Suddenly the swinging and beating of the boat cease; she is in a very heavy sea, but she answers her helm and keeps her head straight. At last they have got over the Sands and into deep water; the danger is passed, and they are saved. With new hopes comes new life. Some can scarcely realize their comparative safety, and still keep their firm hold upon the boat, expecting each second another terrible lurch and jerk upon the Sands, and the heavy rush and wash of the seas. No: that is all over, and the boat, in spite of her tremendous knocking about, is sound, and sails buoyantly and well.
The crew quickly get further sail upon her, and she makes way before the gale to the westward. The Portuguese sailors lift their heads. They have been clinging together and to the boat, crouching down under the lee of the foresail during the time of beating over the Sands; they notice the stir among the boatmen, and that the terrible jerking and thumping of the boat and the rush of sea over her have ceased; and they also learn that the worst is passed, and that the danger is at an end.
Long since did they despair of life; and their surprise and joy now know no bounds. Bravely on goes the life-boat, making for the westward. The Portuguese are very busy in earnest consultation. The poor fellows have lost their kit, and only possess the things they have on, and a few pounds that they have with them. Soon it becomes evident what the consultation has been about. "Coxswain!" one of the boatmen cries out, "they want to give us all their money!"
"Yes! yes!" said the interpreter, in broken English, "you have saved our lives! Thank you! thank you! but all we have is yours; it is not much, but you take it between you;" and he held out the money. It was about 17l.
"I, for one, won't touch any of it," said the coxswain of the boat. "Nor I!" "Nor I!" others added; "put your money up."
The brave fellows will not take a farthing from brother sailors, whom they know to be poor, much like themselves; and in a few words they make them understand this, and how glad they are to have saved them.
The life-boat makes good way, and soon runs across the Sands through the Trinity Swatch Way, and, without further adventure, she reaches the harbour about five o'clock in the morning. The crew of the brig are placed under the care of the Portuguese Consul, and the boatmen go to their homes, to feel for many a long day the effects of the fatigues and perils of that terrible night.
During all this time the steamer has been cruising up and down the edge of the Sands, vainly searching for any trace of the life-boat; and soon after daylight she made, as has been already described, for the harbour. Her captain and crew are half broken-hearted, and scarcely know how they shall be able to tell the tale of the terrible calamity that seems so certainly to have happened. Suddenly, as the mouth of the harbour opens to them, they see the life-boat. They stare with amazement, and can scarcely believe their eyes. "Astonished," said the captain of the steamer, describing his feelings, "that I was; never so much so in my life, as when I stood looking at that boat. I could have shouted and cried for very wonder and joy; you might have knocked me down with a straw." Thus the captain of the steamer described his feelings. It was the same with all the crew; and as the steamer shot round the pier and heard that all were saved, and the life-boatmen all right, the good news seemed to more than repay them for the dangers and anxieties of the night.
Thus did the crew of the gallant life-boat and of the steamer help to earn that night the noble reputation that belongs to our boatmen and sailors at large—testimony to which was given, on one occasion, by a foreign captain, who said, "Ah! we may always know whether it is upon the English coast that we are wrecked, by the efforts that are made for our rescue."
Wild weather on land! wild weather at sea! fear and trembling, and earnest prayers, in many a quiet home, for loved ones at sea, who must be within reach of the gale that hurries so fiercely by.
How impressive it is to lie awake listening to the storm—to hear the rush of the wind, now moaning in the chimney, now thundering at the windows against which the rain beats and hurtles; to fancy or to feel that the house trembles shaken in the rude power of the blast, or, if near the sea-shore, to hear the waves breaking on the beach, a half-suppressed tumultuous uproar, like the faintly heard riot of a distant angry mob. To get farther to sea in one's thoughts, and to picture a noble ship with close-reefed topsails running before the gale, or beating away from the dread neighbourhood of dangerous sands or coast, while the pilot, anxious and watchful, and the crew, eager and alert, peer through the darkness to catch the welcome guidance of some bright warning light, or are on the watch to detect the fainter light of some ship that is steering her course perilously near; the passengers all the time wistful and anxious, asking many questions, and receiving cheering answers, but given with that unreality of tone that makes the hearer fear the sound, more than he can believe the sense; or to imagine a vessel at anchor, the cables swinging out at their full length, the sails all closely furled, but the gale beating against the hull, and masts, and yards, with a power that threatens to sweep the ship and her living freight to a speedy destruction; to picture the ship lifting, and pitching, and surging, in a cloud of spray, the hungry waves leaping at it, as if to devour it before its time, the anchors yielding foot by foot, or the cable giving, and the hungry sands waiting in a terrible rage of foam and sea under the lee.
In the morning to look from tall cliffs upon a golden beach, upon the fretting surf that lines it, upon the sea bright with sunshine, smooth browed, but like a great giant rolling his huge limbs in uneasy sleep; quick with great billows rising and falling in restless heavy long lines of waves. Then to look at the distant Goodwin Sands, and to watch the white leaping surf, fangs in the jaws of death, still gnashing and mumbling after their midnight meal, in which they ravened perhaps on a goodly ship, and mangled many brave sailors, and weeping women and trembling wondering children; unless their victims were snatched from their grasp by the brave Storm Warriors who rush into their midst in the very fiercest of their strife, and wrestle with them for their prey.
Such pictures are often suggested by the midnight gale, and such after-scenes are witnessed in the morning's calm at Ramsgate, as at many another spot on the bold coast of our sea-girt island home, where each howling wind that rushes on breathes the trumpet-blast that calls to the struggle of life and death.
It was a tempestuous wintry day early in December, a few years ago, when the scenes occurred which the following will be an attempt to describe:
During the whole of the day the wind has been blowing hard from the west-north-west. The weather has been very unsettled for some little time, squally with the cloud-scud low, and swiftly flying past; now the weather is becoming worse, and the blasts are more frequent and more fierce, rapidly growing into a heavy gale. The Fitzroy's signal hangs ominously from the flag-staff, giving a warning of the dangerous winds which may be expected.
The Downs anchorage is crowded with shipping, so much so, that the lights of the vessels anchored there throw a glare upon the darkness of the night, such as is shed by the lights of a populous town.
Every now and then a vessel leaves the fleet, and, running before the gale, seeks surer refuge; or perhaps a homeward-bound ship swiftly threads her way through the crowd of vessels, the crew half rejoicing in the gale, which at every blast bears them nearer home.
On Ramsgate Pier rumours of disasters at sea, bring the watchful lookers on together in anxious gossip; many partially disabled vessels have already found refuge in the harbour, and now a schooner is brought in by some Broadstairs boatmen. When they boarded her in answer to her signals of distress, they found that the mate with a woman and child alone remained on board. The schooner had been in collision during the previous night, and whether the rest of her crew had escaped to the other vessel, or had been lost overboard, was left a matter of dread uncertainty.
As it is a stirring sight to see the vessels making through the heavy seas for the harbour, so it is an exciting, and withal a gallant, sight to watch the luggers heavily freighted with anchors and chains, to supply vessels that have slipped their cables, bearing away bravely in all the rush of the storm, upon their errands of daring enterprise.
The afternoon creeps on; it is half-past three, a puff of smoke is seen coming from the Gull light-ship, but the wind is too strong, and in the wrong direction, for the report of the gun to be heard. The signal is, however, at once accepted, and soon the steamer and the life-boat are away in the storm.
They make for the light-vessel to learn for what, and in which direction their services are required. A squall of thick rain hides the Downs and the south end of the Goodwin Sands from view. Suddenly the squall clears away, passing rapidly to windward, and now from the pier and cliff, although not yet from the lower level of the steamer's deck, or from the life-boat, the vessel that is in danger is seen.
A large light schooner has driven from her anchorage, and is now dragging perilously near the Goodwin Sands. She is too near, with the wind as it is, to have any chance of escaping by slipping her cable and sailing clear of the Sands; she is driving fast, and the large flag, that she has hoisted as a signal of distress, can be very distinctly seen from the cliff. The watchers on shore, by taking her bearings, see how rapidly she is dragging her anchors and nearing her doom; and the nature of the tremendous sea she is in is also very evident.
She is light, buoyant, and lifts to every wave; she looks like a gallant charger taking a succession of desperate leaps, as first her bow is thrown high in the air, and she then rides for a moment high upon the top of the wave, and then again her stern is thrown high, and her bow is almost buried as the huge short wave passes under her. Repeatedly those who are watching her from the shore, have their fears aroused that her straining cables have at last parted, and that she is in full career for the waiting deadly Sands. It is an alarming sight. The lookers-on from the cliff only take their eyes off her to look occasionally at the steamer and life-boat as they are making their way to her rescue.
The steamer rolls and plunges on—nothing daunted, nothing disturbed, by all the buffeting she gets; the life-boat rises like a cork to every wave, and plunges through the crests as she feels the drag of the steamer, while the foam spreads out on either side like a fan, and the scud and spray fly over her in a cloud.
The steamer and life-boat make their way to the Gull Lightship, where they learn that a schooner has been seen in distress, bearing south-south-west, supposed to be on the South Sand Head.
On through the giant seas and driving surf, in the very teeth of the gale, they make gallant way, and are about to take up a position from which the life-boat can dash in through the broken water to the rescue of the crew.
A large Deal lugger is beating up to windward from the neighbourhood of the Sands, they speak her, and learn that she has rescued the crew of the schooner.
The lugger, one of the finest of all the noble boats that sail from Deal beach, had, some time before the schooner got into such a dangerous position, sheered alongside her, at no slight risk, and as she shot by, the crew had jumped into her, forgetting in their hurry and excitement the flag of distress which they had left flying high, pleading still, and not in vain, for help that was no longer needed. Nothing can be done for the schooner; driving fast, she soon begins to thump on the Sands; darkness settles down upon her, the fierce waves have her for their prey, and in the morning not one remaining fragment of her is to be seen; she has been torn utterly to pieces, and what the tide has not swept away, the Sands have completely buried.
The steamer and life-boat, when they leave the schooner to her fate, make for a barque, which, with main and mizen masts cut away, seems, although she is in great danger, to have a chance of weathering the storm.
The wind is too heavy, and the tide too strong, for the steamer to be able to tow her into a safer position; her crew have already made their escape, and she is left in turn, but not, as it proves, to meet the fate of the schooner, for she successfully rides out the gale.
A further cruise round the Sands, to see if their services are required by any distressed vessel, and they make again for Ramsgate, which they reach about half-past six. The steamer and life-boat are moored, ready for any fresh call which may be made for their services, the probability of which seems very great, and all the men remain on the alert.
In such a storm anxious watchers are on the look-out at all the stations round the coast. Boatmen under the protection of boat-houses, or boats, or grouped together at friendly corners, are keeping a steadfast watch upon the seas. One or two every now and then take a few strides into the open for a wider range of view, and then back again to cover. The coastguard-men, sheltered in nooks of the cliff, or behind rocks, or breasting the storm on the drear Sands as they walk their solitary beat, peer out into the darkness watching for those signals from the sea—the gun flash, or the gleam of the rocket, which while they speak hope to the imperilled, tell to those on shore of lives in danger—of those who must speedily be rescued, or must die.
Or the watchers listen for the dull throb of the signal gun, the sign of wild warfare, and struggles for life mid the charges and conflicts of breaking waves and dashing seas, a signal that the waiting Storm Warriors instantly accept, and rush into the contest to snatch their dying brethren from the arms of the enemy that is too strong for them.
Sometimes the telegraph wires speed the message of distress along the coast, as happened one stormy New Year's Eve, when a ship was seen off Deal beach in almost a blaze of light, burning tar-barrels, and firing rockets to tell of her distress; an intervening fog seemed to prevent the look-out on board the light-vessel seeing her, and some boatmen on Deal beach, who could not possibly get their boats off the sands in the face of the strong gale blowing straight on shore, put their halfpence together to pay for a telegraph message—the messages were dearer then than they are now—and sent their swiftest runner to telegraph to Ramsgate; and after all, there was some unfortunate mistake, and fatal delay, and a telegram at last sent for further particulars, which was answered with a demand for urgent speed, and away then flew steamer and life-boat, and they neared the wreck, and rounded to, to send the life-boat in, when some of the boatmen thought they heard an agonising shriek, and others thought it was only the wail of the storm; but they looked, and the great green seas swept over the wreck, turned her right over, and she was seen no more, and twenty-eight lives went to their account. A piteous New Year's tale it was that was told next morning; a boat's crew got away from the ship soon after she struck, and battling through the broken seas, made way before the wind to Dover, and they told the story, that the lost vessel had picked up a shipwrecked crew, who were thus a second time wrecked, and at the second time lost; and that more of the crew would have come away in the boat, and in other boats, but it was a great risk, and there was a Deal pilot on board who pointed out the danger; and said that the Ramsgate life-boat was certain to be out to their rescue, they might be sure of her; and so they stayed and lighted tar-barrel after tar-barrel, and fired rocket after rocket; and when the sea washed their signal fires out, and swept the decks, they took to the rigging, and waited for the life-boat; and as they waited the poor Deal pilot could watch the light on the beach, by the house where slept his wife and eight children, who were to call him husband—father—no more.
The life-boat men scarcely liked to speak of the agony and disappointment it was to them to be thus just too late; no fault of theirs, poor fellows; they would, if they could, have sooner swum to the wreck, if that were of any use, than have been too late to save the poor perishing lives.
There was an official inquiry into the matter made by the authorities in London, and it was decided that no one was to blame; that it was one of those unfortunate occurrences which never would have happened, like many others, if people could only be as wise before an event as they are after, and which no one could regret more than those who were in any way the unfortunate, and of course most unintentional, agents of bringing it about.
And now to proceed with the adventures of the life-boat on the night in question.
About a quarter past eight in the evening, the harbour-master of Ramsgate receives a telegram. It tells its tale in its own short way, and the harbour-master learns that round the stormy North Foreland, some miles to westward of Margate, the Prince's light-ship is firing guns and rockets, and that the Tongue light-ship is repeating the signals.
The vigilant coastguard-man who had first noticed the signals hurried to Margate with the tidings; but there the fine life-boats are powerless to help. The wind is blowing a hurricane from west-north-west, and drives such a tremendous sea upon the shore that no boat whatever could possibly get off and work its way out to sea; it would merely be rolled back upon the beach in the attempt.
The coastguard at Margate at once saw how impossible it would be to render the required aid from Margate, and hastened to send a telegram to Ramsgate calling for help. The harbour-master there receives it, and now hurried action at once takes the place of wistful anxious waiting.
For hours the steamer and life-boat have quietly rested in the sheltered harbour, lifting gently to the small waves that have been playing against their sides. The men for hours have been gazing out into the darkness, watching for signals, and listening to the roar of the gale, and to the murmur and tumult of the tumbling waves. The expected challenge comes. Ready! all ready! is the answer, and they rush to action at once, without waiting for one moment to consider whether a challenge to such strife should, or should not, be accepted.
They know the hardships and peril of the work upon which they are called; but they know the other side of the question also; and it would make many comparatively useless lives as noble as are the lives of many of these poor boatmen, if all would only consider the result of good work, as well as the labour, and forget the trouble, or personal hardships of the labour, in the keen hope to realize the desired result. And these boatmen, as they have been crouching down under shelter of the pier wall, watching the progress of the storm, have had many a memory, and many a vision, to occupy their thoughts and stir their anxious courage; memories of brave fellows plucked from the very grasp of death; and visions of that which they well know how to picture; brother sailors perhaps clinging to the spars of a shattered wreck, while the wild waves leap around and only a few fragments of creaking yielding timber shield the poor men from their fury, and from death.
They know the power of the waves to tear the strongest ships to pieces in a few hours, and are ready, all ready, for any stern deadly wrestle with the fury of the storm, for the rescue of those who stand in such dread need of help.
The order is given, and the usual rush to the life-boat takes place.
The regular Ramsgate boatmen have not, this time, the race for the boat all to themselves; the Adder revenue-cutter is in the harbour, and two of her men get into the life-boat, and with ten boatmen and the coxswain, the crew is made up. The men on board the steam-tug Aid are prompt as usual, and within half-an-hour from the giving of the order the steamer and life-boat are out to the rescue, again fighting their way through broken seas, and breasting the full fury of the gale.
Imagine the picture that was shrouded in the thick darkness of that wild night.
The steamer is strong and powerfully built, and has never failed in any of her struggles with the storm, but has in every part worked true and well; and this when failure in crank, rod, or rivet, might have been death to many lives. Seek to imagine this brave little steamer at her perilous work. Thrown up and down like a plaything by the mighty sea, now half buried in the wash of surf, or poised for a moment on the broad crest of a huge wave, and again shooting bows under into the trough, rolling and pitching and staggering in the storm, but still battling on true to her purpose. Still onward and onward she goes; the beat of the paddles, the roar of the steam-pipe, the throb of the engines, mingling with the hoarse blast of the gale, and the lash and hiss of the surf and fleeting spray; while to the watchers on shore, her light flitting here and there as she rolls and tosses, alone tell of her progress.
The life-boat is almost burrowing her way through the spray and foam. Each man bends low on his seat, and holds fast by thwart or gunwale. The wind has changed, and the boat is being towed in the face of the gale and sea, and does not ride over the waves as easily as she would if she were under canvas only, but is dragged on and on, plunging through the crests of the seas. "It was just like as if a fire-engine was playing upon my back, not in a steady stream, but with a great burst of water at every pump," said one of the men whose station was in the bow.
It is a wild sea; the waves and surf that break against the bows of the big ships that are at anchor in the Downs send their spray flying high, almost to the topmast heads; so it may well be imagined how the heavy seas nearly smother the steamer and life-boat as they breast all their force, heading against the gale. Now the waves rush over the bow, and again a cross wave catches the side of the boat, throws her almost on her side, sweeps bodily over her; while she pitches and rolls with a motion quick as that of a plunging horse. But the men know her well, and trust her thoroughly; and with a firm hold and stout hearts they resolutely journey onwards.
Now, the wind veers a little, and the high cliffs somewhat break its force, and the men feel less the power of the gale; but still the wind is almost directly ahead, and the ebb tide is running against them with great strength. Every yard of advance is won by a struggle with the seas, as the steamer Aid pants and beats her way onward. But still it is won, and all hands are content. At last they get round the North Foreland, and begin to feel that they are nearing the scene of action.
The rain ceases, and the clouds of flying scud lift a little. It is still pitch dark, but free from mist and rain—clear dark, as they call it.
The men see the Margate Pier, and the town lights, which shine out steadily and clearly; and it seems to them a strange contrast as they look from their rough post of danger, action, and hardship, upon the town resting in quiet peace, unconscious of the storm.
They make for the Tongue light-ship, which is stationed about nine miles from Margate. Every five minutes the darkness of the horizon is broken by the flash of a rocket which is thrown up by the light-ship. It goes flying up against the gale, and bursting, gives a moment's gleam as its stars caught by the fierce wind, pass away, floating in a short stream of light to leeward. The steamer's crew make for the light-ship, looking anxiously the while in all directions for any signal which may guide them more directly to the vessel in distress; but they see none, and so speed on towards the light-ship.
As the steamer passes her on the lee side, as slowly and as near as possible, the coxswain is told that signals had been seen from the high part of the Shingle sand bank, supposed to be from a large vessel in distress.
The life-boat in turn sheers near the light-vessel in passing, and hears the same report.
Again they urge their way, struggling onward in the gale; but they can see no sign of a vessel, and no vestige of a wreck.
Perilous and anxious is the work as they feel their way along the very edge of the dangerous Sands; the roar of the gale is too great for any cries of distress to be heard. The hull of the vessel may be overrun with the seas, and the crew, clinging to the masts or rigging, be utterly unable to give any signals by firing guns or rockets, or by showing lights; and the night is so dark, that from the life-boat they can only see a few yards ahead. The men are most anxiously on the look-out; each time that the boat rises high upon a sea, they try their utmost to peer through the darkness by which they are surrounded. No! the breakers gleam white, and the steamer's light is tossing to and fro with every pitch and roll of the vessel; but nothing more can they make out. And the anxiety of the men, both on board the steamer and the life-boat, becomes greater and greater; they do not like to leave the neighbourhood of the Sands without thoroughly examining it, fearing that in doing so they may leave behind them, to a despair rendered more terrible, and to a death rendered more bitter by the false hopes that had been excited, some poor fellows clinging desperately to a few fragments of trembling wreck. But still they can see nothing and can hear nothing of either wreck or crew; either the vessel must have gone utterly to pieces, or the men on board the Tongue light-ship have been mistaken in the position of the signals they have seen.
As the men are listening intensely for the faintest signal or cry of distress, they fancy that they hear the booming of a distant gun, fired at intervals. Now in a lull in the storm they hear it more distinctly, and see in the far distance the flashing of a rocket-light. Watching and listening still, they soon discover that the Prince's and Girdler light-ships are at the same time repeating signals of distress. They must give up their present search, and hasten to the rescue where such urgent demands are being made for their help. Their consolation is, that at all events they can do nothing more in the utter darkness in searching for the wreck, which they have been already so long looking for in vain; and before daylight, or soon after, they can probably be back to resume their search after having, as they hope, done good work in the interval. At all events, they must be off; and off they go, leaving, as it proved, a crew of storm-beaten men in as desperate a position as it was well possible for men to be. They think it best to make for the Prince's light-ship first, and on arriving there they are told that a large ship has been seen making signals. They think that she is on the Girdler Sands, but she may be on the Shingles. Away again in the darkness they speed on their noble mission. At last they plainly discern a light on the south part of the Shingles; they make for it, but only to be again disappointed. It is the light of the steam tug Friend of all Nations, which is lying-to under the lee of the Shingles to be protected from the rush of the seas. But here they are somewhat repaid for their efforts, for they learn beyond doubt that the vessel in distress is a large ship on the Girdler Sands; and more than this, that another large ship, disabled and in great distress, had been seen driving down the Deeps, a very narrow channel between the Shingle and the Long Sand. It must have been signals from this latter vessel which had been seen by the men on board the Tongue light-ship. They are unwilling to pass on their way to the Girdler without making an effort to find the vessel which had been seen in such great distress, and which, in every probability, had gone ashore somewhere in the neighbourhood. So they make a cruise in the direction of the Deeps. They search narrowly, but in vain, and at last hurry away as the Girdler light-ship still continues to fire heavy guns. At last their long, persevering, and hazardous search is crowned with success. Upon nearing the Girdler light-ship, they see on the Sands the flare of blazing tar-barrels; they know these must be the signals made by the vessel that has run on the Sands. At once every man forgets all about his many hours of exposure to wet, cold, and exertion, and wakens up to full strength and vigour; and all begin at once to make preparations for going into the rescue.
The steamer is obliged to steer clear of the broken water, not only because of the danger of grounding, but also because of the wildness of the seas as they break upon the Sands, as their surf would be quite sufficient to sweep her decks and swamp her. She skirts the breakers and tows the life-boat well to windward. The men on board the boat watch their opportunity; and as soon as they find themselves in the right position for reaching the wreck, they cast off the tow-rope, and the wind and sea at once swing the boat's head round, and she plunges into the midst of the broken water which is rushing over the Sands.
It is a desperate strife of waters, and into the very thick of the fray, straight as an arrow, the boat rushes. The strength of the gale is so great, the men only dare to hoist a close-reefed foresail; but swiftly it bears the boat along. At times the boat is so overrun with broken water and surf that the men can scarcely breathe. They, however, cling resolutely to the boat, and again and again she shakes herself free of water, and the men straighten themselves for a moment, draw a few long breaths, when again they meet a tangle of broken waves. Down into the trough of the troubled seas the boat plunges, and over her and her crew the waves again rush in all directions; and thus she undauntedly works her way to the wreck.
It is one o'clock in the morning; the moon gleams out through the gulfs in the dark deep clouds which sweep swiftly across her path.
The men see a large ship hard and fast on the Sands and in a perfect boil of waters. The tremendous seas surge around her, and as they wildly leap against her shake her from stem to stern; the spray is flying over her in great sheets, and mingles with the dark masses of smoke, which rise in thick clouds from the flaming tar-barrels, while smoke and spray are swept swiftly to leeward by the force of the wind. The vessel is making all possible signals of distress; the fierce gale has driven her, at each lift of the sea, higher and higher upon the Sands, until she has reached the highest part, and there has grounded fast. As the tide fell the waves could no longer lift the ship, and let her crash down upon the sand, else long since she would have been utterly broken to pieces.
The boat makes in for the ship, the people on board see her, and cries and cheers of joy greet her approach. The foresail is lowered, the anchor thrown overboard, and the boat fast sheers in towards the vessel, which they find to be an emigrant ship crowded with passengers.
The cable goes out by the run, and is too soon exhausted, for with a jerk it brings the boat up within sixty feet of the vessel. As the poor emigrants see the boat stop short, their cries for help are frantic, and sound dismally in the boatmen's ears, as slowly and laboriously they haul in the cable, and with much trouble get up their anchor, before making another attempt to get alongside the ship. In the meantime they answer the cries of the people with shouts to encourage them, and the moon shining out, the emigrants see that they are not deserted. The sea is so heavy, and the boat's anchor has taken so firm a hold, that it is a long time before they can get it up; at last they succeed, and now sail within fifty fathoms of the vessel, before they heave the anchor overboard again.
It is necessary if they are to windward of a vessel to let the anchor down as far as possible from her, that they may get plenty of sea-room when they haul up to it again, so that when they set sail they may have space enough to sail clear of the vessel upon which the seas would throw the boat bodily, if they did not allow themselves room to steer a course which shall be clear of her.
They let the cable out gradually and drop alongside; they get a hawser from the bow, and another from the stern of the vessel, and by these they are enabled to keep the boat moderately well in position, the man on board hauling and veering on the ropes, and upon the boat's cable attached to the anchor, so as to keep the boat sufficiently near without letting her strike against the sides of the vessel, and this, in the broken seas and rapid tide, is a matter of no small difficulty. The ship is the Fusilier, bound from London to Australia; her captain and pilot shout out to the men on board the boat, "How many can you carry? we have more than one hundred souls on board, more than sixty women and children." And it is with no little dismay that the terrified passengers look down upon the boat half buried in spray, and wonder how she could by any possibility be the means of rescuing such a crowd of people. The men answer from the boat that they have a steamer near, and that they will take off the passengers and crew in parties to her. Two of the life-boat men, as the boat lifts on the top of a sea, make a sprint, catch hold of the man-ropes and climb on board the ship. "Who comes here?" shouts the captain, as the two boatmen, clad in their oilskin overalls, with their cork belts on, and pale and half exhausted with their long battling with wind and sea, jump from the bulwarks amid the excited passengers who crowd the deck. "Two men from the life-boat," is the reply, and the passengers throng round them, seize them by the hands, and some even cling to them with an energy of fear, that requires considerable force to overcome. The light from the ship's lamps and the faint moonlight reveal the mass of people on board, and the terrible state of exhaustion and fear that most of them are in; some are deadly pale and terror-stricken, their eyes wildly staring, and trembling in every limb; some are in a fainting condition, and are supported by friends, who half forget their own terrors in their efforts to console the sufferers who seem to need it most; the wild shrieks of some of the poor women pierce the gale, while others of the passengers are quiet and resigned, but their pale and firm looks and clasped hands suggest the depth of the emotions that they are at such pains to control. It has been a long long night of terror and most anxious suspense, and many of those who have held up bravely during its hours of danger and almost of despair, now break down at the crisis of the life-boat's arrival. But the night has not been one of unreasoning fear with all. There are those on board who, filled with a calm heroism, have by their example of holy faith exerted great influence for good among their fellow-passengers—one woman especially, who has been for some time employed by a religious society in London, visiting among the poor, proves herself well fitted for scenes of danger and distress. Gathering many around her, she read and prayed with them; and often as the wild blasts shook the vessel to the keel, there mingled with the roar of the storm the strains of hymns, and many poor creatures gathered consolation and confidence as they were led to look, from their own perfect helplessness and weakness, to the Almighty arm of a loving God; and many, who had already learnt to know and to feel those truths which take the sting from death, were encouraged to draw nearer to place their full reliance upon the sufficient atonement of Him who has declared, "I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and he that believeth in me shall never die." Thus there was light in the darkness and songs in the night, and the voice speaking mid the tempest said, "Peace, be still;" and many felt, although the warring elements still raged, a calm, which recklessness may assume, but which faith alone can give at such an hour. This is no fancy sketch, no effort to drag in a bit of attempted pathos. One hundred immortal souls were momentarily expecting the summons which should launch them into eternity; and a most terrible shade in the tragic picture it would indeed have been, had not any of that throng been prepared for the summons by the exercise of earnest humble faith—if by all of them the expected messenger, who seemed to linger minute by minute upon the threshold, was dreaded only with a despairing fear, as the King of Terrors, if not any were prepared to welcome him calmly as the messenger of Peace.
But now the life-boat men are upon the deck—a prospect of safety dawns upon all—a wild scene of excitement for a moment prevails, and there is a rush made for the gangway of the ship. Mothers shriek for their children; husbands strive to push their wives through the throng, and children are trodden down in the rush.
It is a few moments before the excitement ceases, and the captain can exercise any authority; but the emigrants, checked for a minute, regain self-control, fall back from the side of the vessel, and await for orders.
"How many will the life-boat carry?" the captain asks the life-boat men. "Between twenty and thirty at each trip," is the answer. "There is a very nasty dangerous sea and surf over the Sands, if too crowded we may get some washed out of her."
It is at once decided, as a matter of course, that the women and children shall be taken first, and the crew prepare to get them into the boat.
Two sailors are slung in bow-lines over the side of the vessel to help the women down. The boat ranges to and fro in the rush of the tide, the men do their utmost to check its sheering, hauling and easing in turn the hawsers which are passed from the ship to the bow and stern of the boat, but there is no keeping her for one moment steady; now she veers right away from the vessel as far as the cable will let her, and again comes in upon a rush of sea as if to crush herself against the wreck; up she is lifted on the crest of a wave to almost the level of the ship's deck, and down again plunges as the wave passes, many feet below, and leaves a deep and dismal gulf of tumbled sea and foam between her and the ship.
It is a terrible scene; the crowd of helpless frightened people, and the comparatively small boat, tossed wildly in the rage of maddened waves, their one hope of rescue; and it is dangerous and difficult work getting the people into the boat; it would have been quite difficult and dangerous enough if all had been active and resolute sailors accustomed to scenes of danger, but how much more so, when a large proportion of those to be saved are helpless women, some aged and infirm!
The women who are mothers are called first; one is led to the gangway, and shrinks back from the scene before her. The boat is lifted up on a big wave, the men stand on the thwarts with outstretched arms, ready to catch her if she falls, but the next moment the boat drops into the wild waste of water many feet below, and is half covered with a rush of foam.
No wonder that the poor woman shrieks with terror, and seeks to struggle back on to the deck of the vessel; no time for persuasion, she is urged forcibly over the gangway, and now hangs in mid-air, held by the two men who are suspended over the side by ropes; as the boat rises again, the boatmen, who stand ready to catch her, cry, "Let go!" The two men do so, but the woman, in her terror, clings to one with a frantic grasp, and the next moment, as the boat falls away from the side of the vessel—oh! must she not fall into the sea? for the man to whom she is clinging cannot hold her as she is; one of the active prompt boatmen sees her danger, makes a spring, grasps her by the heel, drags her from her hold, catches her in his arms in her fall, and both of them roll over into the boat, their fall broken by the men who stand ready to catch them. The half insensible woman is quickly passed to the stern of the boat and thus she is saved. Now, they are ready again, for all are anxious that not a moment shall be lost; the number to be rescued, and the time that must of necessity be occupied in going to and from the steamer, makes every minute a question of life and death.
Again, up the boat rises; the woman who is being urged forward makes a half spring, and is got into the boat without much trouble.
The next time the boat rises she does not come well alongside, she rather falls short and sheers off. A woman is being held over the side by the two men: "Don't let go, Jack; don't let go!" the woman struggles, the position of the men is so awkward that they cannot hold her firmly, and she is struggling from their grasp, while the mad waves leap below, and if she falls she must at once be swept away by them, and down she does fall, but at that moment the boat sheers in again, just enough to enable one of the men to grasp the clothes of the woman and to drag her, as she falls, on to the side of the boat, and she too is saved.
Again to work; another woman, she is sobbing, and cries out piteously, "Oh! don't shake me; be careful, don't hurt me!" Poor creature! she is very near her confinement; down she falls from the hands of the men who are holding her into the arms of the boatmen, and rolls over into the bottom of the boat. Some of the husbands on board throw blankets down to the poor half-dressed women in the boat; the blankets are rolled into bundles that the wind may not carry them away. Some of the women in the boat are crying aloud for their children; a passenger rushes frantically to the gangway, cries, "Here, here!" and thrusts a big bundle into the hands of one of the sailors, who supposes it to be merely a blanket which the man intends for his wife in the boat. "Here, Bill, catch!" the sailor shouts and throws the bundle to a boatman who is standing up in the boat; he just succeeds in catching it, as it is in the point of falling into the sea, and is thunderstruck to hear a baby's cry proceed from it, while there is a shriek from a woman, "My child! my child!" as she springs forward, and snatches it from him, which tells, indeed, of the greatness of the danger through which the poor little thing has passed. In spite of all the boatmen's care and labour the boat every now and then lurches with a tremendous thump against the ship's side, and would be stove in but for the massive cork fenders which surround her, and still she is leaping and tossing about; now high as the main chains of the ship, now low in the trough of a big sea, the hollow of which is so deep that it leaves but little water between the bottom of the boat and the sands; but with all eager haste the men work on, and at last, after many hair-breadth escapes, and some heavy falls, thirty women and children are got on board, and the boat is declared to be full.
The boatmen cast off the hawsers from her bow and stern, and begin to haul in hard upon the cable. They draw the boat up to the anchor with much difficulty, for as the range of cable gets shorter, the boat jerks and pitches a great deal in the rush of the short waves, and in the swing of the tide. The anchor is up at last; the sails are hoisted; the boat feels her helm, gathers way swiftly, and shoots clear of the ship. A faint and half-hearted cheer greets them as they pass astern of the vessel; the remaining passengers watch them with wistful and somewhat anxious glances as they plunge on through sea and foam. Away the boat bounds before the fierce gale—on through the flying surf and boiling sea—on, although the waves leap over her and fill her with their spray.
Buoyantly she rises and shakes herself free, staggering as a cross wave mid the broken water dashes itself against her bows; tossing her stern high as she climbs the waves' tall crests, then pitching almost bows under as the rolling waves pass under her stern; and lurching heavily on her side as she sinks into the trough of the sea. It is, in spite of their hope, a dread time for the poor women and children on board her, with those whom they love as themselves, left, they almost fear, to perish on the wreck, and while to themselves death at every moment seems very near; trembling with cold and excitement, they crowd together, and hold on to the boat, to each other, to anything; it is hard to think of safety while the boiling seas foam so fiercely around, ready, it seems, at any moment to overwhelm and bury the boat in their fierce waves. And the poor women take a more convulsive and firm grasp, as every now and then the men see a giant cross sea heading towards them, and give a quick warning cry—"Hold on!" and the sea comes with a clean sweep over the boat, almost washing them out of her.
The steamer, as has been said, towed the life-boat well to windward, that she might have a fair wind before which to run in for the wreck, but as soon as the life-boat left the steamer, away she speeded round to the other side of the Sands, to leeward of the wreck, that the boat might again have a fair wind to her as she comes from the wreck, and she now lays to, awaiting the boat's return.
On she comes; the broken water is now passed; the air is full of scud and spray, but the cross seas overrun her no longer; she is in deep water, and the exhausted emigrants begin to raise their heads and look about them; they could not have endured that continual breaking of the waves and rush of water over them much longer; how their hearts lift with joy as they hear the cheering voices of the men, and have the lights of the steamer pointed out to them, shining bright and near!
Thus, with thirty women and children, their first sheave of the harvest to be gathered from death, the life-boat men run their boat alongside the Aid. The steamer is put athwart the seas, to form a break-water for the boat, which comes under her lee; the roll of the steamer, the pitching of the boat, the wild wind and sea, with the darkness of the night only faintly broken by the light of the steamer's lanterns, render it a somewhat difficult matter to get the women out of the boat. As the boat rises the men lift up a woman and steady her for a moment on the gunwale, two men on the steamer catch her by the arms as she comes up within reach, and she is dragged up the side on to the deck. There is here also no time for ceremony; a moment's hesitation, and the poor creature might have a limb crushed between the steamer and the boat. As each woman is thus got on deck, two men half lead half carry her to the cabin below.
One woman struggles to get back to the boat, crying for her child, the men do not understand her in the roar of the gale, and she is gently forced below; again the rolled-up blanket appears, it is handed into the steamer, and is about to be dropped upon the deck, when half-a-dozen voices shout out, "There is a baby in the blanket!" and it is carried down into the cabin, and received by the poor weeping mother with a great outburst of joy.
"God bless you! God bless you!" she exclaims to the man, and then blesses and praises God out of the abundant fulness of her heart.
Some of the poor women are completely overcome by the reaction which takes possession of them now that they find themselves in safety; they had been comparatively calm and resigned during their hours of hardship and danger; now they realise the nature of the peril to which they have been exposed, and in which many whom they love are still placed. Some throw themselves on the cabin floor, weeping and sobbing; some cling to the sailors, begging and entreating them to save their husbands and children who are on board the wreck; while others can do little else than offer up some simple form of prayer and praise to God.
Instantly that the boat is freed from her passengers she drops astern of the steamer, and is towed round the sands, to get again into position to make a second trip to the vessel; and when the straining cable is let go, and her sail hoisted, she heads round, gathers way, and bounds in like a greyhound through the troubled sea towards the wreck. A slant of wind comes and drives her from her course, and she fails in reaching the ship, and makes for the open water. The steamer speedily picks her up, tows her into a more favourable position, and the boat soon gets again alongside the vessel.
There are still on board more women and children than will fill the boat, and they have to leave some half-a-dozen behind. All the old difficulties in getting the women down the side of the vessel into the life-boat are repeated, although the wind has now fallen a little. They make for the steamer, and as each new comer is handed down into the cabin, the anxiety of those who are eagerly looking for some loved one is great indeed, and the meetings again, after so dread a separation, are naturally very affecting.
For the third time the boat makes to the ship, and now brings away the remaining passengers. The cabin of the steamer is full of women and children in every stage of exhaustion and excitement; and they are all very thankful to God for the full answer vouchsafed to the earnest prayers of the previous night.
It has taken more than three hours to get the emigrants on board the steamer; there has been additional delay created by the boat twice failing to reach the ship, but this very delay, which at the time seemed so unfortunate, was, under God's providence, the means of saving further life.
The life-boat again makes for the Fusilier to see what the crew of the vessel will do, whether they will abandon the vessel at once, or wait to see the result of a change in the weather which seems to promise. They get alongside; the gale has gone down very considerably, and the tide has been falling fast for some time. The ship being light, has not received so much injury from the thumping on the ground as they anticipated; and, as she is high up on the sands, the tide has left her the sooner, so that she has settled down in shallow water, and there is now, therefore, no immediate danger; although, should the wind get up with the returning tide, she may be very speedily beaten to pieces.
The captain of the ship thinks that if the wind goes down she may possibly be got off at the next high tide, as she has not been much knocked about; but while he is unwilling to abandon the vessel while there is a chance of her being rescued, he feels the greatness of the risk, and wishes the life-boat to remain alongside him. It is nearly day-light; the night is clear, and the wind still blowing very hard, although the fierceness of the gale seems expended.
The life-boat makes her way to the steamer, and takes orders to be given at Ramsgate to send luggers with anchors and cables, that every effort may be made to get the ship off, if the weather continues to moderate. The boat then returns and lies by the ship, while the steamer, heavily freighted with rescued emigrants, makes the best of her way towards Ramsgate.