Few places in the world, if any, have proved the scene of more daring sailor-life than Deal beach. Generation after generation of boatmen have passed away, having spent their lives, from early boyhood, in continuous strife with the swift tide, strong seas, and rolling surf that race through the channels off Deal, and break upon the Goodwin, or upon the Shingle beach.
Other antagonists the old days used to provide, and the young men's hands grew hard with handling the bow, or spear, or javelin, or the musket, cutlass, or boarding-pike, as well as with handling the tiller and the ropes.
In the days of old, the Northern Sea Kings were, to the east coast of England, like clouds on the horizon, ever threatening a storm, but without any indication as to where the storm would break.
The coast of Kent was especially open to their attacks; they came down like wolves on the fold; a bright sunny morning, a bowling northerly breeze, a few specks on the horizon standing out darkly with the clear dawn behind them.
A few hours, and the Norsemen were at work; a fishing-village, wrecked and half buried in ruins, some of its stout defenders lying gashed and ghastly among its smoking embers; trembling fugitives still hurrying inland with a few of their lighter and more treasured goods, and the marauders holding swift and triumphant debauch upon the shore, as with rude cries of mirth and victory, they prepare to start seaward again before time can be found to gather forces to make any attack upon them, or any efforts can be made to regain the plunder the hardy robbers have obtained, or to revenge the slaughter they have worked.
The Romans, when they were lords of the land, felt the necessity of resisting these roving Sea Kings in a determined and organised manner; they formed nine military stations along the coast, and placed all under the command of an officer, to whom they gave the sounding title of Count of the Saxon Shore.
Four of these stations were in Kent—Reculver, Richborough, Dover, and Lymne. Remains of the Roman fortifications still bear witness that they were intended in defence from an enemy whose power was not lightly esteemed.
This military organisation of the Romans was afterwards developed into the establishment of the Cinque Ports and their respective members, the jurisdiction of which embraced a coast line from Reculver to Hastings.
The inhabitants of the Cinque Ports well earned and fully obtained great honour in the old days. The free men of the ports were styled barons, and held rank among the nobility of the kingdom. They stood the vanguard of defence against all England's continental enemies, and their service is thus described by Mr. Boys in his 'History of Sandwich':
"The inhabitants were always on the watch to prevent invasion; their militia were in constant readiness for action, and their vessels stout and warlike, so that, in Edward the First's time, they alone equipped a fleet of one hundred sail, and gave such a blow to the maritime power of France as to clear the Channel of those restless and insidious invaders. The state depended upon them for the safety of its coast-line and towns, and their services went by no means unrewarded; an encouragement they had always been accustomed to receive, and this for commercial as well as for warlike enterprise, as by the wisdom of our Saxon ancestors, a merchant who had at his own expense three times freighted vessels with home produce was entitled to the rank of thane or baron. The Barons of the Cinque Ports walked in procession at the coronations of the kings and queens, and at the feast of the coronation had an especial table allotted to them in Westminster Hall at the right of the king; this privilege was preserved up to the time of the coronation of George the Third."
All this is evident and sufficient testimony of the nature and extent of the services of our coast heroes in defence of their country; and still the enterprise and daring continue, and bold, vigilant warfare goes on, although defence against a foreign foe has long ceased to be its first consideration. In later times, indeed, the revenue officers unfortunately, and to no small extent, took the place of the foreign foe in the minds and labours of by no means a few of the boatmen and inhabitants of these towns situated so conveniently adjacent to the Continent; and the enterprise and labours of the boatmen were no less daring, if less patriotic than in former days, and smuggling was elevated into as organized a business as fishing is now: one writer rather quaintly remarks, "Yet even this smuggling is not without its utility, for however the revenue may suffer, it gives birth to a very intrepid race of seamen, who are of the greatest service in relieving others from the dangers which befall shipping on this coast in bad weather."
Certainly the boatmen of Deal beach are not now, and probably never have been, surpassed for skill and daring.
If they can by any possibility get their famous luggers out to sea, no hurricane daunts them; their splendid boats glide over the seas, escaping the broken water—now high on the wave, now buried in the trough—and look like so many strong-winged gulls, as they seem almost to play with the storm.
Falconer, in his 'Shipwreck,' pays the following tribute to the skill and courage of the boatmen:
Let us take a peep at Deal beach, and try to realize some of the scenes that are there to be witnessed.
Suppose a fine clear winter's day. A gentle south-westerly breeze has been blowing on and off for several days; many ships have found their way out of the Thames, or have beaten down helped by the tides from the North Sea, and having reached the Downs there ride safely at anchor; the ships-boats, or the galley punts, as the small Deal boats are called, are doing the little work that is to be done, and the large luggers are drawn high upon the beach.
The boatmen are lounging about the beach here and there, or they are smoothing the shingle down with shovels, where the tide has heaped it up, to give the luggers a fair run down into the sea in the event of their being wanted; tanned sails are spread abroad upon the shingle drying, women hang about knitting and watching the ships at anchor for any signal for a boat; at times there is a move down the beach to help a boat that is coming ashore out of the surf and to drag it up high and dry.
The wind gets a slant to the south-east as the tide ebbs, and at once all are alert in the fleet of ships at anchor in the Downs, that have been waiting for a fair breeze. There is a hurry to the beach of all officers, sailors, or passengers that may be ashore; the last supply of fresh provisions is taken on board those ships on which the Captain can afford to be luxurious: you can hear the orders shouted, the capstans at work; jibs are set, topsails loosened, the anchors got up and catted, the sails let fall, and away the ships go down Channel; a fresh northerly breeze bowls along and lasts some days, the outward bound ships go flying through the Downs with top-gallant sails set; and except that they land a few pilots, there is nothing whatever for the Deal men to do.
At last a change of weather promises, the homeward-bound are to have a turn; the outward-bound must anchor in the Downs and wait a while. The French coast shows out clearly, the gulls are whirling about uttering shrill plaintive cries; the boatmen watch the sunset, greyish white streaky clouds are gathering in the west, the sun looks sheer, is the boatmen's word for it, and as the long rays of light break through the clouds—ah! yes, we shall have a change of wind and weather. "The sun is setting up his backstays." "Bright skies make dirty ways;" and before daylight closes the men overhaul their luggers and see that everything is ready for a sudden start, should their services be needed.
A mizzling rain comes on, the wind is round to the westward and freshening; some of the vessels which have been among the last to pass Deal bound to the southward, give up the hope of getting down Channel in the face of the freshening breeze, and return to find anchorage in the Downs.
It is a likely night for work, and the boatmen get ready for a cruise; everything is prepared to launch one of the large luggers; she is now drawn up high upon the beach; her crew of fifteen men hasten to get ready for sea. It is a dark and squally winter's morning, about one o'clock; fourteen of the men are now on board, each at his station; one man stands ready to cut the lashing of the stop which holds the boat in position on the ways; they wait till a squall passes; the word is given, the lashing cut, the man springs to the gunwale of the boat, and climbs on board. Scarcely has he tumbled over the side when the boat rushes down the greased ways and is launched into the surf; the mizen is already set, the foresail is hoisted with all speed, and the boat speeds on her way seaward.
As the day comes the breeze freshens, and many luggers are cruising about, speaking the vessels at anchor, or the vessels running through the Downs, ready to offer any assistance in their power; upon some of the vessels they put men to pilot them into Ramsgate harbour, or round the North Foreland into the Margate Roads.
Or if the wind has blown heavily, there will be generally some vessels that have lost their anchors and cables, and the boatmen will receive orders to supply fresh ones.
There is sometimes a degree of surprise expressed at the amount claimed by a boat's crew for taking an anchor and cable off to a vessel in distress; it requires some knowledge of the work to appreciate its danger, and how hardly and well the money awarded is generally earned.
Consider, as an example, the case of the Albion lugger, as it happened during the gale, some of the incidents of which we are about to relate.
The Albion during her cruise meets with a vessel which is driving before the increasing storm; she has lost both her anchors and cables, and the lugger receives orders to supply her from the shore; the hardy crew receive the order gladly, put the lugger round, and beat through the heavy seas, making for Deal. They have to force the boat against wind and tide, and much skill is required to prevent her being filled by the rising seas which sweep around her; now she rushes upon the beach, the surf breaks over her and half fills her with water; with a tremendous thump and shake, she strikes the shore with her iron keel.
As the wave which bore the lugger in upon the beach recedes, a man springs overboard from the bow with a rope in his hand; many catch hold of the rope, and haul their hardest to keep the boat straight, head on to the beach; there is a stem strap—a chain running through a hole in the front part of the keel; a boatman watches his opportunity, and as a wave sweeps back, rushes down and passes a rope through the loop of the strap; the other end of this rope is fastened to a powerful capstan, which is placed high up on the beach. "Man the capstan! Heave with a will," and the strong men strain at the capstan bars until the capstan creaks again. There is no starting the lugger; she is so full of water from the surf breaking on the beach, that she is too heavy for the men at one capstan to move her; ropes are led down from two other capstans, and rove through a snatch block fastened to a boat on the beach; all put out their strength, round they tramp with a "ho! heave ho!" and slowly the lugger travels up the beach, and is safe from the roll of the breakers. The men get the water out of her, haul her higher up on to a swivel platform, turn her round head to the sea, and the leading hands hurry away to inquire about an anchor and cable. The agent supplies them with such as seem suitable for the size of the vessel, and which will perhaps weigh together about seven tons.
There is no small amount of labour attached to getting the anchor and chain cable on board the lugger, but in a short time all are again ready for sea.
The gale has rapidly increased in force, and a frightful surf is running on the beach; the roar of the breakers on the shingle, the howling of the storm, the gleam of white foam, shining out of the mist and gloom, all picture the wildness of the storm, but the undaunted boatmen do not hesitate; all is ready, the signal given, the boat rushes down the steep ways, and is launched into the sea. A breaking wave rolls in swiftly, it meets the bow of the lugger in its rush, fills her; for a moment the big boat runs under water, and then is lifted and twisted like a toy in the grasp of the sea, and is thrown in the heave of the wave broadside on to the beach; a cry of horror from all on shore, and a rush down to aid the crew, who are all—there are fifteen of them—struggling in the surf; now the men are washed up by the wave, and feel the ground, and stagger forward; now they are caught again by a breaker and rolled over; it is for each of them a terrible battle with the fierce seas; here, one gets on his feet and stumbles forward, he is caught by the men on shore and dragged up the beach; there, a man is lying struggling on the shingle, trying in vain to rise, exhausted and confused; two men seize his collar and pull him forward a yard or two, then get him to his feet, and he escapes the next wave, which would have washed him out to sea again. Now all the men seem to be saved; names are shouted—do all answer? no! there is one missing; all rush to the water's edge, and gaze into the darkness; eagerly watching each shadow mid the surf; there he is! no! yes it is! there lifting on the surf; there rolling over: "Quick, quick, form a line!" and the brave boatmen grasp each other's hands with iron strength and form a chain, the lowest of the four or five men at the sea end of the chain being in the water; the waves battle with them, but sturdily they persevere; at last the body is within the reach of the seaward man, he grasps it, the men are dragged up the beach, and the poor insensible man is carried ashore. Alive? or dead? they cannot say, and with a great fear in their hearts they carry him hurriedly up the beach, and soon, to the great joy of all, he gives signs of life, and gradually recovers.
In the meanwhile the poor boatmen on the beach have nothing that they can do, but watch their fine boat, which was worth five hundred pounds, being torn, and hammered to pieces in the surf, plank after plank is wrenched from her, now with a loud crash she is broken in half, the two halves part, the anchor and cable fall through her, they can see part of the fore-peak with one side torn away, floating in the breakers; soon that also is rent to pieces, and nothing but fragments of the boat float in the surf, or are strewn about the beach, and the boatmen, heavy-hearted, but thankful that they have escaped with their lives, go slowly to their homes, to rest for a few hours, and recruit their strength, and then to be ready to form part of the crew of any other boat, and at the first summons to rush out again to the encounter with the stormiest seas.
In a narrative of adventure and conflict with the seas that rage over the Goodwin Sands, it would not be well to refrain from bearing testimony to how readily, how gallantly, the men of Deal, of Broadstairs, of Walmer, and of Kingsdown, as well as of Ramsgate, man their respective life-boats, whenever the call is made for their services, and race out to the scene of action, full of hardihood, of skill, of courage—true Storm Warriors, ever ready to dare all and do all that they may rescue the drowning from a watery grave.
At daylight, in the morning after the destruction of the Albion lugger, the weather grows worse and worse; the grey misty gloom that hangs over the sea is scarcely broken by the swift gleams of light that find a faint way through the fast drifting clouds.
And the weather continues to grow more tempestuous still as the night grows on. Many ships come scudding northward before the gale; they make the South Sand Head light, and steer their course for the narrow Gull channel that runs between the Goodwin and Brake Sands. The South Sands Head light-ship is moored at the southern extremity of the Goodwin Sands; it is about three miles from the South Foreland light.
In thick misty weather, which so often prevails in the Channel during westerly gales in winter time, it is often very difficult for vessels to make either of these lights.
And as the edge of the Goodwin Sands is very steep at this part, and has deep water close to it, keeping the lead going scarcely affords sufficient protection, for between two casts of the lead a vessel running fast may well pass out of deep water on to the Sands, and there be lost.
So it often happens that vessels running through the Downs in such weather, suddenly find themselves in a position of great peril.
On the night in question, the men on board the light-ship keep an especially vigilant watch, as the darkness of the night adds to the gloom which spreads its folds over the raging sea, and the direction and force of the wind, and the many ships that are flying before the gale, suggest the probability of disaster.
About midnight, the men on watch make out, in the lift of the mist, a fine brig not far from them, driving before the gale, and making straight for the Sands; the alarm is given, and a gun at once fired to give the unfortunate crew warning of their danger.
The look-out men fancy, by the changing of the position of the brig's lights, that the crew are making an effort to alter the vessel's course, and to weather the Sands; but it is too late! nothing can save her! The crew of the light-ship lose sight of her in the darkness, and make all ready to signal for the life-boat to come to the rescue of her crew; they wait a minute or two, watching, in the direction they think the brig must strike, for the usual signals of distress, and almost immediately see the bright flare of a tar-barrel; they fire a signal-gun from the light-ship, and its warning voice booms loudly above the storm; then they send up rockets; the shipwrecked are thus encouraged to hope, while the ready boatmen on shore are called to action.
The signals are seen at the Walmer life-boat station, one mile from Deal; and at the Kingsdown station, three miles from Deal; at both places the call is promptly and eagerly obeyed; the life-boats are got ready with all haste; they are speedily manned and launched, and struggle their way through the boiling surf, which is rolling upon the beach. They spread all the canvas they can stagger under, and the two boats fly before the gale straight for the light-ship; there they learn the position in which the signals of distress were seen, and cruise round the edge of the Goodwin in all the fierce tumble of sea, and skirt the ring of surf which marks where the rollers are breaking with terrible force upon the Sands; but they can obtain no guide, no clue to where the wreck is; no signal light shines out of that drear darkness pleading for help, and no sound can the men hear, listen as they will, other than the ceaseless roar of the storm. Still the brave boatmen will not abandon the search, and for some hours the boats continue their vain efforts.
The crew of the Kingsdown boat determine at last that further search is useless, and as it is not possible for them to beat back to their distant station in the teeth of the gale, they run for Ramsgate, arriving there just before dawn. The Walmer boat continues cruising in the neighbourhood of the Sands until after daylight, when her crew, seeing no signs of the wreck, also determine to make for the shore.
The seas have been steadily increasing in violence, and are now running very high, and as they curl and break, the crest of each wave is caught by the fierce wind, and dispersed in a cloud of spray.
Bravely the boat sails on through the troubled seas; she is constantly overrun by the waves, and filled with water, but each time she speedily regains all her buoyancy, and bounds on over the seas. The men have almost too much confidence in her, as if no amount of sea and wind could possibly capsize her; they carry on a press of canvas, until the stout masts bend and the ropes strain again, and they make the sheet fast; but now a fierce huge wave comes rushing along, catches the boat broadside on, lifts the boat high on its crest, and then completely curls her over and passes, leaving the boat capsized, and all the men struggling in the water.
But it is however only a passing victory, after all, that the sea can boast over the life-boat; at once she rights herself, gets rid of the water that fills her, and rides upon the seas as bravely as ever.
Happily all the men have on their cork jackets, and in them they float breast high; never was there such a wild dance as they now seem to dance; tossed high and poised for a moment on the cone of a leaping wave, again engulfed in the hollow trough of a sea, with a wall of tumbling water all around; rising and falling in quick succession, their arms beating broken time as they struggle to swim towards the boat, which begins to drift fast away; it is fortunate that some of the men have retained hold of the life-lines, the ends of which are fastened to the boat, by these they haul themselves alongside her, and all soon succeed in getting on board.
Away again through the Downs, across the high rolling seas, making for the shore, but their troubles are not yet at an end; a blast of wind, fiercer than its fellows, strikes the sail, the boat careens over; at that moment a huge wave leaps on the boat, strikes it with such force and so high, that it fills the sail with water and drives the boat bodily over, and the second time she is capsized, and the men, before they have recovered from the exhaustion caused by their former struggle, are the second time plunged into the sea, to find themselves battling for their lives with the waves. The cork jackets keep them afloat as before, but the waves run over them, and they are almost smothered in clouds of foam, until they are thoroughly worn out by the rush and beat of the seas which break over their heads. Up and down, tumbling here and there in the turmoil of the seas, pale and gasping for breath, almost too faint to make any struggle to regain the boat, becoming rapidly unconscious; this time the wild dance mid the raging seas becomes truly too much like a dance of death.
Happily a powerful Deal lugger is near the scene of the disaster; her crew at once do their best to pick up and return to the life-boat those of the men who are themselves unable to gain it.
The life-boat, self-righted, is floating high on the waves quite ready for action as soon as her crew can again take charge of her, and speed her on in her course.
The men are, at last, all once more on board, the boat is again got under weigh, and speeds safely to the land.
But how, all this while, fared the unfortunate crew of the vessel, in the vain effort to render assistance to whom the life-boat men had incurred such hardship and peril.
The unfortunate ship was the brig Linda: the captain fancied the ship was in a safe course, free from any immediate danger; the storm fog was too thick for them to see the land, or any of the numerous signal lights that guard the coast, but they kept the lead going, and sped on before the gale; suddenly all hands are alike startled and terrified by the loud report of a gun fired quite close to them, and at seeing the light of a light-vessel very near; they at once realize their danger, for they know that the dread Goodwin Sands must be right under their lee; with frantic haste they attempt to wear the ship, but it is too late; as she feels the helm she plunges in among the surf, crashes upon the Sands, and the great seas begin to fly over her; the ship must be lost, it is beyond all hope that she can be saved; is there any hope for the crew? They will not despair, or be lost without making what small efforts they are able to obtain assistance; they know, from the violence with which the ship rises and thumps upon the Sands, that she must very speedily go to pieces. They get a tar-barrel, fill it with canvas, grease, and rags, light it, and have the satisfaction of seeing it flare up with a brilliant flame; that, at all events, must sufficiently penetrate the surrounding darkness and gloom to make known their distress to the neighbouring light-vessel.
Again, and almost immediately, they hear the loud boom of the gun; but as previously it seemed to them the signal of death, so now it affords them a faint—a very faint hope; rockets too are fired by the light-vessel; surely the signals will be heard and seen on shore, and the life-boat will come out in search of them; but where will they be then? There is no time—no time; the seas are washing over the deck, the fierce fire of the tar-barrel is at once extinguished, and the men hasten to take refuge from the sweeping seas in the cross-trees and shrouds of the masts. Seven men spring to the foremast shrouds, and climb to the cross-trees, the captain and four men cling to the mainmast; time after time the vessel lifts and falls with a crash that wrenches her from stem to stern, and makes all her timbers groan and rend, and nearly shakes the sailors from their hold. Now the ship begins to work and writhe, the timbers break with loud reports, planks are wrenched from her side in the fierce tear of the sea, stout iron bolts are torn from their hold and twisted like so much thread—the ship is breaking up fast; the masts sway about, the men have to hold on their hardest to prevent being shaken into the sea, so are they tossed and swung about in the roll of the mast and the sway of the vessel. Each wave leaping higher than those that have gone before, seems to claim them for its prey; everything on the deck is swept away; the deck itself opens, the water gets down into the hold, and soon the deck breaks up, and pieces float away in the wash of the sea; the bulwarks are torn off, and now a piece of the side of the vessel is wrenched away; the vessel must be torn to fragments in a few short minutes, and death seems very near to all the crew.
A tremendous wave rushes over the wreck, a crash louder than a thunder peal; the foremast has broken off close to the deck, it falls over; a few loud despairing cries, and the seven poor fellows who clung to the mast are hurled into the sea, and are at once lost in the wild rage of water.
The five men on the mainmast shudder in their terror and despair, and cling closer and closer to the mast as it sways and jerks from side to side; there may be a few minutes yet to live; they think of home and wife and children, and hold on the more convulsively while the seas break over them with increasing violence; it takes but a short time, and the wreck beneath them seems in absolute fragments; the poop-deck is wrenched up, and a large piece of it is torn away; at the next sea the wreck heels over, the mainmast is carried away, and the captain and the four men are hurled from it into the sea; the captain is thrown against a large fragment of deck with such force that both his legs are broken; he, however, manages to hold on to the piece of wreck, the other four men are also swept to it, and there cling; they find themselves surrounded by the hundred fragments of wreck into which the stout brig has been so rapidly torn.
The tide sweeps away the piece of deck to which the five men are so desperately clinging—away from the scene of the sad, swift, tragedy, and, by God's mercy, into an eddy of the current away from the surf and breakers which are thundering down in all their fury upon the Sands, and which would have swept the poor sailors at once to destruction if their frail raft had come within their reach. Away in the rough but not now broken seas the men are borne, their only hope the shattered, heaving piece of wreck that forms their raft; the horrors of the dark night are added to by the roar of the breakers as they crash down upon the Sands, and the poor sailors know not but that at any moment they may be met by some fresh eddy of the swift tide, and swept into the midst of that fatal surf. The fierce gale howls over them, the men are exhausted and hopeless, but they manage to lash the captain to the piece of wreck, his two broken legs make him faint and sick with agony; and on and on they float during the long dreary hours of the night.
They pass the Gull light-ship, watch its bright and, to them, mocking light, then they are carried to the north-east of the Sands; there they meet the changing tide, and it sets them to the southward, and, to their great joy, away from the fatal Goodwin, away in the direction of Calais, the seas still wash over them. The agony of the captain is almost unendurable, as every wash of the sea, every heave of the frail piece of wreck jars his broken legs; the men have their nails torn from their fingers with the desperate energy with which they clutch the smooth timbers of the piece of deck on which they are lying. Hour after hour passes, and for fifteen hours they thus float about, cold and wet, and wounded, and faint with hunger and thirst; the poor fellows become almost unconscious, and can only just manage to hold on mechanically to their frail support; the morning passes, and they have no energy to look for a passing sail, and no means of signalling if they saw one.
Suddenly a loud shout surprises them, and they lift their heads and see, with boundless joy, a large cutter almost alongside the raft; they seem called back from death, and begin to arouse themselves from the swoon into which they were all so rapidly sinking.
The cutter is a pilot-boat from Antwerp; they are got on board her not without much difficulty, so helpless are they, and so high is the sea still running; the kind-hearted Belgians have every pity for the most miserable condition of the poor men, and do all they can to restore them; as soon as possible the pilots land them at Deal, and they are taken to the hospital and receive all possible medical care and attention; they soon revive, the captain's broken limbs are set, and he ultimately recovers; and while they mourn over the sad loss of their comrades, they cannot feel too much wonder, or be too deeply thankful, for their own most marvellous escape.
We left, in our last chapter, the Kingsdown life-boat making for Ramsgate harbour, and the Walmer life-boat, after a couple of upsets, making for Deal beach. The Kingsdown boat reached Ramsgate about seven o'clock in the morning, the gale still blowing very heavily.
Shortly after seven o'clock signals are heard from the Gull light-ship; and the coxswain of the Ramsgate life-boat receives orders from the harbour-master to proceed at once to sea,—the steamer as usual taking her in tow: the sea is very heavy, and the air thick with rain and spray. The steamer and life-boat work their way out through the storm, and find a brig riding at anchor in the Gull stream, not far from the light-ship; she has a flag hoisted at her peak as a signal, and they make for her; the crew tell them, that shortly before, in a lift in the storm, they saw a ship on the north-west spit of the Goodwin; the life-boat cruises in the direction pointed out, but the crew can see nothing of the wrecked vessel, so they proceed to the Gull light-ship, hoping there to obtain further information. The men find the crew of the light-ship anxiously watching for their approach; they crowd aft as the steamer and life-boat passes under the stern of the vessel, and make signals to describe the position of the wreck; the boatmen soon discover it, and as soon as they have been towed into the right position for so doing, slip from the steamer, and make in for the stranded vessel.
It is now nearly low tide. As they approach, they find that the wreck is high and dry on a ridge of sand: nearer still, and they see a man walking towards them on the sand, waving a large shawl; the life-boat is steered towards him, and choosing a place where the surf is breaking with less force, they run the boat on to the sands; three of the crew jump overboard and wade through the surf; they join the man on the Sands, and make for the wreck; the heavy seas have driven the Sands into high ridges, and the gullies between these are waist-deep and full of running water, with the sand soft and quick at the bottom; through these deep gullies the men have to wade.
Arriving at the wreck, they find it to be that of a brigantine, named the Amoor. At about eleven o'clock of the night previous, in the dark mist and heavy gale, she had run on the Sands at nearly high tide, the sea immediately ran over the vessel, and the crew had no time to make a single signal of distress, but had directly to climb up into the main rigging to prevent being washed overboard. Fortunately the ship was stem on to the Sands, with her stern to the wind and tide, and she kept straight—and as she was laden with coals, she kept upright on her keel. As the tide rose, the waves in their rush lifted the wreck and carried her gradually on and on, letting her fall after each lift with a heavy shock that made it difficult for the men to retain their hold. Then the seas broke over her so heavily that the men feared that they would be washed even from their position in the main rigging, and managed to get on to the foremast; here they found more shelter. For about four miles did the ship thus beat over the Sands, and the men felt, with a great and deep thankfulness, that if they had had the guidance of her themselves, they could not have kept her more straight in her course along the narrow high ridge of the sand than she was kept by God's providence, for if the vessel had been carried to the right or to the left of that narrow ridge of sand, she would have got into deep water, and then must have sunk immediately, so much was her hull shattered, and all her crew would of necessity have been at once drowned.
But the agony of mind and the suspense endured this time by the men was something terrible. They could scarcely feel any hope that the wreck would long sustain the terrible shocks that she was receiving. They looked down upon the mad waves as they raced by, and each one seemed a ready grave; there was nothing to be done, no fierce struggle for life, which in its excitement should lessen the terrors of the apparently approaching death, only to cling on and wait in the darkness.
And now they feel that the end must soon come, for they hear the surf roaring near; it is roaring on the edge of the Sands, the waves rushing in from the deep water and breaking upon the Sands, and this right in the path along which their vessel is being driven yard by yard. A little more and she must be plunged in this surf, and then a few yards, and she must sink in deep water; and as thousands upon thousands have earnestly prayed that they might be kept off these deadly sands, so these poor sailors now earnestly seek that they may be left on them, until daylight comes, and their pitiable position may be seen, and they have a chance of being saved.
They are now within a quarter of a mile of the end of the sand, but the tide is falling rapidly, and the wreck lifts less and less; at last, to the great joy of all her crew, she grounds heavily and ceases to lift. She is swung round broadside to the tide, and falls over on her side, and then works and crashes almost to pieces. The water now soon leaves her, and she becomes high and dry, and speedily the men can leave the wreck and stand upon the sand; the surf rages around them at a short distance; it is only for a few hours that where they now stand will be dry, and then the sea will rage over the sand again with all its fury. The captain is a bold, active determined man; he will throw away no chance of safety; something must be done before the return of tide, and he will lose no time. The captain and crew can form no opinion as to where they are; the vessel is an absolute wreck, beaten by this time almost to fragments, they have no means of signalling their distress, and it seems that their only chance will be to make a raft out of the many shattered pieces of timber that are hanging about the wreck; the boats have long since been destroyed and washed away. The shipwrecked crew have only their knives to work with, but they commence with all energy, wrenching away the broken timbers from the deck and sides of the vessel, cutting away the ropes, lashing the timbers together. But with their utmost efforts they can make but slow progress, and they feel that their raft, when as hastily completed, as it must be, will be but a frail support in the rage of waters with which it will have to contend, as soon as the sea again beats over the Sands; but still on that dry knoll of sand, in almost pitch darkness, with the wind howling by them, and the roar of the breaking waves all around, the men work on and on. The poor storm-beaten, wearied men, feel faint and exhausted, but spare no labour, slack no energy, for the tide will turn with the dawn, and then, as an enemy creeping up to destroy them, will, in its speedy advance, give them short time for labour, and scant mercy, when it once seizes them as its prey. The dawn has broken, the tide is rising, and each man is inspired to fresh exertions. Suddenly, they are all startled by the loud report of a gun, fired at no great distance from them. What is it? What is it? they all cry. Soon a rocket goes whizzing up into the grey misty clouds. Is it a signal from some unfortunate vessel in distress similar to that which they are in? At all events that feeling of intense and hopeless solitude which almost overcame them, seemed disturbed, and whilst they eagerly work on, they at the same time keep a sharp look out in the direction from which the signals have been given; they are soon able to make out that it is a light-vessel that is signalling; this fills them with hope; they must have been seen by the watch on board, and it is on their account that the signal must have been made; but still they will not abate any of their efforts, the life-boat may not be able to reach them, or she may not be out in time to save them; at all events, with the tide creeping up as it is, they will not lose a chance, and go on busily constructing the raft. They have made considerable progress, having lashed a good many spars crosswise, and pieces of bulwark over them, when they discover a steamer's smoke not far off, and soon after make out a boat, which must be a life-boat, making in over the seas towards them; one man makes for the edge of the Sands, and soon the boat grounds not far from him, and three boatmen wade towards him.
The boatmen, when they reach the raft, find the men getting some provisions on to it, but all the stores have been under water during the night, and are spoilt. The joy of the shipwrecked men at the arrival of the boatmen is intense. "Thank God! that you have come," said the captain; "I did not at all expect that any of us would have been alive this morning."
A strange meeting it seems, in that wild stormy morning, there, on the centre of the Goodwin Sands, where the waves had raged so furiously a few hours before, and would in a few hours rage so furiously again; there, where the shipwrecked had expected to die a tragical death, the sailors and the boatmen stand greeting each other; the life-boatmen rejoicing almost as much at being there ready to save the poor sailors, as they are at the prospect of being saved; the ship's crew look down upon their raft, and feel indeed what a poor protection it must have proved in the storm which they would have had to encounter.
The crew of the wrecked vessel, now that the excitement of working with such fierce energy at the raft is over, begin to feel the reaction, and feel thoroughly exhausted, and look so worn and weather beaten, as if the death shade, which had seemed to hover over them for so many hours, had left its impress upon the countenance of each.
A few more words of greeting and thankfulness between the castaways and the rescuers, and all prepare to find their way across the Sands to the life-boat. The life-boatmen first climb on board the wreck, to see if they can find any small things which they can save for the men, but every moveable thing seems to have been washed out of the vessel; they find the cabin broken and crushed up, but manage to drag a few of the captain's clothes out of it; they find a dog on board, which they save. And now all turn their backs upon the wreck.
The shipwrecked sailors have become very feeble, and some of them are scarcely able to drag their limbs along, and require to be held up on both sides as they wade through the shallow channels of water, many of which they have to cross on their way to the boat.
They hurry on as fast as they can, for the weather is very uncertain, and a mist or snow-squall coming on would put them in the greatest possible peril, for they would in that case very speedily be lost among the gullies, which are half filled with water, and which stretch in all directions across the Sands at low water; and the boatmen know what it would be to be lost there; with the sand getting soft and quick beneath their feet as the tide rose, and with the narrowing belt of surf each moment drawing nearer and nearer, there to wander hopelessly for a short time, then to be scarcely able to move as the sands grew quick, and then to fall an easy prey to the fierce sweep of the first breaker that rolled in upon them. It is no wonder that the boatmen look with dread upon the increasing gloom of the morning, and hurry the men on as much as possible; they make out the life-boat, and with much difficulty and exertion they get to the edge of the Sands.
The life-boat is at anchor with ten fathoms of chain out; the heavy breakers are rolling in and lifting her with such violence as they sweep on, that at each lift she drags her anchor, and beats further and further over the spit of sand upon which the waves are expending their first fury. The surf flies over the boat, fills her, and then rages on in clouds of foam. The men on board are anxiously looking for the return of their comrades with the shipwrecked crew, and greatly rejoice as they see the groups of men struggling across the Sands to the boat. They soon make out how exhausted the shipwrecked men are, and feel that it will be very hard work for them to wade through the surf to the boat. Some of the boatmen get life lines ready to throw to any that may be overpowered and thrown down by the wind and tide, others jump overboard to go to the assistance of the enfeebled sailors. It is bitterly cold, and the water, as they wade through it, feels as if it would freeze them through and through; they bring off the shipwrecked crew one by one, the more exhausted of them being supported on both sides between two life-boat men; at last all are on board, but they cannot yet leave the sands; they must wait until the water is high enough to float the life-boat over the ridge which surrounds her. All are shivering with cold and wet; they crouch in the boat and protect themselves as well as they can from the flying surf; a long weary hour is thus passed; the tide rises sufficiently, sail is set, and the life-boat makes for the steam-boat, and is greeted with cheers—cheers that are heartily answered. The shipwrecked sailors, who had had during the night no hope of again giving a cry of joy on earth, join in as lustily as they can, in that cry which, sounding over the wild seas, tells of noble deeds in struggling to save life, and of happy and most blessed results. That although the storm still swept furiously by, and although the waves still rushed madly around the shipwrecked, that they were now safe in the safety afforded by the noble life-boat. So safe, indeed, that it was not too soon for the poor sailors to rejoice in their rescue, and to express with heartfelt cheer their gratitude to the brave men who had rescued them from their position of deadly peril.
The steamer does not take long in towing the boat to Ramsgate, where all receive the usual warm greeting, and the shipwrecked the needful care.
The crew of the wrecked vessel, the Amoor of Elswick, are Germans; their consul takes care of them, and sends them to the Sailors' Home.
They proved so thankful for the rescue effected, that they wrote to their home authorities, and the life-boat men soon received from the Grand Duke of Mecklenburg Schwerin an expression of gratitude and admiration for their conduct, accompanied by a Silver Medal, a Certificate of Merit, and ten shillings each man.