Harder still the gale, and the rush of the sea and the blinding snow. The storm was at its height. As the life-boat headed for the Sands, a darkness, as of night, seemed to settle down upon the men; they could scarcely see each other; but on through the raging sea and blinding storm they drove the gallant boat. As they approached the shallow water, the high part of the Sand, where the heaviest waves were breaking, they could see spreading itself before them, standing out in the gloom, a white, gleaming, barrier wall of foam; for there as the rushing waves broke, they clashed together in their recoil, and mounted up in columns of foam, their heavier volume falling, and their crests caught by the wind and carried away in white streaming clouds of spray, while the fearful roar of the beat of the waves could be heard above the gale.
But still straight for the breakers the men made. No faltering, no hesitation, brows knit, teeth clenched, hands ready, and hearts firm, and into it with a cheer.
The boat, although under the smallest sail she could carry—a double reefed fore-sail and mizen—was driven on by the hurricane force of the wind, on through the outer range of breakers she plunged, and then came indeed a struggle for life.
The waves no longer rolled on in foaming ranks, but leapt, and clashed, and battled together in a raging boil of sea. They broke over the boat, the surf poured in first on one side of the boat, and then on the other, as she rolled to starboard and port, wildly tossed from side to side. Some waves rushed bodily over the boat, threatening to sweep every man out of her. Look out, my men! hold on! hold on! was the cry. When they saw some huge breaker heading towards them like an advancing wall, then the men threw themselves breast down on the thwart, curled their legs under it, clasped it with all their force with both arms, held their breath hard, and clung on for very life against the tear and wrestle of the wave, while the rush of water poured over their backs and heads, and buried them in its flood. Down, down, beneath the weight of the water, the men and boat sank; but only for a moment; the splendid boat rose in her buoyancy, and freed herself of the seas, which for a moment had overcome her and buried her, and her crew breathed again; and a struggling cry of triumph rises from them. Well done, old boat! well done! all right! all right! Yes, all hands here, no one washed out of her; and with a quick glance of mutual congratulation they look at each other, and rejoice that all are safe, scarce time for a word. "Now she goes through it, now she's forging ahead! keep a tight hold, my boys!" A moment's lull, as she glided on the crest of some huge wave, or only smaller ones tried their strength against her; then again the monster fellows came heading on, again the warning cry was given; look out! hold on! hold on! and the men crouched, and clung, and struggled for their lives, while the wild waves rushed over the boat.
Thus until they got clear of the Sands the fearful struggle was again and again repeated; but at last it was for a time over, they had burst through the belt of raging surf and got again into deep water. They had then only the huge rolling waves and less broken tumble of sea to contend with; this, in such a furious gale of wind, was bad enough, and almost more than any other kind of boat could have endured, but little in comparison to what they had just gone through, and escaped from.
The boat was now put before the wind, and every man in her was on the look-out for the wreck. For a time it remained so thick that there was no possibility of finding her, when again a second time a sudden break in the storm revealed her: she was about half a mile to leeward.
They shifted the foresail with great difficulty, and again made in for the Sands towards the vessel. The appearance of the wreck as they approached her made even the stoutest among them shudder.
She had settled down by the stern in the Sands, the uplifted bow being the only part of the hull that was to be seen; the sea was making a clear breach over her.
The mainmast was gone, her foresail, and foretopsail were blown adrift, and great columns of foam were mounting up, flying over her foremast and bow. They saw a Margate lugger lying at anchor just clear of the Sands, and made close to her. As they shot by they could just make out, mid the roar of the storm, a loud hail, eight of our men on board! and on they flew, and in a few minutes were in a sea that would instantly have swamped the lugger, noble and powerful boat though she was.
Approaching the wreck, it was with terrible anxiety they strained their sight, trying to discover if there were still any men left in the tangled mass of rigging, over which the sea was breaking so furiously. By degrees they made them out. "I see a man's head, look! one is waving his arm."—"I make out two! three! why the rigging is full of the poor fellows;" and with a cheer of triumph, at being yet in time, the life-boat crew settled to their work.
The wreck of the mainmast, and the tremendous wash of sea over the vessel, prevented their going to the lee of the wreck. This increased their danger tenfold, as the result proved.
When about forty yards from the wreck, they lowered their sails, and cast the anchor over the side. The moment for which the boat had so gallantly battled for four hours, and the shipwrecked had waited almost in despair for eight hours, had at last arrived.
No cheering! no shouting in the boat now, no whisper beyond the necessary orders; the risk and suspense are too terrible! yard by yard, the cable is cautiously payed out, and the great rolling seas are allowed to carry the boat, little by little, nearer to the vessel. The waves break over the boat, for a moment bury it, and then as the sea rushes on, and breaks upon the wreck, the spray, flying up, hides the men lashed to the rigging from the boatman's sight. They hoist up a corner of the sail to let the boat sheer in; all are ready; a huge wave lifts them. Pay out the cable! sharp, men! sharp! the coxswain shouts; belay all! The cable was let go a few yards by the run, and the boat is alongside the wreck. With a cry, three men jump into the boat and are saved! All hands to the cable! haul in hand over hand, for your lives, men, quick, the coxswain cries; for he sees a tremendous wave rushing in swiftly upon them. They haul in the cable, draw the boat a little from the wreck, the wave passes and breaks over the vessel; if the life-boat had been alongside she would have been dashed against the wreck, and perhaps capsized, or washed over, and utterly destroyed. Again the men watch the waves, and as they see a few smaller ones approaching, let the cable run again, and get alongside; this time they are able to remain a little longer by the vessel; and one after another, thirteen of the shipwrecked men unlash themselves from the rigging and jump into the boat, when again they draw away from the vessel in all haste, and avoid threatened destruction.
"Are they all saved?" No! three of the vessel's crew, Spaniards, are still left in the rigging; they seem almost dead, and scarcely able to unlash themselves, and crawl down the shrouds and await the return of the boat.
Again the boat is alongside, and this time the peril is greater than ever. They must place the boat close to the vessel, for the men are too weak to make any spring to reach her; they must remain alongside for a longer time, for two life-boatmen must get on to the wreck and lift the men on board; but, as before, they go coolly, quietly, and determinedly to work; the cable is veered out, the sail manœuvred to make the boat sheer, and again she is alongside; the men are seized by their arms and clothing, and dragged into the boat.
The last one left is the cabin-boy; he seems entangled in the rigging. The poor little fellow had a canvas bag of trinkets and things, he was taking as presents to the loved ones at home, and all through the howling storm, the rush and beat of the waves, as he held on exhausted and half dead to the shrouds, he still thought of those loved friends, and clung to the canvas bag.
God only knows whether the loved ones at home were thinking of, and praying for him, and whether it was in answer to their prayers and those of many others that the life-boat then rode alongside that wreck, an ark of safety mid the raging seas.
They shout, the boy lingers still, his half-dead hands cannot free the bag from the entangled rigging. A moment and all are lost; a boatman makes a spring, seizes the lad with a strong grasp, and tears him down from the rigging into the boat—too late, too late; they cannot get away from the vessel; a tremendous wave rushes on: hold hard all, hold anchor! hold cable! give but a yard, and all are lost! The boat lifts, is washed into the fore-rigging, the sea passes, and she settles down again upon an even keel! Thank God! If one stray rope of all the torn and tangled rigging of the vessel had caught the boat's rigging, or one of her spars—if the boat's keel or cork fenders had caught in the shattered gunwale, she would have turned over, and every man in her been shaken into the sea to speedy and certain death. Thank God, it is not so, and once more they are safe.
The boat is very crowded; she has her own crew of thirteen on board, six of the Margate boatmen and two Whitstable fishermen, who were left on the vessel, the captain, mate, eight seamen and the boy; thus, thirty-two souls in all form her precious freight.
The life-boatmen at once, without a second's delay, haul in the cable as fast as possible, and draw up to the anchor to get clear of the wreck, for they must get some distance away before they dare let go their cable, or with the wind and seas setting directly towards the vessel they would be driven upon her, unless they had plenty of room to sail by her.
An anxious time it is, as they draw up to the anchor; at last they are pretty clear, and hoist the sail to draw still farther away before they let go.
There is no thought of getting the anchor up in such a gale and sea.
"She draws away," cries the captain of the boat, "pay out the cable; stand by to cut it; pass the hatchet forward; cut the cable, quick, my men, quick." There is a moment's delay, a delay by which indeed all their lives are saved; a few strong blows with the hatchet, and the cable would have been parted. A boatman takes out his knife, and begins gashing away at the hawser. Already one strand out of the three, which form the strong rope, is severed; when a fearful gust of wind sweeps by, the boat heels over almost on her side—a crash is heard, and the mast and sail are blown clean out of the boat.
Never was a moment of greater peril. Away in the rush of the wave the boat is carried straight for the wreck; the cable is payed out and is slack; they haul it in as fast as they can, but on they are carried swiftly, apparently to certain destruction. Let them hit the wreck full, and the next wave must throw the boat bodily upon it, and all her crew will be swept at once into the sea; let them but touch the wreck, and the risk is fearful; on they are carried, the stem of the boat just grazes the bow of the vessel, they must be capsized by the bowsprit and entangled in the wreckage; some of the crew are ready for a spring into the bowsprit to prolong their lives a few minutes, the others are all steadily, eagerly, quietly, hauling in upon the cable might and main, as the only chance of safety to the boat and crew; one moment more and all are gone, one more haul upon the cable, a fathom or so comes in by the run, and at that moment it mercifully taughtens and holds; all may yet be safe, another yard or two and the boat would have been dashed to pieces.
They again haul in the cable, and draw the boat away as rapidly as they can from the wreck, but they do it with a terrible dread, for they remember the cut strand of the rope. Will the remaining two strands hold? The strain is fearful, each time that the boat lifts to a wave, the cable tightens and jerks, and they think it breaking; but it still holds, and a thrill of joy passes through the heart of all, as they hear that the cut part of the rope is safely in the boat.
But the danger is not even yet over: all this time the mast and sail have been dragging over the side of the boat; it is with great difficulty that they get them on board.
The mast had been broken short off about three feet from the heel.
They chop a new heel to it, and rig it up as speedily as they can, but it takes long to do so; for the boat is lying in the trough of the sea, and the waves are constantly breaking over her; moreover, she is so crowded that the men can scarcely move, and the gale is blowing as hard as ever.
For the poor Spaniards, as they cling to each other, the terrors of death seem scarcely passed away; they know nothing of the properties of the life-boat, and cannot believe that it will live long in such a sea. As the waves beat over the boat and fill it, they imagine that she will founder, and each time that the great rolling seas launch themselves at her they cling to each other, expecting that she will capsize; besides, the poor fellows' nerves are not in a very good state; for eight hours they have been in great danger, for a large portion of that time in momentary expectation of death, during the four hours they were lashed to the rigging of the wreck, with the life nearly beaten and frozen out of them by the constant rush of sea and of spray, and by the bitter wind.
One of the Spaniards seeing a life-belt lying down, which one of the crew had thrown off in the hurry of his work, sits upon it by way of making himself doubly safe. But the work goes on. At last the mast is fitted and raised. No unnecessary word is spoken all this time, for the life and death struggle is not yet over; nor, indeed, can it be before they are well away from the neighbourhood of the wreck. Now, as they hoist the sail, the boat gradually draws away; the cable is again payed out little by little; as soon as they are well clear of the vessel they cut it, and away they sail. The terrible suspense is over when each moment was a moment of fearful risk. It had lasted from the time when they let go the anchor to the time when they got clear of the vessel—about one hour. The men could now breathe freely, their faces brighten, and from one and all there arises spontaneously a pealing cheer. They are no longer face to face with death, and thankfully and joyfully they sail away from the sands, the breakers, and the wreck.
The gale was still at its height, but the peril they were in then seemed nothing to what they had gone through, and had happily left behind. In the great reaction of feeling, the freezing cold and sleet, the driving wind, and foam, and sea, were all forgotten; and they felt as light-hearted as if they were out on a pleasant summer's cruize. They could at last look round and see who they had in the boat, speak hearty words of congratulation to the Margate and Whitstable men, some of whom they knew, and strive by a good deal of broken English, and slaps on the back, and shaking of hands, to cheer up the Spanish sailors, and to let them know how glad they are to have saved them. They then proceeded in search of the steamer, which, after casting the life-boat adrift, made for shelter to the back of the Hook Sand, not far from the Reculvers, and there waited, her crew anxiously on the look-out for the return of the life-boat.
As they were making for the steamer, the lugger Eclipse came in chase to hear whether they had succeeded in saving all hands, and especially, whether all the men of her crew were saved. They welcomed the glad tidings with three cheers for the life-boat crew, and made in for the land. Soon after, the Whitstable smack made towards them upon a similar errand, and her crew were equally rejoiced to hear that their ship-mates with all hands were safe. It was too rough, a great deal, for the men to be taken on board the smack; and so she, after speaking them, tacked in for the land.
The night was coming on apace; it was not until they had run three or four miles that they sighted the steamer; and when they got alongside her it was a difficult matter to get the saved crew on board. The sea was raging, and the gale blowing as much as ever, and the steamer rolled and pitched heavily; the poor shipwrecked fellows were too exhausted to spring for the steamer as the opportunities occurred, and had to be almost lifted on board, one poor fellow being hauled on board by a rope. Again the boat was taken in tow, almost all her crew remaining in her, and they commenced their return home. The night was very dark and clear; the sea and gale had lost none of their force; and until the steamer and boat had got well round the North Foreland, the struggle to get back was just as great as it had been to get there.
Once round the Foreland the wind was well on the quarter, and they made easier way; light after light opened to them; Kingsgate and Broadstairs were passed, and at last the Ramsgate pier-head light shone out with its bright welcome, and the men began to feel that their work was nearly over.
A telegram had been sent from Margate in the afternoon, stating that the Ramsgate life-boat had been seen to save the crew; but nothing more had been heard. The boatmen had calculated the time when they thought the steamer and life-boat might both be back; and the fearful violence of the storm suggested some sad occasion for the delay. As hour after hour grew on, the anxiety increased; real alarm was beginning to be felt by all, and a keen watch was kept for the first appearance of the steamer and boat round the edge of the cliff.
As the tide went down, and the sea broke less heavily over the pier, the men could venture farther along it, until, by the time of the boat's return, they were enabled to assemble at the end of the pier, and there a large and anxious crowd gathered. The anxiety of all was increased by the suggestions and speculations of disasters, which always present themselves at a time of suspense and apprehension; and so, when the steamer was announced with the life-boat in tow, the reaction was great, and the watchers shouted for very joy.
And as the "Storm Warriors" entered the harbour waving the strong right arms that had worked so well, and shouted, "All saved!" "All saved!" and the flags of triumph were seen flying out in the gale. Cheer after cheer broke from the crowd as they welcomed home from the dread battle-field those who had fought and conquered, and now bore with them as trophies of their victory, nineteen men; fellow-sailors, whose lives had been saved from a terrible and certain death. And many cheered again as they thought of the number who would have had life-long cause to mourn, if these poor fellows had perished. Parents, wives, children—what a group they would seem if they could be pictured watching the saved ones return; what words, and looks, and tears of thanks where feelings are too deep for words, for the Storm Warriors, and for the life-boat cause, and for the generous English people who placed such boats at the disposal of such brave hearts and strong hands—of men ready to dare all and to do all that men can do to rescue the perishing from death.
Think only of the group that may possibly welcome back the little pale, exhausted cabin-boy, their hearts as warm as his, their love as deep as his—as his, which made that little canvas bag full of simple presents so dear to him that he held to it through all the many hours of the storm; that made it his first thought when the wild seas rushed over the vessel, and the crew had to take to the rigging; love that made him, when grown men thought only of their own lives, rush to his chest and seize his treasure, and all through the wild gale cling to it; cling to it still, though the winds in their bitter cold froze him through and through, and the seas beat over him hour after hour. Think of the faces that may have seemed to peer at him out of the darkness of the storm. A loving-hearted father ready to thank him for the tobacco-box; a mother for that wonderful brooch; a little dark-eyed brother for the knife with four blades, and a little sister for the little very blue-eyed doll with such rosy cheeks. No, he could not let the bag go, and so it nearly cost him his life, and by the delay his clinging to it caused, nearly cost all the brave men their lives also; but the good God would not let so much simple love work so much disaster, and the loving ones shall see him again, and perhaps he will stand, and perhaps each of his fellow-sailors will stand, in the centre of some tearful group, who again and again will weep, and thank God, as they are told of the wreck, and the hours of peril, and the waiting for death, and the hopeless despair, and the strange wonderful boat that came in through the storm; and how they were saved, when they never thought to see home again. And often shall the brave boatmen be blessed and thanked by grateful hearts, and the life-boat cause not forgotten. I repeat the picture that we may learn to think much of the sailor's arrival home, as well of his being saved from the wreck, and thus learn to appreciate the more the value and the mercy of life-boat work.
But to return. The Spanish sailors had, by the time they reached the harbour, somewhat recovered under the care of the life-boat crew, and were further well cared for, and supplied with clothes by the care of the Spanish consul. And the hardy English boatmen did not take long to recover from their exposure and fatigues, fearful as they had been.
The Spanish captain, in speaking of the rescue, was almost overcome by his feelings of gratitude and wonder. He had quite made up his mind for death; he felt that the wreck could not by any possibility hold together much longer; every moment he expected a final crash; and all his experience taught him that it was impossible for any boat to come to their rescue in such a fearful sea. His experience of the life-boat was new, and not easily to be forgotten.
He had a painting made of the rescue to take with him and show to the Spanish Government. It is pleasing to be able to wind up this story with stating, that the English Board of Control acknowledged the bravery and exertions of the men engaged in the rescue, by presenting to each of them 2l. and a medal, and that the Spanish Government also gratefully acknowledged the heroic exertions of the men, by granting to each a medal and 3l.
"God have mercy upon the poor fellows at sea!" Household words these, in English homes, however far inland the homes may be; and although near these homes the sea may have no better representative than a sedge choked river, or canal, along which slow barges urge a lazy way.
For when the storm-wrack darkens the sky, and gales are abroad, seaward fly the sympathies of English hearts, and the prayer is uttered, and in many cases, in this sea-loving island of ours, with very special reference to some loved and absent sailor. It is those, however, who live near the sea-shore, and watch the warfare going on in all its terrible reality, that learn the more truly to realize the fearful nature of the struggles for life that go on round our coasts; and who learn as the wild gales rave to find an answer to the murmurings of the fierce blast, in the prayer, "God have mercy upon the poor fellows at sea;" and this especially as they welcome ashore, as wrested from death, some rescued sailor, or mourn over those who have found a sudden grave almost within call of land.
It is a pretty picture enough from Ramsgate Pier, when fifty or a hundred sail are in sight within two or three miles of land, and the day is sunny, and the sea bright, and a good wholesome breeze is bowling along; but anxious withal, when the clouds are gathering, and the fleet of vessels are seeking to make the best of their way to find shelter in the Downs: and a south-westerly gale moans up, and the last of the fleet are caught by it, and have to anchor in exposed places, and you watch them riding heavily, making bad weather, the seas every now and then flying over them. It is winter time, and the weather stormy; day after day brings into the harbour fresh evidences of the deadly contest that rages out at sea—vessels towed in disabled, with bulwarks washed away, masts over the side, bows stove in, or leaky, having been in collision, touched the ground or been struck by a sea; who at such times can withhold their interest or sympathy? the veriest landsmen grow excited, and make daily pilgrimages to the pier, to see how the vessels under repairs are getting on, or what new disasters have occurred.
But it is at night-time especially that your thoughts take a more solemn and anxious turn. As you settle down by the fireside for a quiet evening, you remember the ugly appearance the sky had some two or three hours before, when you stood watching the scene from the end of the pier. You felt that mischief was brewing, as the gusts of wind swept by with increasing force, and you looked out upon a troubled sea that every minute seemed to grow more white and raging.
The Downs anchorage was full of shipping; a few vessels had parted their cables, and had to run for it, while the luggers, heavily laden with chains and anchors, staggered out of the harbour to supply them: other ships made for the harbour; you almost shuddered as you looked down upon them from the pier, and saw them in the grasp of the sea, rolling and plunging, with the waves surging over their bows. Another minute's battle with the tide, you heard the orders shouted out, you saw the men rushing to obey them—the pilot steady at the wheel, and you could scarce forbear a cheer as ship after ship shot by the pier-head and found refuge in the harbour.
Altogether it was a wild exciting scene, and you cannot shake off the effect—the wind rushes and moans by, a minute before it was raging over the sea.
The muffled roaring sound that is heard, is that of the waves breaking at the foot of the cliff. From the windows can be seen, gleaming out in the darkness, the bright lights of the Goodwin light-ships, which guard those fatal sands—sands so fatal, that when the graves give up their dead, few churchyards will render such an account as theirs, not only as to the number of the dead, but also that the Sands are a battle-field which entombs the brave and strong, who go down quick to their grave, quick from the full tide of life and strength, from the eager stern deadly contest in which, to the last, all their strong energies were fully engaged.
Men who, a few hours before, were reckless and merry, anticipating no danger and ready to laugh at the thought of death; who, if homeward bound, were full of joy as they seemed almost to stand upon the threshold of their homes; or by whom, if outward bound, the kisses of their wives, which seemed still to linger on their cheeks, and the soft clasping arms of their little ones, which seemed still to hang about their necks, were only to be forgotten in the few hours of terrible life struggle with the storm, and then again to be keenly remembered in the last gasping moment, ere the Goodwin Sands should find them a grave almost within the shadow of their homes.
There is a sudden report; surely the firing of a gun, a wreck, a vessel on the Sands—watch, yes, there! A rocket streams up from one of the light-vessels, and the gun and the rocket five minutes after, form the signal that calls to the life-boat for assistance. The breakers on the Sands could be clearly seen from the shore during the day, as they rose and fell like fitful volumes of white eddying smoke, breaking up the clear line of the horizon, and tracing the Sands in broken broad leaping outlines of foam.
Yes! and now, amid those terrible breakers, somewhere out in the darkness, within five or six miles, near that bright light, there are twenty, thirty, fifty, you know not how many, of your fellow-creatures, struggling for their lives.
Ah! listen to the storm blast, with what dread force it rushes by, what a dirge it seems to moan; and well it may, for if the gale lasts only a few hours, and there is no rescue, the morning may be bright and fair and calm, and the sea as smooth as a lake, but nothing of either ship or crew shall any more be seen.
But, thank God! there will be a rescue! You know that already brave hearts have determined to attempt it; that strong ready hands are already at work in cool, quick, preparation; that, almost before you could urge your way against the tempest down to the head of the pier, the steamer and life-boat will have fought their way out against the storm and darkness upon their errand of mercy.
"God have mercy upon the poor fellows at sea; upon the shipwrecked in their dismal peril; upon the brave Storm Warriors speeding out in danger and hardship!" this is the prayer that indeed often finds utterance, when the sleeper is awakened in the dark hours of the night by the howling of the wind or the boom of the signal gun. And at Ramsgate the prayer may be uttered fervently indeed by those, who, when they hear the signal of distress, know that the endangered vessel is experiencing all the dread dangers of the Goodwin Sands, for the vessels wrecked upon them have indeed, if the weather is bad, but a poor prospect of ever sailing the broad seas again.
The Goodwin is a quick-sand, and it is this, as well as the tremendous sea that beats upon it in heavy weather, that makes it so terribly fatal to vessels that get stranded on it.
At low tide a portion of the sand is dry, and hard, and firm, and can be walked on for a distance of about four or five miles; but as the water again flows over any part of it, that part becomes, as the sailors say, "all alive," soft and quick, and ready to suck in anything that lodges upon it. Suppose a vessel to run on with a falling tide, where the sand shelves, or is steep, the water leaves the bow and the sand there gets hard; the water still flows under the stern, and the sand there remains soft a longer time; down the stern sinks lower and lower; the vessel soon breaks her back, or works herself deeper and deeper by the stern; as the water rises she fills and works and still sinks deeper in the sand every roll she gives, until at high tide she is, perhaps, completely buried, or only her topmasts are seen above water.
Other vessels, if the sea is heavy, begin to beat heavily, and soon break up.
Lifted up on the swell of a huge wave, as it breaks and flies away in surf and foam, the vessel thumps down with all its weight upon the sands, the timbers give and strain, the seams open; she soon ceases, as she fills with water, to rise upon the wave; great gaps are torn from the bulwarks; the decks burst open with the air seeking to escape from the hold, and as the sea rushes over the vessel, each roll she gives wrenches her more and more; the masts fall over the side; her cargo floats and washes away, and speedily, even in a few hours, she is in a torn and shattered condition, completely wrecked and destroyed. The broken hull is full of water and lurches heavily to and fro with each wave, rolls and slightly lifts and works, until it has made a deep bed in the Sands in which it is soon completely buried—so that many vessels have run upon the Sands in the early night, and scarcely a vestige of them been seen in the morning.
By way of illustration, let me tell what happened one dark stormy night some few years back. The harbour steam-tug Aid and the life-boat had started from Ramsgate early in the day, to try and get to the Northern Belle, a fine American barque, which was ashore not far from Kingsgate; but the force of the gale and tide was so tremendous, that they could not make way against it, and were driven back to Ramsgate—there to wait until the tide turned, or the wind moderated.
About two in the morning, while they were making ready for another attempt to reach the Northern Belle, rockets were fired from one of the Goodwin light-vessels, showing that some vessel was in distress on the Sands. They hastened at once to afford assistance, and got to the edge of the Sands shortly after three in the morning. Up and down they cruised, but could see no signs of any vessel.
They waited until it was daylight, and then saw the upper portion of the lower mast of a steamer standing out of the water. They made towards it, but found no one was left, and no signs of any wreck floating about to which a human being could cling.
They concluded, that almost immediately upon striking, the vessel must have broken up, sunk, and been buried in the quick-sand. Poor fellows! poor fellows! a sharp, sudden death: would that the vessel had held together a little longer. Away, then, now for the Northern Belle.
They had not made much way ahead when the captain of the Aid sees a large life-buoy floating near. "Ease her," he cries, and the way of the steamer slackens. "God knows but what that life-buoy may be of use to some of us." The helmsman steers for it; a sailor makes a hasty dart at it with a boat-hook, misses it, and starts back appalled from a vision of staring eyes, and matted hair, and wildly tossed arms. They shout to the life-boat crew, and they in turn steer for the buoy; the bowman grasps at it, catches it, but cannot lift it, his cry of horror startles the whole crew, and some spring to his help; they lift the buoy and bring to the surface three dead bodies that are tied to it by ropes round their waists. Slowly and carefully, one by one, the crew lift them on board, and lay them out under the sail.
The Violet, passenger steamer, had left Ostend about eleven the previous night; at two in the morning she struck on the Goodwin Sands; a little after three there was no one left on board to answer the signals of the steam-boat that had come to their rescue, and show their position; at seven there was nothing to be seen of the steamer, crew, or passengers, but a portion of one mast, the life-buoy, and the three pale corpses sleeping their long last sleep under the life-boat sail. Such are the Goodwin Sands.
It was a storm-ridden November day, the weather was very threatening throughout; it was blowing hard, with occasional squalls from the east-north-east, and a heavy sea running. At high tide the sea broke over the east pier. As the waves beat upon it and dashed over in clouds of foam, the pier looked from the east cliff like a heavy battery of guns in full play. The boatmen had been on the look-out all day, but there had been no signs of their services being required; still, they hung about the pier until long after dark.
At last they were straggling home, leaving only those on the pier who had determined to watch during the night, when suddenly some thought that they saw a flash of light. A few seconds of doubt, and the report of the gun decided the matter.
At once there was a rush for the life-boat. She was moored in the stream about thirty yards from the pier. In a few minutes they had unmoored her, and got her alongside; her crew was already more than made up; some had put off to her in small boats, others had sprung into her when she came within a few feet of the pier. She was over-manned, and the two last in had to turn out.
In the meantime, a rocket had been fired from the light-vessel. Many had been on the look-out for it, to decide beyond all doubt, which of the three light-vessels had fired the gun. It proved to have been the North Sands Head vessel that had signalled. The cork jackets were thrown into the boat, the oars and ropes overhauled, all things seen to be right, and the men in their places and ready for their start in a comparatively few minutes. The crew of the steam-tug Aid had not been less active. Immediately upon the first signal, her shrill steam-whistle resounded through the harbour, calling on board those of her crew who were on shore, and her steam, which is always up, was rapidly got to full power, and in less than half an hour from the time of the firing of the first gun she was gallantly steaming out of the harbour with the life-boat in tow. As she went out a rocket streamed up from the pier head. It was the answer to the signal of the light vessel, and told that assistance was on the way.
Off they went, ploughing their way through a heavy cross sea, which frequently swept completely over the boat.
The tide was running strongly, and the wind right ahead; it was hard work breasting both sea and wind in the face of such a gale; but they bravely persevered, and gradually made head-way.
They steered right for the Goodwin, and having approached it, as near as they dare take the steamer, they worked their way through a heavy sea along the edge of the Sands, on the look-out for the vessel in distress.
At last they make her out, and, as they approach, find two Broadstairs luggers riding at anchor outside the Sands.
The Broadstairs men had heard the signal, and the wind and tide being in their favour, they soon ran down to the neighbourhood of the wreck. On making to the vessel, the Ramsgate men find her to be a fine-looking brig, almost high and dry upon the Sands.
Her masts and rigging are all right; the moon, which has broken through the clouds, shines upon her clean new copper; and, so far, she seems to have received but little damage.
A grand thing for all hands, for owners, underwriters, crew and boatmen, the men think, if they can only get her safely off when the tide rises, and bring her into harbour; a fine vessel and perhaps valuable cargo saved, and a pretty bit of salvage, which will be well earned and nobody should grudge, for the boatmen have to live, as well as to save life.
Efforts have already been made for the vessel's relief. The Dreadnought lugger had brought with her a small twenty-five feet life-boat. The Little Dreadnought, and this boat with five hands, had succeeded in getting alongside the brig.
The steamer slips the hawser of the Ramsgate boat, and anchors almost abreast of the vessel, with sixty fathom of chain out.
There is a heavy rolling sea, but much less than there has been, as the tide has fallen considerably. The life-boat makes in for the brig, carries on through the surf and breakers, and when within forty fathoms of the vessel, lowers the sail, throws the anchor overboard, and veers alongside. The captain and some of the men remain in the boat, to fend her off from the sides of the vessel, for although it is shallow water, the tide is running over the Sands like a sluice, and it requires great care to prevent the boat getting her side stove in. The rest of her crew climb on board the brig. Her captain had, until then, hoped to get his vessel off, as the tide rose, without assistance, and had refused the aid of the Broadstairs men; but now he realizes the danger that his vessel is in, and very gladly accepts the assistance that is offered.
One of his crew speaks a little English, and through him the captain employs the crew of the life-boat and the Broadstairs men, to get his ship off the Sands.
The boatmen, as soon as they get on board the brig, find that she is in a very perilous position, but have hopes of getting her off.
At all events they will try very hard for it. She is a fine new and strongly-built Portuguese brig, belonging to Lisbon, and bound from Newcastle to Rio, with coals and iron. Her crew consists of the captain, the mate, ten men, and a boy.
She is head on to the Sand, but the Sand does not shelve much, and her keel is pretty even. The wind is still blowing very strongly and right astern. The tide is on the turn, and will flow quickly: there is no time to be lost; the first effort must be to prevent the brig driving further on the Sand.
With this object in view the boatmen get an anchor out astern as quickly as possible; they rig out tackles on the foreyard, and hoist the bower anchor on deck; they then slew the yard round, and get the anchor as far aft as they can; then shift the tackles to the main yard, and lift the anchor well to the stern; shackle the chain cable on, get it all clear for running out, try the pumps to see that they work; and then wait until the tide makes sufficiently to enable the steamer, which draws six feet of water, to get a little nearer.
They hope that the steamer will be able to back close enough to them, to get a rope on board fastened to the flukes of the brig's anchor, and to drag the anchor out, and drop it about one hundred fathoms astern of the vessel. All hands will then go to the windlass, keep a strain upon the cable, and each time the vessel lifts, heave with a will—the steamer, with a hundred and twenty fathoms of nine-inch cable out, towing hard all the time. By these means they expect to be able, gradually, to work the vessel off the Sands.
But they soon lose all hope of doing this; it is about one o'clock in the morning; the moon has gone down; heavy showers of rain fall; it is pitch dark and very squally; the gale is evidently freshening again; a heavy swell comes up before the wind, and as the tide flows under the brig she begins to work very much, for now the heavy waves roll in over the sand, and she lifts, and falls with shocks that make the masts tremble and the decks gape open.
The boatmen begin to fear the worst. The life-boat is alongside, with seven hands in her; she is afloat in the basin that the brig has worked in the sands, and it takes all the efforts of the men on board to prevent her getting under the side of the vessel and being crushed.
The wind increases as the tide flows, and the brig works with great violence, now, as she rolls and careens over upon her bilge, she threatens to fall upon, and destroy the life-boat The captain of the boat hails the men on the brig to come on board the boat, and get away from the side of the vessel as fast as they can. The boatmen try to explain the danger to the Portuguese, but they cannot understand. Hail, after hail, comes from the boat, for every moment increases the peril, but the Portuguese captain still refuses to leave his vessel. Any moment may be too late; the boatmen are almost ready to try and force the Portuguese over the side, but they cannot persuade them to stir; and as they will not desert them, they also wait on; wait on while the ship rolls, and works, and groans, while the seas fly over her, and at any moment she may break up. Suddenly a loud sharp crack, like a crashing of thunder, peals through the ship.
The boatmen jump on the gunwale, ready to spring for the life-boat, for she may be breaking in half; no, but one of her large timbers has snapt like a pipe-stem, and others will soon follow.
The Portuguese sailors make a rush to get what things they can on deck; altogether they fill eight sea-chests with their clothes. These are quickly lowered into the life-boat. Her captain does not like having her hampered with so much baggage, but cannot refuse the poor fellows, at least, a chance of saving their kit. The surf flies over the brig, and boils up all around her. The life-boat is deluged with spray, and her lights are washed out; the vessel still lifts and thumps and rolls with the force of the sea. Time after time the snapping and rending of her breaking timbers are heard; at each heave she wrenches and cracks and groans in all directions—she is breaking up fast. Make haste, make haste! for your lives be as quick as you can! The chests are all lowered, the boy is handed into the boat, the Portuguese sailors follow, the boatmen spring after them, and the brig is abandoned.
We have said that it was about one o'clock in the morning when the squalls came on again, with heavy rain and thick darkness. The steamer had remained at anchor, waiting for the tide to rise, when, with the water deeper, she would be able to get nearer the brig. But as the gale freshens there is a dangerous broken sea where she is riding, and she begins to pitch very heavily. She paddles gently ahead to ease her cable, but it is soon evident to the men on board her, that if they are to get their anchor at all they must make haste about it.
They heave it up, and lay to for the life-boat.
The sea increases so rapidly that the Dreadnought lugger is almost swamped, and has to cut her cable without attempting to save her anchor, and to make with all speed before the gale for Ramsgate. The Petrel lugger springs her mast, which is fished with great difficulty, and she, too, makes the best of her way to the harbour.
The wind continues to increase, the gale is again at its height, and a fearful sea running. Wave after wave breaks over the steamer's decks, but she is an excellent boat, strongly built and powerful; and her captain and crew are well used to rough work.
Head to wind and steaming half power, she holds her own against the wind, and keeps, as far as her crew can judge, in the neighbourhood of the wreck and of the life-boat. As time passes, and the crew of the steamer can see nothing of the boat, they get anxious. The wreck must have been abandoned long before this; has the boat been unable to get away from her? is the boat swamped or stove? and are all lost? They signalize again and again, but in vain; they can obtain no answer. They cruize up and down as near the edge of the Sands as they dare, hoping to fall in with the boat. Now they make in one direction, and now in another, as in their eagerness and apprehension the roar of the storm shapes itself into cries of distress, or as a darker shadow on the sea leads them into the hope that at last they have found the lost boat. All hands keep steadfastly on the look-out, and get greatly excited; the storm becomes truly terrible; but they forget their own peril and hardships in their great anxiety for the safety of the crew of the life-boat, and of the poor fellows who were on the wreck.
Their anxiety becomes insupportable, heightened as it is by the horrors of the night.
Through the thick darkness, the bright light of the Goodwin light-vessel shines out like a star. With a faint hope the crew of the steamer wrestle their way through the storm and speak the light-vessel.
"Have you seen anything of the life-boat?" the captain of the steamer shouts out. "Nothing! nothing!" is the answer. It seems to confirm all their fears, and they hasten back again to their old cruising ground—they will not lessen their exertions, or lose any chance of rendering assistance to their comrades. It is still pitch-dark, and the storm rages on—the hours creep by, O how slowly!
How they long for the light! All hands still on the watch! and as the first grey light of dawning comes, it is with straining eye-balls they seek to penetrate the twilight, and find some signs of their lost comrades. It is almost broad daylight before they can even find out the place where the wreck was lying.
With all speed, but little hope, they make for it; and then indeed their great dread seems realized. The brig is completely broken up, literally torn to pieces. They can see great masses of timber, and tangled rigging, but no signs of life. Nearer and nearer they go and wait for the broad daylight; but still nothing is to be seen, but shattered pieces of wreck, moored fast by the matted rigging to the buried remains of the hull, and tossing and heaving in the surf.
Some of the men fancy they can see fragments of the life-boat heaving about with the other wreckage, but whether it is so or not, the end seems the same, and after one last careful but fruitless look around, to see whether there are any signs of the life-boat elsewhere on the Sands, sadly they turn the steamer's head away from the dreary fatal Goodwin, and make for the harbour.
They grieve for brave comrades tried in many scenes of danger, and think with faint hearts of the melancholy report they have to give, and it is but little consolation to them in the face of so great a loss, to remember that they, at all events, have done all in their power, and that they have nothing to reproach themselves with.
To return to the life-boat men; all hands have deserted the brig, and there are now in the life-boat thirteen Portuguese sailors, five Broadstairs boatmen, and her ordinary crew, consisting of thirteen Ramsgate boatmen, altogether thirty-one souls. The small Dreadnought life-boat has been swung against the brig by the force of the tide, and is so damaged that no one dares venture in her. The tide is rising fast, the gale blowing as hard as ever, the surf running very high and breaking over the vessel, so that one constant torrent of spray and foam is falling with no light weight, or small volume, upon the life-boat which is under the lee of the brig, and the men have no protection from the falling sheets of spray. The vessel is rolling heavily, she has worked a bed in the sands, which the run of tide has somewhat enlarged, and in this she half floats, rolling from side to side with fearful rapidity and violence.
The life-boat is afloat within the circle of the bed; the brig threatens to roll over her. "Shove and haul off, quick! Shove and haul off," are the orders. Some with oars, pushing against the brig, others hauling might and main upon the brig's hawser, they manage to pull the boat two or three yards up towards the boat's anchor, and to get her a little farther off from the side of the brig. Now she grounds heavily upon the edge of the basin that has been worked in the sand by the brig. "Strain every muscle, men; now, or never! now, or never! for your lives pull!" and pull and strain they did. No! not one inch will the life-boat stir; she falls over on her side, the surf and seas sweep over her, the men cling to the thwarts and gunwale; all but her own crew give up all thoughts of hope; but they know the capabilities of the boat and do not lose heart—Crash! the brig heaves, and crushes down upon her bilge; again and again she half lifts upon an even keel and rolls, and lurches from side to side; each time that she falls to leeward, she comes more and more over and nearer to the boat.
This is the danger that may well make the stoutest heart quail. The boat is aground—helplessly aground; her crew can see through the darkness of the night the yards and masts of the brig swaying over their heads; now tossing high in the air as the brig rights, and now falling nearer and nearer to them, sweeping down over their heads, swaying and rending in the air, the blocks, and ropes, and torn fragments of sails, flying wildly in all directions. Let but one of the swaying yards but hit the boat, she must be crushed and all lost. The men crouch down closer and closer, clinging to the thwarts as the brig falls to them; casting dread glances at the approaching yards; all right once more; another pull at the cable—hard, men, hard; over again comes the brig; stick to it, men, stick to it, my men; crushed or drowned it will be soon over if we cannot move the boat; another pull, all together; again, and again, they make desperate efforts to stir the boat, but she will not move one inch; they must wait, and if needs be, wait their doom; and as they wait the danger each moment increases.
It is a fearful time of suspense, this waiting aground on the dread Goodwin, in the darkness and wildness of the storm, half dead with cold and the ceaseless rush of surf over them, and watching in the shadowy darkness the swaying masts of the rolling brig, swinging nearer and nearer, and how will this question of life and death be decided? Which will happen first? will the tide flow sufficiently to float them, or will the brig crush them with her masts and yards before they can get beyond her reach.
The men can do nothing more in the dark wild night and terrible danger; each minute seems an hour; they almost forget to try and protect themselves from the wind and spray, and they watch the brig as if spellbound, as she rolls nearer and nearer; each moment the position gets more desperate.
Any one hit? as the flying blocks hanging from the yard-arms rattle over the heads of the men in the boat. No! but a few feet nearer and we should all have been crushed—a turn or two more and we shall be finished. There is a stir among the men; the moment seems come; they prepare for the last struggle. Some are getting ready to spring for the flying rigging of the brig, as it sways over their heads, hoping thus to get on board the wreck if the life-boat is crushed up. "Stick to the boat, men! stick to the boat, men, it's our only chance," the coxswain cries out, "the brig must soon go to pieces, while we may yet get clear; stick to the boat!" And the brig, which had quivered while lying on her side as if coming bodily over, while the dark yards hovered over the crouching men, lifted again, and once more the men breathe with a sigh of relief; for that time they quite expected the boat to be crushed and pinned where she lay.
At this moment the boat trembles beneath them, lifts a little on the swell of the tide that is beginning to reach her, and grounds again.
It is like a word of life to the men, and instantly all are on the alert, they get all their strength on the hawser, and as the boat lifts again, and comes a little more on an even keel, they draw her a yard or two nearer to her anchor, but not any farther from the brig, and over again the brig slowly rolls; again and again they make desperate efforts to get beyond the reach of her dark side, and swinging yards and masts, but it is long before they can do so: at last they succeed as the water flows still more, and now they ride to their anchor a few yards beyond the reach of the brig, which they watch break up, and listen to the groaning and rending of her timbers, and the flapping of her torn sail and tangled rigging. Both the wind and tide are setting with all their force right upon the Sands, and the captain of the boat sees what is before them; where they are now at anchor will soon be one wild rage of broken sea. To get away from the sand in the face of the fierce gale and tide is impossible; and so there is no alternative, they must beat right across the Sands, and this in the wild fearful gale, and terrible sea, and pitch dark night, and what the danger of this is, only those who know the Goodwin Sands, and the dread seas that sweep over them, can at all imagine.
They ride at anchor for some time, waiting for the tide to rise sufficiently for them to get over the Sands. They see the lights of the steamer shining in the distance, outside the broken and shallow water; but there is no hope of assistance from her: their lanterns are washed out, they cannot signalize; and if they could, the steamer could not approach them.
The sea is breaking furiously over them. Time after time the boat fills as the broken waves wash clean over her, but instantly she empties herself again, and rises to her water-line. The gale sweeps by more fiercely than ever. The men are nearly washed out of the boat, and worse still, the anchor begins to drag. The tide has made a little, and they are being driven each moment nearer to the wreck; there may be water enough to take them clear; at all events, there is no help for it, they must risk it. "Hoist the foresail; stand by to cut the cable. All clear."—"Ay, Ay!"—"Away then."
And the boat quickly heads round, and then, under the power of the gale and tide, leaps forward, flies along; but only for a few yards, when, with a tremendous jerk, she grounds upon the Sands. The crew look up, and their hearts almost fail them, as they find that they are again within reach of the brig.
Her top-gallant masts are swaying about, her yards swing within a few feet of them, her sails which have blown loose and are in ribbons, beat and flap like thunder over their heads. Their position seems worse than ever; but they are not this time kept long in suspense. A huge breaker comes foaming along; its white crest gleams out in the darkness high above them, a moment's warning, it breaks over them and swamps them, but all are clinging might and main to the boat.
Another breaker comes streaming along; it swamps them again in passing, but now the volume of the wave seizes the boat, up it seems to swing it in its mighty arms, and to bodily hurl it forward; and then the boat crashes down on the Sands as the wave breaks, and grounds them with a shock that would have torn every man out of her, if they had not been holding on.
But one great peril is passed; the mighty swing of the huge waves has carried them yards forward, and they are clear of the wreck; but at that moment they are threatened with another danger almost as terrible. The small Dreadnought life-boat has been in tow all this time; it has not been wise to have her in tow, but she belongs to the Broadstairs boatmen, and neither they nor the Ramsgate boatmen like to abandon her.
As the Ramsgate boat now grounds, the smaller boat comes bow on to her, sweeps round, and gets under her side; the two boats roll and crash together; each roll the larger one gives, each lift of the sea, she comes heavily down on the other boat; the crash and crack of timbers are heard; which boat is it that is breaking up? Both, if this continues, must be very speedily destroyed. Some of the men get out the oars and boat-hooks, and push for their very lives, thrusting and striving their utmost to free the Dreadnought, which is so dangerously thumping and crashing under the quarter of the larger boat. It is a terrible struggle in that boiling sea, with the surf breaking over them. But all their efforts seem in vain, the boats still crash and roll together; one of them is breaking up fast. "Oars in," shouts the coxswain; "over the side half-a-dozen of you—take your feet to her;" and some of the brave fellows spring over, clinging to the rail of the deck of the high air-boxes that are at the bow and stern of the Ramsgate life-boat. Again and again, all together, a fierce struggle, but without success; a big wave comes rolling on, it washes over them, but as the larger boat lifts, the men blindly thrust out with their feet, and the Dreadnought is pushed clear. The men scramble, or are dragged back into the Ramsgate boat; the tow-rope is cut, and the Dreadnought, almost a wreck, is swept away by the tide, and is lost in the darkness, while, most mercifully, the Ramsgate boat still remains uninjured.
A third time they are providentially saved from what seemed almost like certain death; and yet they have only commenced the beginning of their troubles, for is there not before them the long range of sands, with the broken fierce waves and raging surf, and many a fragment of wreck, like sunken rocks studded here and there, upon any one of which, if they strike, it must be death to them all?
The boat is still aground upon the ridge of sand. She lifts, and is swept round, and grounds again broadside to the sea, which makes a clean breach over her. The Portuguese are all clinging together under the lee of the foresail, and there is no getting them to move. The crew are holding on where they can; sometimes buried in the water, often with only their heads out. The captain is standing up in the stern, holding on by the mizen-mast; sometimes he can see nothing of the men as the surf sweeps over them. He orders the chests to be thrown overboard, but most of them are already washed away; the rest are unlashed from their fastenings, and lifted as the men can get at them, and the next wave carries them away. Heavy masses of cloud darken the sky; the rain falls in torrents; it is bitterly cold; the men can do nothing but hold on; the tide rises gradually; suddenly the boat lifts again; it is caught by the driving sea, and is flung forward. There is no keeping her straight, the water is too broken; her stern frees itself before the bow, and round she swings; her bow lifts a little; onward she goes a few yards, and grounds again by the stern; round sweeps the bow, and with another jerk she comes broadside on the Sands again, lurching over on her side, with the terrible surf making a clean sweep over the waist. It is a struggle for the men to get their breath, the spray beats over them in such clouds. This happens time after time. The captain calls the men aft, that the boat may be lightened in the bow, and thus be more likely to keep straight. Most of the boatmen come to the stern, but the Portuguese will not move, and even some of the boatmen are so exhausted with the violent exertions they have made, and by the beating of the waves, that they are almost unconscious, and only able to cling to the gunwale and thwarts of the boat with an iron, nervous grasp, and are thus just able to save themselves from being washed out of her. As the coxswain notices their exhausted state, he expects each time as the big waves wash over them to see some of them leave go their hold and be carried away; and although he makes as light of it as he can, and tries to cheer them up, he himself has very small hope of ever seeing land again.
The sands on the sea shore, if there has been any surf, appear at low tide uneven with the ridges or ripples the waves have left on them. On the Goodwins, where the force of the sea is in every way multiplied, and the waves break and the tide rushes with tenfold power, the little sand ripples of the smoother shore become ridges of two or three feet high.
It is on these ridges that the life-boat so continually grounds. As the tide rises she is swept from one to the other by the long sweeping waves; she is swung round and round in the swirl of the cross-seas and rapid tide, thumping and jerking heavily each time that she strands. All this is in the midst of darkness, of bitter cold, and of a raging wind, surf, and sea, until the hardship and peril are almost too much to be borne, and some of the men feel dying in the boat.
One old boatman afterwards thus described his feelings. "Well, sir, perhaps my friends were right when they said I hadn't ought to have gone out—that I was too old for that sort of work"—he was then about sixty years of age—"but, you see, when there is life to be saved, it makes one feel young again; and I've always felt I have had a call to save life when I could; and I wasn't going to hang back then; and I stood it better than some of them after all. I did my work on board the brig, and when she was so near falling over us, and when the Dreadnought life-boat seemed knocking our bottom out, I got on as well as any of them; but when we got to beating, and grubbing over the Sands, swinging round and round, and grounding every few yards with a jerk that bruised us sadly, and almost tore our arms out from the sockets—no sooner washed off one ridge, and beginning to hope that the boat was clear, than she thumped upon another harder than ever, and all the time the wash of the surf nearly carrying us out of the boat—it was truly almost too much for any man to stand. There was a young fellow holding on next to me; I saw his head begin to drop, and that he was getting faint, and going to give over; and when the boat filled with water, and the waves went over his head, he scarcely cared to struggle free. I tried to cheer him a bit, and keep his spirits up. He just clung to the thwart like a drowning man. Poor fellow, he never did a day's work after that night, and died in a few months.
"Well, I couldn't do anything with him, and I thought that it didn't matter much, for I felt it must soon all be over; that it couldn't be long before the boat would be knocked to pieces. So I took my life-belt off, that I might have it over all the quicker; for I knew that there would be no chance whatever of life if the boat once went, and I would have it over all the quicker, for I didn't want to be beating about those sands alive or dead longer than I could help; the sooner I went to the bottom, the better, I thought. When once all hope of life was over—and that time seemed close upon us every moment—some of us kept shouting, just cheering ourselves and one another up, as well as we could; but I had to give that up, and I remember hearing the captain crying out, 'We will see Ramsgate yet again, my men, if we steer clear of old wrecks,' And then I heard the Portuguese lad crying, and I remember that I began to think that it was a terrible dream, and pinched myself to see if I was really awake; and I began to feel very strange and insensible. I didn't feel afraid of death, for, you see, I hadn't left it to such times as that to prepare to meet my God. And if ever I spent hours in prayer, be sure I spent them in prayer that night. And I just seemed going off in a kind of dead faint, and felt very dream-like, and as if I couldn't hold on any longer; and as I felt this I thought, in a feeble sort of way, of my friends ashore, and bid them good-bye like, for I knew that I should be soon washed out of the boat, when I looked up, and the surf was curling up both sides of the boat, and I was going to throw myself down on the thwart, that the seas might beat upon my back, and I should never have lifted it up again, when I saw a bright star. The clouds had broken a little, and there was that blessed beautiful star shining out. Yes, truly it was a blessed beautiful star to me; as it caught my eye it seemed, in my weak state, to lay a strange hold upon me; to gather all my attention, and to call me back to life again. And I began to have a little thought about seeing my home again, and that I wasn't going to be called away just yet. And I straightened myself up a little, and laid a firmer hold upon the boat, and lifted my head to look for the star after each time the seas beat over us, and I kept my eye upon it whenever I could; and I cannot explain how it was, but looking for and watching that star kept me up, and when I got ashore, I seemed at first not much worse than the best of them. But for seven whole days after that I lost my speech, and lay like a log upon my bed; and I was ill a long time—indeed, have never been right since, and I suppose at my age I never shall get over it. But what is more, I believe something of the same sort may be said of most of those that were in the boat that night. One poor young fellow is dead, another has been subject to fits ever since, and not any of us quite the men we were before, and no wonder when you think what we passed through.
"I cannot describe it, and you cannot, neither can any one else; but when you say you've beat and thumped over those sands, almost yard by yard, in a fearful storm on a winter's night, and live to tell the tale, why it seems to me about the next thing to saying that you've been dead, and brought to life again."
The coxswain of the life-boat, brave Isaac Jarman, was chosen for that position for his fortitude, skill, and daring, and well did he sustain his character that night, never for one moment losing his presence of mind, and doing his utmost to cheer the men up. The crew consisted of hardy, daring fellows, ready to face any danger, to go out in any storm, and to do battle with the wildest seas; but the horrors of that night were almost too much for the most iron nerves.
The fierce freezing wind, the almost pitch darkness, the terrible surf, and beating waves, and the men unable to do anything for their safety; the boat driven, almost hurled, by the force of the waves from sand ridge to sand ridge, and apparently breaking up beneath them each time she lifted on the surf and crushed down again upon the Sands, besides the danger of her getting foul of any old wrecks—how all this was lived through seemed miraculous. Time after time there was a cry of "Now she breaks up! she can't stand this! all over at last!" Another such thump, and she is done for, and then the boat would writhe, almost on her beam ends, while the waves beat over, until she was again lifted and thrown forward to crash down and ground again; and all this lasted for about two hours, as almost yard by yard they beat from ridge to ridge over the sands.