The case of La Marguerite, a small French brig that was rescued from great peril by a Margate lugger, assisted by the Ramsgate steamer and life-boat, will perhaps convey a sufficient idea of the difficulty and danger that frequently occur in rescuing vessels from positions of peril, and in bringing them in their damaged condition safely into port.
La Marguerite, a small French brig of 187 tons, is owned by her captain, an honest and brave French seaman, and represents to him a great part of the savings of many years' hard work and economy.
She is bound from Christiana to Dieppe with a cargo of deals; her hold is full, and her deck piled up and hampered with cargo almost to the level of her gunwale.
But on she goes rolling through the seas, with a fair wind and fine weather, and her crew suffer only that amount of discomfort which must always be the case when the deck of a vessel is so crowded with cargo.
The fresh breeze increases in force, and threatens a storm; the men close reef the topsails and speed on their way; they make the Orfordness light on the Essex coast, and then, correcting their course, steer for the Knock and Galloper lights, which are stationed to guard sands so named, and which are situated about eighteen miles from the North Foreland. The breeze lulls a little, and they shake out a reef in the sails; it is now getting somewhat thick—they soon make out a couple of lights, but they shine so dimly through the mists that the crew conclude that they are only fishermen's lights, and shaking out another reef, they run fast before the wind, carefully steering their course by the compass; but all this time a strong set of tide has been carrying them to the northward and westward; this they have not discovered, and are quite unaware that they are getting into a dangerous neighbourhood.
The captain is on deck; he is well-pleased at the prospect of making a rapid voyage, and seeing that the night is likely to be wet and squally, he gives his crew an extra glass of grog all round and goes below, taking a last look at the compass, and feeling fully assured that they are steering a straight course home.
In an hour or two the men on deck have their attention aroused by a hoarse murmur which seems right a head of them, and which sounds like the noise of waves breaking upon the shore. They look at the compass, their course is correct, they cannot account for it; a couple of men run forward, and soon see distinctly a white line of foam gleaming out in the darkness, and make out the flash of the breakers as they leap high in the air; they are terror-stricken at the sight, and, with a loud cry of "Breakers ahead! breakers ahead!" they rush to the hatchway and shout to the captain to come on deck at once; he, poor man, rushes up and hurries to the wheel, round it flies, but before he can get the brig's head round, she mounts upon a breaker, is thrown forward and grounds heavily upon the Sands.
Where are they? Where can they be? What horrible mistake have they made? they think they must have run somewhere on the mainland, on the Kent coast; one man proposes to swim ashore with a rope, but the seas come sweeping over them with a degree of violence, that quite does away with any thought of making such an attempt. They hurry to the long boat to try and get it out, but it and the only other boat which is in the brig are speedily swept over board by the seas. The vessel is on the edge of the sands and feels all the force of the waves as they roll in and leap and break upon the bank; with every inrush of the seas she lifts high and pitches, crashing her bow down on the sands, each time with a thump that makes her timbers groan, and almost sends the men flying from the deck.
As the big waves recoil and leap against her in all directions she rolls heavily, while her masts sway, and her yard-arms almost touch the water on either side.
The tide is rising, and as she lifts she beats each time a yard or two over the Sands; the timbers, piled upon her decks, speedily break loose and are washed away; the hull is writhing and working very badly—her seams open; and so heavily does she strike, that time after time the captain thinks that she must soon break up. This thrashing over the Sands lasts for about twenty minutes, when they find that she is in deep water, but completely water-logged, and torn and wrenched almost to pieces; her rudder is knocked away, and if her cargo were anything but deals she would sink at once, and all would be instantly drowned; as it is, so long as her timbers will hold together her cargo will keep her afloat, and her crew are comparatively safe. But she is by no means a strongly-built vessel, and could not by any possibility stand much more of the thumping and wrenching which she has just gone through, while beating over the Sands.
The captain is still unable to make out where they are; they get a heave of the lead, and find that they are in thirteen fathoms of water; it must be a sandbank in the middle of a channel that they have just beaten over—they had better anchor at once for fear the ship should be driven upon another bank.
"Is the anchor clear?"
"No," cries the mate. (It is neglect of such matters as these that loses many a fine ship.)
"Get the anchor and cable clear, then, as quickly as you can, or we shall be on the sands again; for although the brig is water-logged, the wind is driving her fast, and the tide is running with great speed." After some delay they get the anchor overboard, and the brig rides to it, head to wind.
The men gather together in the stern of the vessel, and group round the captain, and as there is no work to be done to keep up their excitement, they the more fully realize their danger, and begin to express their fears.
They speak of their wives and children, and bemoan their own probable fate.
The captain is the greatest sufferer, and the bravest hearted of them all.
"Look at me!" he replies. "Have not I got a wife? Have I not got six children? Do I want to be taken from them, any more than you do from yours? Besides, this is my own ship, you know that, and you know that she is all I have got—all I have worked and saved for; if I lose her, I lose all I have, and am a poor man again; you may be sure I'll do all I can to save the ship and our lives too."
But the men watch how severely the brig pitches in the heavy seas. The cable strains as if it would tear itself out of the ship, and the men are afraid it will part, or the anchor drag, and think the ship would ride more easily if her masts were cut away; they urge the captain to have it done; but the ship is not insured, and he, poor man, knows how great must be the expense of repairing her if she is saved, and naturally does not wish to increase that expense by losing her masts, so for some time he resists their entreaties; but at last is forced to give an unwilling consent to have the foremast cut away. The carpenter seizes the hatchet, a few heavy blows, and a great notch gapes in the mast, they cut the weather shrouds, and after the ship has given two or three heavy rolls, the mast goes over with a loud crash, falling well over the side clear of the vessel; one man receives a nasty gash in the cheek, from a splinter from the falling mast, but is not much hurt. They cut the rigging of the mast from the vessel, and the mast is speedily carried astern by the tide.
The brig certainly now rides more easily; the night passes on, and very long and weary the hours seem. The vessel sinks lower and lower in the water, right down, indeed, to her deck lining. The captain and the crew know how weak she is (like some of the small timber ships, she has no lower hold beams), and they fear that as she is full of water, the buoyancy of the timber cargo may break up her deck, for she is almost all to pieces already, and if the deck bursts, she will break up at once.
All hands, therefore, watch eagerly for the daylight, and as soon as they are able to see, begin to make a raft; there are a goodly number of eleven-feet deals stowed on deck which have been jambed too tight to be washed away by the seas, and the crew begin to lash these together as rapidly as they can, although, from the rolling and pitching of the vessel and from the seas washing so frequently over the deck, it is a matter of great difficulty to do so.
As soon as it is daylight the wreck is seen from Margate, and all is at once astir down by the jetty and the pier; the life-boat is speedily manned and gets under weigh, and two fine luggers race with her to get first to the vessel.
But it is a long beat to windward, and against a fresh gale and strong tide, and it is doubtful whether either of the boats will be able to reach the wreck, at all events, before the turn of the tide, or at the least, slack water. The luggers have, as a matter of course, a sufficient amount of ballast on board, and are in good sailing trim. The life-boat cannot be so heavily ballasted, or she would sink when filled with water, or beat to pieces when grounding on the Sands among the broken seas; the luggers therefore, make to windward much better than the life-boat can, and leave her astern, the life-boat crew soon find that it will be impossible for them to reach the wreck, and return to Margate; the luggers persevere, and one of them runs alongside the brig in fine style; the men on board the other lugger think that the brig is drifting and not at anchor, they therefore make too far to leeward, astern of her, and cannot beat up into position again.
The men from the first lugger spring on board the wreck; they find that she is greatly damaged, and working very heavily as she rolls gunwale under; they think she would ride easier with her remaining mast gone, and try to persuade the captain to let them cut it away, but he stoutly refuses his permission, and the Margate men make the best of it, as it is.
They get the anchor up, and passing a hawser on board the lugger, seek to tow the brig away from the Sands; knowing the Sands as well as they do, they hope to be able to get clear of them and get the brig into deep water; but it is very difficult work, for with her rudder gone there is no power of steering her, and the weight of the lugger is scarcely sufficient to keep her head straight: they make a little progress, however, the tide being somewhat in their favour, but the tide is on the turn, and they will soon be driven back into their old position, if not in worse, and the men begin almost to despair of saving the vessel, when to their great satisfaction they see the Ramsgate steamboat and life-boat making their way round the North Foreland.
The coastguard officer at Margate, when he saw that the Margate life-boat could not reach the brig, and knowing that if any sea got up where the vessel was, that the luggers could be of no use, telegraphed to Ramsgate that a vessel was on the Knock Sands.
The steamer and life-boat get under weigh at once, and proceed as fast as possible to the rescue; there is a nasty sea running off Ramsgate, but it is not until they get to the North Foreland that they feel the full force of the gale—here the sea is tremendous, and as the steamer pitches to it, the waves that break upon her bows fly right over her funnel—indeed she buries herself so much in the seas that they have to ease her speed considerably to prevent her being completely overrun by them.
No one on board the boat knows where they are being towed; "a telegram from Margate," was the first news "the life-boat wanted;" and then in the hurry and excitement to get under weigh with all possible speed, no one on board had thought of asking for further particulars.
The life-boat plunges on, and her crew are ready for the work whatever it is, and wherever it is. As they round the North Foreland they see a brig, with her foremast gone, in tow of a lugger.
The boatmen cast off the steamer's tow-rope and make for the brig; they run in close under her lee, and venture too near to her; she is rolling so heavily that her yard-arm comes right over the boat, and the loose ropes swaying about catch in the boat's mast; they cannot get the mast down, and the brig hangs so heavily they fear that she is going to capsize right upon them; an active fellow severs the entangled rope with a hatchet, the brig slowly rolls up again, and the life-boat drops astern.
The boatmen get on board the brig; there are six of the lugger's men on board; they find that the lugger is quite unable to make any way with the wreck, and as the tide is on the turn, the vessel is in great peril, for the Sands are just under her lee; no time must be lost, they signal to the steamer to come at once, the life-boatmen take a hawser on board her, and she begins to tow the brig away from the Sands; but the brig's rudder is gone, and she is sheering right and left, jerking the hawser at the end of each sheer with a strain hard enough to break it, and the foremast being cut away, the men cannot carry sail to steady her; she must be steered by the boats.
The life-boat and lugger drop astern, each having a rope from the opposite quarter of the wreck. The steamer moves ahead, and as the brig begins to sheer in one direction, both boats steer in the opposite direction, and turning their broadsides to the vessel as much as possible, hang with all their weight, and try and keep her stern straight; then as the vessel sheers again in the other direction, away the boats immediately make across her stern, to check her on the other side.
It is difficult and perilous work, this swiftly sheering across the brig's stern in the heavy tumble of sea and strong gale, for the boats can carry no sails to steady them, or they would not be able to sheer quickly from one direction to the other; and thus they are in constant danger of coming into violent collision with each other, and once they strike together very heavily.
The French crew on board the brig are utterly exhausted with fatigue and excitement, and are quite ready to leave their vessel in the hands of the English boatmen. The men get the anchor and cable clear and ready for use if wanted; it is of no good attempting anything with the pumps, for the wreck is water-logged; and away the brig goes plunging and rolling with the seas washing over her decks, which are scarcely out of the water, and the two boats sheering and tossing astern, all being towed by the gallant little steamer.
As the brig gets good way on her, it is easier to steer her by means of the boats; but still they do not dare attempt to take her through the narrow Cud channel, they therefore find their way through the Gull stream, and round the small Brake-buoy, and then make up for the entrance of Ramsgate harbour. But the tide has not been long on the flood, and the strong northerly wind is checking it; and so they doubt whether there is water enough to take her into the harbour, and wait until they can see the red light showing on the west pier-head; this is the signal that there is ten feet of water at the harbour mouth; the weather is so thick that they cannot for some time see the light, and it has been up for at least an hour before they can make it out.
They regret every moment's delay, for although it is of no use attempting to enter the harbour before there is abundance of depth of water, yet the tide is making more and more strongly every minute, and it will be a matter of increasing difficulty to steer the brig, in her present helpless condition, across the strong tide, and through the heavy seas, into the narrow entrance of the harbour.
As they tow the wreck near to the harbour they shorten the steamers hawser to give the brig less scope for sheering; and as there is not room for both the lugger and the life-boat to hang astern and help the brig steer, the life-boat casts off and makes in to the harbour.
In spite of the rough cold night, the interest in life-boat work is too great for all sympathisers to be driven away from the pier-head; and there is a crowd there ready to watch the boat's return, and to welcome the men with a cheer.
The steamer approaches cautiously, the brig's head is straight, and she seems well under command; a couple of minutes more and all will be safe, when suddenly the rush of tide catches the wreck on the bow; she overpowers the lugger which is towing astern; round her head flies; she lurches heavily forward, and strikes the east pier-head just outside the bend; crash goes her jibboom; in vain the steamer tows its hardest, she is in the grasp of a strong tide and leaping sea, and again she pitches and plunges heavily against the pier: with a terrible wrench her bowsprit breaks off short; again, and again, she strikes as she drifts round the pier; her figurehead is crushed, her stem broken and twisted, her forefoot torn off, and sweeping round she grounds on the Sands almost alongside the pier, on the outer side, grinding and rubbing her sides against the massive granite walls at each heave and work of the sea.
The change of scene on the pier is very sudden, and very great; at one moment the people were cheering the crews of the life-boat and steamer upon the apparently successful ending of their labours; the next, and the work of the brave fellows seems almost more than undone; and there is quick dread peril, and deadly strife, and a wild outcry of fear, and a very wildness of excitement, in the place of apparent safety and congratulation. The people on the pier can look down upon the men on board the brig, can see them clinging to the wreck as the seas break over them, can hear the brig grinding and thumping against the pier as if she would at once break up.
Some of the lookers-on run for the life-buoys, which are hanging upon the parapet of the pier and on the pier-house, and throw them down to the men on board the brig, others get ropes, and throwing one end down, shout to the men to make themselves fast, that they will haul them up.
The poor Frenchmen are almost paralysed by the scene and by excitement—they cannot make it out; the harbour-master, Captain Braine, has enough to do; he sees the danger of the men on board the brig, but he sees more than this, he sees the danger of the crowd at the pier-head, for the brig's mainmast is swaying backwards and forwards, coming right over the pier as the vessel rolls, and threatens to break and come down upon the people as the brig strikes the pier; and if it does, it will certainly kill some, perhaps many.
The women are shrieking, men shouting, some running about here and there, all anxious to do something, and yet not able to render any assistance.
The French sailors are making themselves fast to the end of the ropes that have been thrown on board, but the harbour-master sees the great danger the men will be in, of being crushed between the wreck and the pier, if they make the attempt to be hauled up, the vessel is rolling so quickly, and the seas are so heavy, he therefore shouts to them not to try it, and the boatmen hold them back.
But still the French sailors struggle to get hold of the ropes, crying out, "Much danger, much danger! What shall we do? what shall we do?" The outcry of the people on the pier naturally adding greatly to their excitement.
During this time, which has occupied but very few minutes, the steamer still keeps hold of the hawser. She has been swung against the inside of the pier by the strain of the wreck upon her cable, and by the eddy of the tide, while the wreck has been beating against the outside; now she steams out again with all speed, gets her head round, brings a gradual strain upon the hawser, and makes every effort to tow the brig away from the pier and off the Sands; after a few seconds of hard tugging the brig begins to move, and they get her into deep water again.
But during this time the crew of the Margate lugger have been in equal, if not greater, danger than the men on board the brig.
As soon as the men on board the lugger saw the brig sweep and crash against the pier, they cast off their tow rope, but before they could hoist any sail, the way they had on the boat, and the rush of the tide, carried the lugger almost between the vessel, as she swung round, and the pier; the men, however, escaped that danger, and indeed death, but the boat was swept to the back of the pier, and in the eddy of the tide was carried into the broken water; there she rolls in the trough of the sea; wave after wave catches and sweeps her up towards the pier as if to crush her against it; but each time the rebound of the water from the pier acts as a fender, and saves her from destruction; but she is an open boat, and if one big wave leaps on board it will fill her, and she must sink at once; and the seas around her are very wild, the surf from their crests breaks into her continually; the people on the pier see her extreme peril; some run to the life-boat men who are preparing to moor the boat, and shout to them to hasten out—that the brig is breaking up, and that the lugger will be swamped; before, however, the life-boat can get out, the brig is towed clear of the pier, and the lugger having gradually drifted to the end of the pier, the men are able to get up a corner of the fore-sail; it cants the lugger's head round; the men get the fore-sail well up; it fills, she draws away from the pier, and away from the broken water, and is clear.
The steamer has the brig in tow, but now the wreck has no boats to help her steer, and she therefore yaws about with tremendous lurches.
The boatmen have all this time been working their utmost; their danger and the scene of excitement around them having no other effect upon them, than to make them the more cool and determined to do everything they can to save the vessel and themselves.
They rig up a stay-sail upon the tottering mainmast, and as soon as the steamer gets a little way on the brig, they try and steer by it, raising and lowering the sail as the brig sheers one way or the other, and doing their utmost to keep her head straight.
A very heavy sea strikes her on the bow, and she lurches right across the tide; at that moment the steamer's hawser tightens and strains, and the whole weight of the brig as she lies broadside to the seas dragging upon the rope, it breaks in a weak place, where it has got chafed against the pier.
The brig falls into the trough of the sea; the waves begin to make a clean breach over her; water-logged and helpless as she is, with her deck down almost to the level of the sea; the men on board can now do but little, for time after time, as the seas sweep her decks, they have enough to do to hold on; still the boatmen on board work when they can, for they see that their lives depend upon getting the vessel in tow of the steamer before she can strike the Dyke Bank, which is just under her lee.
They make all haste to haul in the broken end of the cable; they already have a good part of the cable on board, which they hauled in when they were about making for the harbour.
They tell the French captain to get all his men to work, and have the ship's hawser ready, but the brig rapidly drifts before the heavy gale and with the tide towards the Dyke Bank, over which the seas are running with fearful violence, the poor shattered wreck must indeed be very soon broken up altogether if she once strikes amid that terrible rage of waters, and there, too, the waves will sweep over her with a violence sufficient to sweep the men from her decks; they must expect the tottering mast to go at the first shock; there would be no refuge in the rigging, and the deck would be virtually under water; it is doubtful indeed if she strikes whether the men will be able to hold on, even while the life-boat, which is close at hand, can reach them.
The life-boatmen had made out to the rescue of the lugger, but when they saw that she was out of danger, and that the brig was under tow of the steamer, they put back, but directly the harbour-master sees that the brig is again adrift, he hastens to order the life-boat out once more to the rescue. Many of the excited people on the pier throng round the harbour-master, and entreat him to order the life-boatmen to take all the boatmen and the crew off the wreck at once.
But the harbour-master knows the boatmen too well to think that they will be content to leave the wreck, whatever the danger may be, while there remains a single chance of saving her; he therefore tells the life-boatmen to keep as near to the wreck as possible.
The captain of the steamer, directly he sees the hawser break, realizes the deadly peril the wreck and those on board it are in; without a moment's delay, he orders his crew to haul in the broken end of the hawser, and as speedily as possible to back the steamer down to the wreck, which is now within one hundred yards of the Dyke Sand. She is rolling heavily broadside to the seas, which are making a clean sweep over her; the men on board are scarcely able to keep the deck for the wash of water, a few minutes more—two or three—and she will be right in upon the breakers; round the pier-head dashes the life-boat, leaping the seas as she is carried swiftly before the gale, she makes for the wreck, and is ready to plunge into the surf to the rescue of the crew directly the unfortunate vessel touches the Sands. But the steamer may yet be in time to save her: now she is close to her, and they throw the end of a rope on board the wreck; the boatmen on board fasten a cable to it, the steamer's crew haul it in with all possible speed, the steamer moves slowly a-head, the cable gets taught, the steamer tugs and strains, but it is with the greatest difficulty she can get the brig's head straight; now it comes slowly round, but as the wreck faces the tide, she sheers right and left; they see that the wreckage of her bowsprit and jibboom are right across her bow entangled in her cut-water; it is this that causes her to sheer so much, and to hang so heavily that the steamer cannot make any way with her, or keep her head straight for one moment.
The English boatmen stand ready to hoist the stay-sail, as soon as the steamer can move her ahead, and keep her at all to the wind.
The poor French sailors give way to much excitement in the wildness and peril of the scene; clasping their hands and shouting; and there is little wonder that their fears should be so aroused. "Hold! hold, good rope, for if you break, nothing can save the ship; in a short time she must be torn utterly to pieces by the waves now breaking so wildly, almost directly under her lee!"
Each time the brig sheers heavily to one side or the other, she is brought up with a jerk that makes the steamer tremble from stem to stern, and tries the strength of the cable to the utmost.
The life-boat continues to cruise round the brig, keeping as near as possible, but taking care to avoid her, as she sheers swiftly from side to side.
Suddenly the wreckage clears itself from across the vessel's bow, and to the joy of all, the vessel ceases to sheer so violently, and rests for a minute straight in her course.
The boatmen on board at once hoist the stay-sail; it steadies her, and she forges ahead, and they battle their way through the waves, round the west pier-head, and a little out of the rush of the worst of the seas; here, five brave fellows come off in a small boat, and bring a line to her from the pier; with this they haul the second hawser from the vessel to the pier; they get another hawser from the pier to the wreck, and as the tide is setting her in a direction away from the pier, they can hold her fast by these hawsers; the steamer now moves round the wreck, and gets a rope from her stern, but in the meantime they have made the life-boat's cable fast to the stern of the wreck, and passed it on to the pier; the crowd of people on the pier lay hold of it, and begin to pull their hardest, and succeed in moving the wreck fast astern; with such energy do they pull that the small cable breaks in their hands, but the steamer has by this time again got hold of the vessel, and tows her safely into the harbour, and the long hours of peril and of struggling against the storm are at an end.
A miserable figure the poor wreck looks, when she is hauled up on the slip-way for repairs. Her masts are out of her, her bow crushed, her stern twisted and broken, the oakum is streaming out of her seams, her timbers are started, her rudder is gone, she looks truly the very wreck she is. Indeed, it was nothing but the fact of her being timber laden that prevented her going down immediately after striking the first time upon the Margate Sands, or has kept her afloat during any one of the many terrible struggles with the seas, that she has had since to endure. The brig was ultimately repaired, and sent to sea; but to whatever extent the general average upon the insured cargo contributed to the bill, the balance required must have made a sad hole in the poor brave-hearted captain's savings.
The Margate and Ramsgate men got some few pounds each for salvage: the ship and cargo were not very valuable, and there were many to share the small amount awarded, so there was not much for each one. But the men were thankful, on account of the captain, as well as on their own account, to have saved the vessel through so much peril, and as a result, to have anything at all to share.
A dark stormy December night had been followed by a gloomy morning, a heavy gale had been blowing for some hours from the north-east, and thick drifting snow-squalls still further threw heavy shadows over the sea, and added greatly to the perils of the dangerous navigation around the Goodwin.
The men on Ramsgate pier said to each other, "It is likely weather." Likely for disaster and for the need of their services; they therefore keep a careful watch, but the snow and drifting fog-clouds shut out the Goodwin Sands and the light-vessels from their view, and so the men can only wait on, speculating upon the possibility of some unseen tragedy being worked out amid the darkness and the wrath of waters that surround the Goodwin.
It is now after breakfast-time, about nine o'clock, the weather is too bad for much ordinary work to be going on, and so a large number of boatmen assemble in the look-out houses and at the head of the pier watching the storm.
Many are the spy-glasses which are every now and then pointed seaward, scanning any break in the storm-drift; three or four men are at the end of the pier by the watch-house; one of them fancies that he can make out a dark line 'mid the grey gloom; he watches carefully, a sheet of fog lifts for a moment; "Yes, there is! I see a ship on the Goodwin!"
"Where? Where?" and another man looks at the direction of his spy-glass, and points his own the same way. No; he can see nothing; and the man himself can now see nothing; it was just a glimpse, that was all, and the cloud closed in upon the Sands and wrapt them in darkness again.
"But are you positive you saw anything?" they ask the man.
"I am just as sure of it as I am that I am standing here."
"What was she like?"
"She seemed a large ship with only two masts standing, and high up on the Sands."
"Well, if you saw her once, and are certain of it, once is as good as fifty times. Away then for the life-boat."
Hurrying up the pier to give the alarm, they shout to some boatmen who are at work helping to stow cargo on board a Dutch steamer—the Orient: "A vessel on the Goodwin; Life-boat! Life-boat!" Immediately the men throw down whatever they have in their hands, spring to the gunwale, and are out of the ship, up the steps, on the pier, and running for the life-boat in a moment; and this to the intense astonishment of the Dutch mate, who had not heard the cry of life-boat. He runs along the deck on to the poop, and shakes his fist at the men, shouting after them, "You be bad men you! You be bad men! What for you run away? You come here work no more!"
The honest-hearted fellow was, however, more than appeased, when he was told that it was to rush on board the life-boat; to go out in that wild dark storm and terrible sea to the rescue of life, that the men had so suddenly deserted their work and fled from the vessel.
One of the pier men runs to the harbour-master, and reports that a large ship has been seen ashore on the Goodwin; the harbour-master hurries to the pier-head, but the lift in the storm has settled down thicker than ever; he can see nothing; he, and all with him, listen attentively for any report of a gun from the Goodwin light-vessels, but can hear nothing; they cross-question the man who saw the wreck. The harbour-master thinks he may have been mistaken—that it was probably a ship sailing through the Gull Channel that he saw. No! the man is positive that it was a ship on the Goodwin, and nothing else; and so the harbour-master, although they can hear no signal from the light-vessels, decides upon sending the life-boat, and orders the coxswain to proceed to sea.
Rapid preparation for the start has been going on all this time; and very speedily steamer and life-boat are away in the dark storm speeding their way to the Goodwin Sands. They get to the North Sand light-ship about eleven o'clock, and find a very heavy sea running in the neighbourhood of the Sands, with frequent snow-squalls sweeping along.
The men on board the light-vessel say that both they, and the men on board the Gull light-ship, have been making signals since daylight. (The roar of the storm, and the wind not being on shore, the guns were not heard, and the weather was too thick for any signals to be seen). They report that they had seen a ship on shore on the South-East Spit of the Sands.
Away go steamer and life-boat, the crew of both alike eager to make up for lost time, and they soon discover the vessel they are in search of looming out in the mist.
They see that she is a complete wreck, and that she is settled down upon the Sands, with her bow to the seas; her mizen-mast is gone close to the deck; the seas are running quite over her as they break upon her bow; they mount up and fly over her fore-yard and race along her deck, breaking again upon her deck-house, which they smother in foam.
There are no sailors to be seen lashed to the rigging, and it is doubtful whether they can have found shelter anywhere on deck, so great is the rush of water over the ship. Indeed, the life-boat men think that it is very improbable that any of the crew can be left on board. Nevertheless, they determine to get on board the vessel, and see if they can find any poor exhausted seaman still clinging to some portion of the wreck.
There is a very heavy sea running, and they have a short consultation as to the best method of getting alongside the vessel; they determine to go in upon the lee quarter, and make preparation for so doing. Now they make in for the wreck; they sail in swiftly; plunge in through the broken water; their anchor is all ready; they watch their distance. Over with it; lower the foresail; and they are about to run the life-boat right alongside the vessel, when the man in the bow shouts, "Up with your helm; up with it hard; sheer off, sheer off!" Up the helm is; swiftly the boat answers, and bears away from the vessel.
The mizen-mast, which had been broken off short, has fallen over the quarter of the vessel, and become entangled in the Sands, and with the ship's side, and is standing out at right angles to the wreck, right in the way the life-boat was steering. If it had been night-time the boat would have been steered in right upon the wreck of the mast and yards, when in every probability she would have been stove and rolled over by the seas; the men would then have been washed out of her, and it would have been impossible for them to have got back to her again, against the rush of sea and tide and entangled as she would have been in the wreckage of the mast, she could not have floated down to them; as it is, this very catastrophe nearly happens, for the men hardly see the danger in time; it is a moment of great peril, for the boat is being tossed about violently in the broken water, and becomes somewhat entangled in the wreckage; the men lay hold of the cable, and haul upon it with all their strength, and do what they can to check the way of the boat, and help her head round; now they get a good cant out, they throw out some coils of the cable in one cast, they sheer out well, and get clear of the wreck of the mizen-mast; the seas catch the boat and drive it astern of the vessel, the cable runs out its full length and brings the boat up with a strong jerk. The men, on looking at the wreck, are glad to find that there are some of her crew still alive; they can see three men and a boy crouching down, under the shelter of the deck-house, but they must be but a small proportion of the original crew of the ship, for she is a large vessel, and must have had a crew of certainly not fewer than fifteen or sixteen men. "Thank God," say the life-boat men, "that they are not all gone, and that we are here in time to try and save some."
The shipwrecked men have been crouching there for some hours, and have been getting more and more wretched, cold, wet, exhausted, and hopeless; every now and then they heard the loud boom of a gun from one of the light-vessels, but no life-boat came, and the wreck might at any moment break up; they at first felt confident that a life-boat would certainly soon come to their rescue, and had prepared for her coming by getting a life-buoy with a long line fastened to it, ready to throw overboard.
But the hours passed by, the seas broke over the vessel with increasing violence, the storm grew more and more wild, they could not understand why the life-boat did not come, but she did not, and they began to despair of being saved.
Suddenly, as they crouch under the deck-house in their hopeless misery, they see the life-boat swing round on the tide, and come up to her cable just astern of the ship; never were men more agreeably surprised; it is as a reprieve from death; and they feel their blood course again through their veins, their strength returns, and they start up ready for action; the life-boat men give them a cheer, which they answer with glad cries of welcome.
The men on board the wreck throw the life-buoy and line to the life-boat men; there is a tremendous tumble of sea, the life-boat is flying about in all directions, and it is not for some time, and not until after much trouble, that they succeed in getting the life-buoy on board the boat.
All hands lay hold of the rope, and do their utmost to haul the life-boat nearer to the wreck; but the heavy gale, the rush of the sea, and the strong tide, are all directly against her, her cable is straining to the utmost, and they cannot get her to move in the least; they struggle on, and on, but it is all in vain.
"Pull, men, pull! now all together, as the seas pass; now, try and get a foot or two ahead." Not an inch, strain and pull as they will.
"Look out! look out! let go; take care of yourselves!"
Too late; a tremendous sea comes rushing over the vessel, right over the life-boat, beats her back with a wrench and jerk that tears one of the timber heads, to which the rope is fastened, right out of her, knocks down by its great weight five or six of the men, who are holding on to the rope, hurts two or three of them somewhat severely, and buries the boat in its very flood of water; for a moment she is swamped, and beaten right away from the wreck; she lifts again, in a few seconds rises to her water-line; she frees herself of water, the men spring to their feet.
"Are all there? Are any washed out of her?" "All right! all right!" "Thank God! Now at it again, my men."
Happily the anchor still holds, and the boat's cable brings the boat up. But what is to be done to save the poor crew? They feel that it is quite impossible for them to haul the boat any nearer to the ship.
To their great surprise, they see the captain spring up from the lee of the deck-house, hurriedly take off his oilskin coat, throw it into the water, and then jumping on the gunwale, grasp the hawser that holds the boat, and slide down it into the boiling sea. A huge wave breaks over him, and washes him away from the rope; he now tries to swim to the boat, but the life-boat is not directly astern, the sheer she has to her cable that is fastened to the anchor which was thrown over some distance to the side of vessel, prevents her dropping right astern; and although the captain has but to swim a few yards out of the direction of the sweep of sea and tide, it is impossible for him to manage it. He is perfectly overwhelmed by the boil of sea, tossed wildly up and down, wave after wave beating over him, it is all that he can do to keep his head above water, and cannot guide his course in the least; the boatmen try all they can to make the boat sheer towards him, so as to reach him, or to throw him a rope, but it is impossible, they cannot get sufficiently near; and in a few seconds they see him swept rapidly by in the swift tide; Jarman, the coxswain of the boat, seizes a life-buoy, and throws it with all his force towards him; the wind catches it and helps the throw; it falls near him; he makes a spring forward and reaches it; the men gladly see that he has got it; they see him put his two hands upon one side as if to get upon it; as he leans forward it falls over his head like a hoop; he gets his arms through it, and shouting to the boatmen "All right," he waves his hand as if to beckon to them to follow him, and goes floating down in the strong tide and among the raging leaping seas in a strange wild dance, that threatens indeed to be a dance of death.
It is with deep feelings of dismay and sorrow that the boatmen see him thus drifting away, sea after sea breaking over him; they think it impossible that he can live long; they watch him as far as they can see him; he rises now and again on a sea, and waves his hand to them, but soon disappears from their view, and they seem to have wished him for ever good-bye, for if they go after him at once they will not be able to get back to the ship again, perhaps for hours; and there are two men and a boy still on board whom they must not desert; they must do what they can for these poor fellows first, and then they will hasten away in search of the poor captain, although they have but little hope of then finding him alive, even if they find him at all.
At once they are reminded of the dread peril the men on board the ship are in; for a tremendous crash like a peal of thunder startles them all; and looking round they see the tall mainmast of the ship fall swiftly over on the port side of the vessel.
The men on board give a loud cry—the terrible crash and rend and shock of the falling mast appals them to the uttermost; it is as if the wreck was breaking to pieces in one vast wrench beneath their feet. The chief mate springs wildly to the starboard quarter, and seizes the end of the mainbrace, which is hanging there; he makes it fast round his waist; and with a rapid spring, and with arms outstretched towards the boat, he jumps into the sea; he is a fine powerful young man, and a very good swimmer; but what can he do in a tide and sea so tremendous that twelve strong men cannot haul the boat one foot against them? and so a fearful tragedy is worked out before the boatmen's eyes; they make every effort to sheer the boat towards the man, but in vain; the tide sweeps him at once away on the lee-bow of the boat; he struggles fearfully hard for his life; the sea takes him and throws him away to the full extent of the rope, which tightens round his waist; the strain of the rope draws him back a little; he falls in the trough of the sea; he is just in the thick of the surf, in the break of the waves, and they curl over him and beat him down beneath their weight, and then again the next rushing wave catches him and flings him out, till he is brought up with a jerk as the rope tightens, that seems almost to tear him in pieces; now he is thrown high in the air on the crest of a wave, now he is buried in a sea, rolled over and over; sheering here and there, as the tangled waves catch him, first on one side, then on the other, but never nearer the life-boat; every now and then he strikes out wildly as if to make a last effort, and cries aloud in his agony and despair. It is indeed a most piteous sight, and it moves the boatmen to the very heart; the poor drowning fellow so near and they unable to render him the least help.
They cannot remain doing nothing, although they feel fully assured that all they attempt must be in vain; they haul with all their power on the cable to try and get nearer to the ship when they might sheer down upon the poor fellow; but the sea is raging over them as much as ever, and they cannot get the boat to move at all; the waves rush over the boat in rapid succession, and as they do so the men have to crouch down and cling with all their force to the thwarts, and struggle hard to prevent being washed out of her. As each sea passes, up they spring and again try to haul in the cable; the poor drowning sailor is ahead of the boat, on the starboard bow; if the line which he has round his waist were only a few fathoms longer he might be saved; it would be madness for any of the boatmen to jump overboard to get at him, they would be instantly swept astern of the boat, without a hope of saving him, and at great and useless risk of their own lives; they try and throw the lead-line over the rope which holds the poor fellow; hoping that if they can succeed in doing so, that he may manage to get hold of it, and loosing himself from the rope which fastens him to the ship, be hauled on board the boat; but the boat is pitching and tossing so much that it is hard work attempting to throw the line, but again and again they make the effort. "Now he rises on a wave: now try; heave with a will, well clear of his head. Ah! missed again; look out, hold on all;" a wave rushes over them, boat and all; another half-minute and they make another attempt; no! all in vain, each time it falls short; the struggle cannot last long; strong and young as the man is, his strength cannot possibly endure long in such a conflict; his cries grow more feeble and soon cease; they see him try and get back to the ship, climbing up the rope, but his strength fails, and he falls back; his arms and legs are still tossed wildly about, but it is by the action of the waves; his head drops and sinks; yes! it is all over!—all over! with him; and it is with intense sorrow that the boatmen realize that all hope of saving him is at an end—that he is dead.