships that were caught by the gale were prepared to accept the accustomed challenge. It overtook the tall vessels, and then the swelling sails garnered the force of the wind and held it captive, and made it speed the swift ship along.

It fell with its full strength upon the stout ships riding at anchor, and moaned through the shaking rigging, and by the swaying masts and yards, while the groaning cables shuddered in every link, and the strong anchors grappled the ground with a tighter and tighter grasp, and held the good ships safe, in spite of the raging wind and rush of sea, safe from the greedy waiting sands, or cruel rocks.

Thus on the tempest-lashed ocean all was life, and energy, and conflict; and the dying year, as its closing hours sped away, had at sea the howling winds and seething waves to sing its dirge, and storm weary sailors, and storm-beaten ships to mark its close.

Ships from the Thames, from the east coasts of England and Scotland, from all northern Europe—ships sailing under every flag, and bound to all ports, gathered day by day in the Downs anchorage, where they waited for the strong south-westerly gales to give place to a more favourable slant of wind, that they might pursue their way down Channel; but still the strong adverse winds prevailed. But while the outward-bound ships were thus obliged to halt in their course, the homeward-bound ships came foamingly along, their masts bending like whips under the small spread of canvas they were alone able to carry. Like white-winged gulls they fled over the leaping seas, and threaded their way through the crowded anchorage of the Downs.

The careless sailors laughed at the heavy blasts of wind which in their force only hurried the good ship on, and thus gave the crews a better prospect of realising their hopes of being in Old England on the near Christmas tide, to spend it with their friends on shore, and share in, and by their presence greatly add to, all the pleasures of the season.

But the smaller vessels at anchor in the Downs began to ride uneasily, the force of the gale fell on them with unchecked fury, the swift tide pressed them sore, and raging seas broke over them again and again. Their anchors began to drag; the breakers on the Goodwin Sands leapt and foamed dangerously near to leeward; there was also danger of collision if their anchors continued to drag, the ships in the Downs being so crowded together. Yes, there must be a flight from the Downs on the part of many of the smaller craft. Some vessels make for Ramsgate harbour, not many, as the charges are now so high and restrictive as almost to make it cease from being a harbour of refuge. Other vessels make for an anchorage round the North Foreland; a dangerous experiment this, as it frequently happens that a sudden lull comes in the southerly gale, and in a short time the wind chops right round, and begins to blow from the northward harder than ever. It was so on the occasion of which we are writing. If a strong fort, under which a fleet was anchored for protection, suddenly fell into the hands of the enemy, a greater change would not be wrought in the position, as to the safety of the vessels, than is occasioned by this sudden shift of wind to the vessels in the Margate Roads. The high cliffs which have been their shield now become their deadly peril. It had been desirable to gain their shelter, it is now a necessity to escape from their neighbourhood as soon as possible. And so, on this occasion, as the wind chopped round all was at once astir; some ships succeeded in regaining their anchors, others had no time or power to do so; some were driven ashore; twenty or thirty vessels had to slip their cables, and as, with no anchors on board, the captains did not dare to remain in the neighbourhood of the Sands or land, these vessels were hauled on a wind, and like a flock of weary frightened birds went staggering out into the North Sea.[1] The hovelling-luggers from Ramsgate, Margate, Deal, and Broadstairs are out during the gale; they go in chase of the ships that have fled from their anchorage; they place men on board such vessels as need them, either to act as pilots, or to assist the weary crews. Some of the luggers receive orders to fetch anchors and cables for such vessels as have lost theirs, and away they go plunging and speeding through the seas, making for the nearest port where they can find agents to supply them; and then out again with all speed, heavily laden, with anchors and chains, in search of the vessels which have employed them, and which have, likely enough, been driven by the force of the gale, far from the position in which the luggers left them.

At midnight the gale gathers increased force; the dark heavy clouds seem to settle lower and lower, and as the snow-squalls sweep by, the air and sea seem one confused mass of flying foam and snow.

The storm rages at Ramsgate Pier with all its fury; the pier stands an advanced fortress unmoved by the fierce attack of the waves, and it is well manned by brave boatmen, the reserved guard of the storm—Storm Warriors ready to sally forth to rescue life at the first signal of danger. One or two waggons, heavily laden with chains, and trucks with anchors, are being drawn down the pier by the struggling horses, the spray in heavy volumes washing over all.

Luggers in the harbour, and alongside the pier, are rolling and pitching in the rough tumble of the miniature sea that the gale arouses even there.

An anchor is hanging from the crane, a lugger beneath it is tossing up and down; the men are doing their utmost to guide the anchor in its descent into the boat as she plunges about; it is perilous work for all hands; it seems a marvel that it can be done without staving in the boat, or crushing the men.

A group of boatmen are crouching under shelter of the wall of the pier, near the life-boat; the night wears away—it is three o'clock in the morning.

A boatman makes his way to the pier-head; he finds the coxswain of the life-boat on the look-out.

"Well, Jarman, a heavy gale this."

"A heavy gale indeed, Gorham; it is blowing great guns and no mistake—a terrific sea, too; just the night for our work, and I shall not be surprised if some is cut out for us, and pretty stiff too, before the morning."

"Likely enough, it is a sort of touch-and-go night for the Goodwin. I noticed before dark several vessels riding in the Gulls; now the wind has cast in so heavily from the north, it will go hard with some of them, I fear.

"Yes, I noticed them; they must have a bad time of it now; it is to be hoped that the anchors will hold; it will be almost sudden death for any poor fellows whose ships touch the Goodwin to-night; why, with the sea that must be now raging there, it would take in a ship almost at a mouthful."

"True enough, coxswain; I have been very anxious about them all night—cannot help thinking about them." And it is supposed that the boatman's fears were very terribly justified. One vessel was wrecked in the way we are about to tell; and very grave fears were felt as to the fate of several others; when the morning came, not one of the vessels that had been noticed the evening before as being anchored in such a dangerous position was to be seen, and yet it was almost certain that not any of them could have got away in safety.

Fishing-smacks that had been lying-to not far from the North Foreland saw the fleet of vessels driven from the Margate Roads, and afterwards saw several of them flying signals of distress, and apparently in a sinking condition; but from the extraordinary force of the gale, the fishermen could render no assistance, and the weather was too dark and thick for the signals for help to be seen from the light-vessels, or from the shore; moreover, a good deal of wreckage was seen floating about in the morning, and the mast-head of one vessel was discovered standing out of the water upon the Goodwin, the last seen relic of some unknown ship and crew.

Among the vessels observed during the afternoon to be at anchor in a very perilous position in the Gull Stream, and making very bad weather of it, was the Mary, a schooner of about 170 tons; she had been a Dutch galliott, had a cargo of coals on board, and was bound from Shields to Dieppe.

There was one fine young man on board, David Fullarton. Life seemed more especially dear to him, as he was engaged to be married; the arrangements for the wedding had been made; he had been busy in preparing a home; and a short voyage from Shields to Dieppe and back, would do something towards the expenses, and he would not be long away; and so there were bright memories to look back upon, bright hopes before him; but this terrible storm seems to cover all with its shadow. As soon as darkness sets in, and the gale shows signs of increasing in force, Fullarton becomes very anxious, and keenly alive to the danger the schooner is in; time after time he entreats the captain to have the masts cut away, that the vessel may ride more easily, and be less exposed to the fury of the wind. "Do! captain, pray do! for the sake of our lives let it be done! we are dragging our anchors—we are fast driving on the Sands;" and again he begs the captain to signal for assistance. "Why not! why not? you will do it too late, captain, too late!" the poor fellow cries in his restlessness and distress.

The night grows on, and its terrors multiply; the intense darkness, the wild sea, the howling winds moaning and wailing through the rigging, the hoarse roar and thunder of the breakers raging on the near Goodwin Sands.

At last, the captain feels that the schooner is in great danger, and orders the crew to set a tar-barrel on fire; they hasten to do so—Fullarton working with eager haste; but the wash of the sea over it and the heavy wind will not let it burn; they fill the barrel with tow and tar, and grease, and at last get it to flare up with a fierce flame that resists the storm; the watch on board the Gull light-ship had noticed before dark the danger of the vessel, and had been keenly on the look-out in her direction for signals of distress; on Ramsgate Pier, also, an anxious look-out had been kept for some hours, the boatmen expecting disasters in that quarter.

It is a little before four in the morning; the men on board the light-vessel see the signal of distress, and fire a gun and send up a rocket to convey to the shore the tidings that help is wanted.

The boatmen at once commence preparations with all energy, they arouse the men asleep in the watch-house on the pier, a man hurries to give the harbour-master notice, the crew of the steamer Aid get ready for sea, the harbour-master hurries down the pier and gives the men orders to start on their merciful and perilous errand.

Away they go in the teeth of the hurricane, clearing their way through the leaping foaming waves and the clouds of heavy spray.

The town and harbour lights gleam out in the darkness, but there is no looking back for them on the part of the men, and there may be none; until by God's mercy, their work is successfully finished, and then doubly will the lights shine out a glad welcome on their triumphant return home.

The lights they now look for are the beacon fires of warfare; calls to conflict and peril; guides into the thickest of the dread battle-field. As the life-boat lifts on the curl of a wave, the crew see the flickering flame of the signal-fire that is burning so fiercely in the tar-barrel on the wreck; they make in for the signal at once, pass through the Cud channel; snow-squalls come sweeping by, adding to the cold and darkness, and shutting out from their view all lights on the Sands; the men are eager and excited in their quick sympathy for the shipwrecked crew—eager to brave all the dangers of the lashing seas which they know must be leaping and tearing about the wreck. And they well realize the deadly peril the poor shipwrecked seamen must be in, and think little in their struggle onward of all the hardships they themselves are enduring.

For about forty minutes they battle their way, and then find themselves near the wreck; the signal flame from the burning tar-barrel leaps, and flickers, and burns low, and is almost extinguished by the spray; the life-boatmen watch it anxiously, for they know that if the crew of the vessel cannot succeed in keeping it alight, it will be almost impossible for them to find the vessel in the darkness of the night; the crew of the schooner also feel this to be the case, and bring clothes and bedding, and all the tar and oil they can get at, and by great exertions manage to keep the fire burning.

CHAPTER XIV. THE WRECK OF THE "MARY"—A STRUGGLE FOR DEAR LIFE.

"Now, my men, make ready!" the coxswain cries; "we've got our work before us."

The night is wild, and dark, and bitter, blinding snow, and sleet, and storm-wrack rush along on the wings of the gale.

The Sands are alive with the rolling breakers, the fierce dash and seethe of the waves upon them add to the roar of the tempest; never was a battle-field more full of raging foes than is that into the midst of which our Storm Warriors are about to rush; never was band of men more beset by foes, more helplessly, hopelessly beset, than are the crew of the Mary; how shall they be plucked from the midst of ten thousand raging waves? any one of which would swamp an ordinary boat; it can only by any possibility be done by such a boat as the life-boat, and only by such men as the life-boatmen.

And now the men settle to their work.

The mainsail and mizen are already close reefed, they are got ready for instant hoisting. The steamer lashes through the seas towing the boat farther to windward, the hawser is let go, the men hoist the sails as fast as they can in the leaping rolling boat; she feels the force of the blast, lays over on her side, down with the helm, she rights, her head comes round, and in through the boiling seas she makes for the wreck.

Each boatman has his life-belt on, and as the seas break more fiercely over the boat, the men twist the life-lines round their arms, so that if some huge wave, rushing over the boat, should wrench them from their hold, and wash them out of the boat, or that the boat should upset in the curl of a breaker, that they may have the better chance of getting back to her.

Each time that the boat lifts on the top of a wave they can make out the signal-fire on board the wreck, as the boat falls in the trough of a sea they speed swirling along, through a very gauntlet of hungry waves which leap upon her, as wolves would leap upon a strong horse; but she throws them off, as the horse might the wolves in the impetus of his speed and power.

"Ready in the bow?"

"Ay! Ay!"

"Ready all?"

"All ready."

"We are nearing the wreck," a plunge forward on a big wave, and the dismasted vessel is seen only a few fathoms off.

"Over with the anchor, down with the mainsail; keep up the mizen, to let the boat sheer, and now for the wreck."

The life-boatmen are near enough to her to see by the fitful blaze of the tar-barrel that she is a small schooner, with a high stern, and that she is totally dismasted, and they recognise the Dutch-looking craft that they had watched during the afternoon; they catch the gleam of the pale faces of the crew, who are clinging to the gunwale.

Poor fellows! how they gaze out in the darkness; death, death, so near from the raging storm, from their sinking ship, from the terrible Sands on which the wreck of their vessel will be torn piecemeal by the strong fierce waves in so short a time.

How they cry out with hope, as they first catch sight of the lights that are shining out in the gloom, and drawing nearer and nearer! it may be only the lights of some vessel as badly off as they are: they will not think so; they are on the Goodwin, the signals have been made, and answered from Ramsgate; if the life-boat can save them, they will be saved, and this small light dancing so wildly in the storm, and drawing nearer out of the dread darkness of the wild night, may be the light of the life-boat, and they will not despair.

It must be the life-boat! no other boat could come in through the seas as that boat has done; and now as she nears, the light is reflected on her blue-and-white sides, and they hear the men shout, and the poor fellows pass from despair to hope, and cling harder than ever to the gunwale of the wreck, as the seas wash over them.

On board the life-boat they veer out the cable rapidly; many fathoms run out, but still they seem to get no nearer the wreck, on the contrary, the wreck is getting farther and farther from them.

As the life-boatmen made the vessel out in the darkness, they supposed her to be hard and fast on the Sands, and as they neared, and could see how the waves were beating over her, this appeared still more to be the case, but it proves not to be so; the tide is much higher than usual, and the wreck, with two long lengths of chain-cable dragging over her bows, is drifting over the top of the Sands, and with the force of the gale, and in the strength of the tide, drifts faster than the men on board the boat are able to veer out the cable.

"Hold on the cable, the wreck is drifting, we must up anchor; to it, my men, hard and fast as you can."

This getting in the life-boat cable and anchor is terrible work; the wild seas are literally raging over the boat; it was bad enough when the boat was under weigh, running before the wind, bounding along with the waves in their flight, and thus escaping much of their fury.

But now the boat is head to the seas, she meets them as they rush on with all their force, and she wrenches and jerks at the cable with a power that threatens to tear her to pieces.

As many men as can lay hold of the cable do so; they cling on to the boat with their legs round the thwarts; they give the hawser a couple of turns round the bollard—a timber head in the fore part of the boat used for towing purposes; a huge wave passes; the boat falls in the trough of the sea; as she falls the strain of the cable lessens; "Haul, and with a will, my men, haul!" they get a fathom or two of cable in; the curling crest of a broken wave falls on board, almost smothering the men, and filling the boat; she droops and staggers under the weight of water; the men in her as they cling to the thwarts are up to their necks, the air-tight compartments in the boat lift her, the valves in the floor open, she empties herself in a few seconds; a huge short wave curls on, she rises to it, buoyant as ever; it catches her under the bows, throws her high in the air, as if it would turn her end-over-end; the men cling to the hawser for a breathless moment; it checks the boat, the wave breaks over the boat in a cloud of spray and foam; the boat drops; the men shake their heads free of the water; again a loud shout from the coxswain; "Haul, haul, your hardest, my men, hand over hand!" they get in a few more feet of the strong rope, and so much nearer to their anchor; and then hold on with straining muscles for another dread struggle with the next huge sea; hardly time for a few quick breaths, and here the sea comes, like a terrible monster, with shaking mane and gnashing teeth; it foams along, gleaming out of the darkness and straightly leaps upon them; and thus amid all the wild turmoil of the raging breakers, with the boat thrown violently here and there in the might of the seas, with the waves breaking over her in such quick succession that the men can scarcely find time to breathe, does the fight go on in order to recover the anchor and cable; the men had no thought of themselves; they had but to cut the cable and run before the gale, and the fierce strife would be over; no! they must, at all costs, recover the anchor and cable, or they will not be able to save the crew, and they will fight and wrestle for it to the end. At last the cable shortens, another pull and the boat is right over the anchor, she lifts on a sea, the anchor is torn from its hold, and lifts with her: in with it, make it fast, hoist the sails, the boat's head pays round, and she is again steered for the wreck. As the boat runs before the wind and seas, the men, who are thoroughly exhausted, have a few minutes of comparative rest.

The time occupied by the life-boat men in recovering their anchor has been a dread time indeed, for the poor shipwrecked crew.

With their shattered and slowly-sinking vessel staggering and shuddering beneath their feet, the heavy seas thundering against her and breaking over her, each one threatening to be the final one which shall sweep them all to destruction; the men seemed to be each moment on the verge of death.

The storm howls around them, their only ray of hope proceeds from the life-boat light, which shines feebly through the mist, and suddenly the boat has halted short in her course towards them; why, they can scarcely understand; but one thing they are sure of, that it is no failing courage on the part of the men; it is impossible that they should be left to perish in their distress.

Their one effort now is to keep the tar-barrel in full blaze, and cruelly the wind and seas seem to do their utmost to destroy this their last hope, and leave them without the signal which alone can guide the life-boat to their rescue.

Fullarton, poor fellow, is working with an excited energy, burning in the barrel everything that he can lay hands on, that is at all likely to feed the flame.

He had left home a few days before, so full of hope and joy, and glad anticipation; they had had bad weather, and anxious watches, and sleepless nights since they sailed, and now the poor fellow is almost overwrought by work and watching, and broken down with dread anxiety. "It is not for myself so much, not for myself, as for my poor girl," he says to his mates; they, kind fellows, amid their own cares and anxieties, and memories, and fears, do what they can to cheer him up.

Now as the life-boat comes rushing in through the seething seas, and breaks out from the darkness into the light of the fire which they succeed in keeping burning on the deck of the schooner, it is Fullarton's voice that is heard in piercing tones above the roar of the gale. "Be as quick as you can! be as quick as you can! we are sinking fast."

Yes! it is very evident that the vessel must soon founder; the wild seas are rushing over her; her deck is almost level with the surface of the water; at any moment she may refuse to lift to the rise of the sea, and with one plunge sink bodily down.

The coxswain of the life-boat sees that the schooner is still drifting, and decides upon not anchoring the boat, but tries to run alongside the wreck, which is being kept head to the seas and wind by the drag of her chains. The boat runs alongside within a few feet; the grappling-irons are thrown on board, they catch in the gunwale of the wreck, the boatmen take turns with the lines round the thwarts, and begin to haul the boat slowly up to the wreck; it is hazardous work, for she is deeply laden with coals, and is half full of water; she is buried in the seas, and labouring very heavily; the men are afraid that in the rush of some cross sea the boat will be tossed bodily on to the wreck.

The boat lifts up on the crest of a towering wave; there is a tremendous strain upon the stout grappling-lines, a moment's lull in the rush of the broken water. "Haul in hard upon the lines, get her alongside, now, my men; sharp, my men!" the coxswain shouts; and then to the vessel's crew: "Be ready to jump directly we are near enough!" "Aye! Aye! all right, all right!" the crew cry, excitedly, and crouch ready to spring upon the gunwale, and over into the boat. "Be ready all! be ready all!" the coxswain again cries, as he tries to sheer the boat near enough for the men to jump on board. "Now! now! Stop! hold on, hold on all for your lives!" A tremendous breaker comes gliding on like a dark snow-crowned wall, deluges the men with the foam and spray that flies from its crest, lifts the boat in its strong grasp, the grappling-lines snap like threads, and the boat is swept on in the rush of the wave far away from the wreck; the boatmen look back, and in the glare of the signal-fire they can see the pale white faces of the despairing and terrified sailors, and as the boat is driven on through the dark wild seas, the cries of the poor fellows can be for some time heard penetrating the tumult of the storm.

Before the boat was driven away from the vessel, at the moment of the ropes parting, the coxswain, seeing that the boat would be carried away, shouted at the pitch of his voice, "Have ropes ready!" the crew heard the words; and are consoled in the depth of their disappointment; they know that they are not to be deserted, that while ship and life-boat both last, attempt after attempt will be made for their rescue. But how long will the wreck float under them? this is the terrible question, and they call out, and this is the cry that the boatmen hear indistinctly: "We are sinking fast! We are sinking fast!"

The swirl of the sea and the tide, and the force of the gale, drive the boat far away to leeward; the men hoist her sails again, heave her to, and then try to stay her, and make in again directly for the wreck; but she misses stays, as the seas come rushing over her, and they have to wear her round. They battle on, and are speedily ready for their third attempt, thankful to find that the poor labouring wreck is still afloat.

They run the boat close under the schooner's port-quarter; the sailors are all ready with the required ropes; they throw one on board the boat, and the men in the boat succeed in throwing two strong lines on board the wreck; once more the order is to haul in close alongside.

And again the boatmen see the white faces of the almost drowned and exhausted men light up with hope. Fullarton especially is full of joy in the reaction of his feelings; he almost feels saved, and is very excited. Cautiously the boatmen work, doing their utmost to prevent the boat being dashed against the wreck; now they are just alongside; two minutes more, and all are saved; no, a heavy sea comes foaming along, and as it breaks fills the boat and rushes over the ship, which staggers under its weight; the ropes which fasten the boat to the ship, jerk and wrench, but still hold; the boat lifts, clears herself of water, the men breathe again. Another tremendous wave comes rushing along, another, and then several in quick succession; the men cling with all their force to the thwarts; heavy volumes of water beat down upon their backs; the boat plunges, and is wrestled here and there in the strong tumult of the waves; the ropes seem ready to tear the masts and thwarts to which they are fastened out of the boat; at last one rope parts; another gives the moment after; the boat rises on the crest of a wave, she heels over, the third rope breaks under the tremendous strain, the boat springs forward and is torn away from the vessel, and is rapidly swept away under her stern; a loud shriek is heard, it is from poor Fullarton; the boatmen see him as he stands between them and the glare of the flame; he throws up his clasped hands in despair; the next moment he wildly rushes along the deck, for a second balances himself on the gunwale, crouches and springs with all his force towards the boat—a heavy thud; he hits the bow of the boat as she is driving away stern first; a cry from the boatmen, "Man overboard!" as he sinks a huge wave rolls over him, and bears the boat farther away; Jarman, the coxswain, seizes a life-buoy and jumps upon a thwart ready to throw it to the man when he rises; a blast of wind catches Jarman, nearly tumbles him overboard, and throws him down into the bottom of the boat, wrenching the life-buoy from his hand; the drowning sailor is again lost to sight in the trough of the sea; he is swimming and struggling hard, but the boat, although without sails, is being driven faster than he can swim; the men see his wild desperate efforts, as he plunges and springs forward with outspread arms as if to grasp at the boat; he is lifted high on the crest of a wave; it curls him over, and with a cry he falls head first, and is buried in the trough of the sea; once more they make out his figure as he springs up on the top of a wave between them and the signal-fire; once again they hear his cry of despair, and he is lost to them, and to all dear to him on earth for ever.

It is all over in a few seconds; the hardy boatmen shudder and feel sick at heart: so suddenly, so terribly, so swiftly has the strong man died; and to see their brother sailor thus perish within a few yards of them, beaten under by the boiling waves so quickly that they were utterly powerless to aid, is indeed, terrible to all. But not a moment is to be lost, any one of the mad seas which rush so continually over the wreck may founder her with its weight, or sweep the exhausted men out of her. The wreck cannot by any possibility float much longer; how can the men be saved? The life-boat is now right astern of the vessel, which is drifting slowly towards them; the seas run with such violence, swaying the wreck in one direction and the boat in another, that it is evidently useless to attempt to fasten the boat alongside the wreck, and the coxswain determines to adopt a new plan. The boat is right astern of the wreck, which is slowly drifting towards them; the coxswain of the boat will anchor the boat right in her path, and try to sheer alongside as she drifts past, and thus get the crew out of her. "Over with the anchor; veer out as little cable as she will ride to; hold on, stand ready all!"—and they anxiously watch the approach of the wreck.

On the wreck comes straight for them; the boats mizen sail is hauled flat to help the boat sheer out of the ship's way; they must manage skilfully or she will drive right over the life-boat; the helm is put hard up; the mizen catches the wind; the boat sheers, the wreck just misses her; the boat is close to her starboard quarter. Down helm, and the boat sheers in close alongside, the men in the bow pay out the cable quickly to let the boat float alongside the ship, "Jump when we near!" they cry to the crew; "jump for it! be steady, but do not lose a chance!" a sea throws the boat within a yard of the wreck, three men spring on board; a moment, and the next rush of sea sweeps the boat away and buries them all in foam. As the sea overruns the boat, the boatmen cling to the sailors who have sprung on board, to prevent their being washed out of her. "Have we got all?" "No, only three, one is left!" "Look out, then, my men; in we go again! the lee-tide is running very strongly—the cable is paying out fast."—"There is only about ten fathom of cable left," the men in the bow shout to the coxswain; he sheers the boat in, they can just make out the figure of a man at the stern of the vessel; they cry out to him: "Be ready; 'tis your last chance; you must jump for your life; we shall hardly have time to come in again;" they close in alongside; a heavy sea knocks down the men in the bow who are paying out the rope; at that moment the man on the wreck makes a desperate leap for the boat, he falls among the men; the end of the cable runs out into the sea. "Rope gone!" is the cry, but the man is saved; the ship is on the point of sinking, and they at once lose sight of her in the dark night. It is the captain who is last on board the boat; he looks round with thankfulness upon the life-boatmen and upon his saved crew: "But where is Fullarton?" he asks. "The man who jumped for the boat when the ropes parted."

"He fell short of the boat, and we could not save him," is the sad answer.

"Poor fellow, poor fellow! he was so terribly anxious, he could not wait. Oh! that he had only waited with us! but he was almost in despair before the boat came, and seeing you break away the second time was too much for him." And afterwards he told them the drowned sailors piteous story—what a good fellow he was, and that it was because he was to be married upon his return home that he was so anxious, and felt life to be doubly dear to him.

It is about seven o'clock in the morning; the day breaks wild and cold, and dismal as weather can well be. The faint light of the dawn scarcely makes its way through the thick clouds of flying spray and foam and half-frozen snow that drive fiercely along.

A dread suggestive picture as witnessed from the cliffs on shore is that of the Goodwin Sands in a storm—the raging mountains of white surf springing high in the air, and breaking into clouds of spray, and the waves racing along the Sands in foaming rollers, strong to sweep anything before them: to watch this from the shore at a distance of six miles is enough to make one shudder, so terrible a picture does it give of wild, hungry, irresistible power and rage, but what must it be for those who have to encounter this turbulent sea in the very thick of its strife; in a boat almost buried by the waves, clinging to the thwarts, the life half beaten out of them; and yet, hour after hour enduring all hardship, and sternly battling with all resistance—and all this the men in the life-boat have yet to endure.

The boat is on the top of the south end of the Sand, and in the fiercest strife of the wild sea, a foaming wilderness of water all around them; the waves seem mad in the very fury of their contest; they rear up and clash together with a roar and hiss; rush swiftly on; recoil as swiftly back; now meet others in their full onward swoop and contend for mastery; leap high in angry curling crests, then fall with thunder tones, but only to form in serried ranks, and rush swiftly again into the wild race and conflict.

No ordinary boat could endure this for a minute, the first of these mad curling waves would engulf her at once; the life-boat alone can contend with such broken battling seas, and come out a victor from the strife.

The men crowd aft that the boat may run better before the gale; they put oars out on each quarter to help the boat steer, and to prevent her broaching to, for if she does, the curl of the wave is so strong that she will be rolled over, and probably many of her crew and passengers lost, for although she would right again directly, all could not expect to get back to her in such a sea; she is full of water; the seas break over her in such quick succession, that she has no time to free herself, but she bounds on, and on, and soon, but not without much danger, the men escape from the broken water and reach the outer part of the Sand.

The boat is now put under fore-sail and mizen, both close reefed, hauled to the wind and pressed through the seas, to be certain of making the land, from which the gale is blowing so strongly.

The boat heels over under the pressure of her canvas, one gunwale is buried in the seas; the rescued men have never been in a life-boat before, and feel much alarmed.

"Ah! Geordie, man," says the captain to the mate, "this is queer sort of sailing; it's sailing under water altogether;" and the men afterwards confessed, that not knowing what a life-boat could do, they expected every moment that she would capsize, and felt themselves in almost as much danger in the boat as they had been on board the wreck. It takes the boat about an hour and a half of this hard driving through the seas to beat up against the gale and get near to the land; the men then find themselves not far from the South Foreland light, between Deal and Dover. The ships in the Downs are many of them in great danger, driving from their anchorage, and some with signals of distress flying.

An English man-of-war is at anchor there; as the life-boat flies under her stern, the men on deck give a hearty cheer in honour of the Warriors of the Goodwin Sands. A large Dutch ship is next passed, all her crew crowd aft, and with much energy they also cheer the brave boatmen.

Some large Deal luggers are cruising about; the men on board see with much surprise the flag flying at the life-boat mast-head, telling the tale of triumph, that a crew had been rescued; for they declared in speaking about it afterwards, that they thought it a mere impossibility to get a crew off the Goodwin in such a night, and through such a terrific sea.

The life-boatmen begin to be uneasy about the steamer; they saw her last about five in the morning, with the Goodwin Sands close under her lee, and facing the full force of the gale.

They think that she will have run down the Sands and be waiting for them; they put the boat about, and run out a little, hoping to meet her; after they have laid-to for about half an hour, waiting for the steamer, a heavy squall strikes the boat, and carries away her mizen-mast; they at once wear her head round to the land, and run into St. Margaret's Bay. The men fear that if they leave the protection of the high cliffs, the boat, as she is now partially disabled, may be blown over on the French coast by the force of the gale, and they therefore run down under the cliffs to Dover. Here they find further evidence of the terrible nature of the gale; ships are being towed into the harbour disabled; the sea is making a clean breach over the cross wall; part of the esplanade has been washed away, and the mail packets have been driven back in distress; hundreds of people, hiding in sheltered places, are watching the fury of the sea; they have for some time seen, with much interest, the gallant life-boat, with her flag flying, making for the harbour, and many come down the pier to welcome her. The life-boat, as she shoots round the head of the pier, meets the strong wind in all its force; she has lost her mizen-mast, anchor, cables, and has scarcely a spare fathom of rope left; she is fast being driven out again to sea, when they manage to get a rope to her from the pier, and many willing hands clap on, and tow her slowly along; in the meantime the harbour-master sends the steam-tug to her help, and the boat is soon safely moored in the inner harbour, and the men who have for so many hours encountered such great hardship and peril are once more upon dry land.

The shipwrecked crew are well cared for by the agent of the Shipwrecked Mariners' Society; the life-boatmen go to the Sailors' Home, and under the influence of a hearty welcome and substantial cheer, speedily recover from the effects of their long exposure and fatigue.

The coxswain hastens to telegraph to the authorities at Ramsgate the safe arrival of the life-boat at Dover, and there is great satisfaction felt there at the assurance of the boat's safety.

While the life-boat was in among the breakers, battling with the seas, and disentombing, we may almost say, the terrified sailors from the hungry grave which yawned around them, the steamer kept her ground, as near as possible to where the captain thought the life-boat was at work, and just clear of the surf.

They waited hour after hour, but no signal came from that fierce battle-field; the hoarse blast of the storm, the many-voiced roar of waters, overwhelmed all other sound; the darkness of the night, the clouds of sleet and foam engulfed all in gloom. The crew of the steamer waited on in much anxiety, and not free from great peril.

The daylight broke, a grey flood of misty light rolled back the greater darkness, but they could see no signs of the life-boat; they could make out by-and-by a few spars tossing wildly among the leaping seas and a tangled portion of wreck; they steam in as near to it as they dare, and with their glasses watch closely every shadow, or spar, or mass of wreckage, but see no signs of life; the sea is silent as to the fate of the crew, and after a careful and vain search, the captain of the steamer, feeling sure that if the life-boat has succeeded in getting clear of the Sands, she must have been forced by the gale to run to Dover for shelter, he determines to make the best of his way there. Jarman, the life-boat coxswain, sees the steamer making for the harbour, and hastens to the pierhead; one wave of his arm tells the whole story of success and safety.

The crew of the life-boat and of the steamer alike realize the responsibility of their work, that it is indeed one of life and death—that they must not be out of the way when wanted if they can help it; for that any delay may be fatal to some dying crew, who are perhaps straining their eyes in vain searchings for their one earthly hope, the life-boat.

All hands at once prepare for their return to Ramsgate; back round the stormy South Foreland again; and home to be greeted, as such conquering heroes should be greeted, with smiles of welcome from hundreds of faces brightening up with hearty sympathy, and with ringing cheers that tell alike of admiration for courage, and of gladness for their return; cheers that know no reserve, as they welcome those who come triumphant from the battle-field—cheers for those who come not from death-dealing, in however good a cause, but from life-saving—leaving none to echo their shouts of victory with the wailings of defeat.

The following letter will prove an apt and not uninteresting conclusion to the story, as it expresses the deep gratitude of the men who were saved, and gives in simple heartfelt language their tribute of thanks, and their declaration of admiration for the gallant and self-denying efforts by which their rescue from otherwise certain death had been so nobly effected.

"119 Church St., North Shields. 
Capt. Shaw, Harbour-master, Ramsgate.

"Dear Sir,

"I, the undersigned master, and likewise the crew of the Mary, which were saved by the gallant coxswain, Mr. Jarman, and his crew on the morning of the 21st inst., which I do believe to be unrivalled, for my idea is they used every effort to save the young man which was drowned, but it was in vain; we all beg to return a vote of thanks to Mr. Jarman and his crew; likewise to you, dear sir, which has everything in such order and discipline for the rescue of life; and may the Lord bless them all, and look over them, when trying their uttermost efforts to rescue their fellow-men from a watery grave!

I cannot express my feelings good enough to reward the brave fellows' attendance. My love to them all, and I will make a letter appear in the public press after I get myself settled, therefore I beg to conclude."

"From your grateful Friend, 
"William Foreman, Master.
"C. H. Moore, Mate.
"Joseph Collins, Carpenter.
"Thomas Atchinson, A. B."

To which letter the harbour-master returned answer, stating how gratifying it was to all connected with the life-boat and steam-tug that such gallant and skilful exertions should have reaped such success; the sympathy and great regret that was felt for the loss of their young shipmate; and that there were at Ramsgate, at all times both by day and night, gallant boatmen ready and willing to risk their lives when called upon to perform such perilous undertakings.

And, readers, can we do better than often, and especially when gales are abroad, echo the prayer offered for the life-boatmen by the rescued master of the Mary.—"The Lord bless them all, and look over them when trying to rescue their fellow-men from a watery grave!"