Battles with the Sea

There are, however, several sentinels which mount guard night and day close to the Goodwin and other Sands. These are the Floating Lights which mark the position of our extensive and dangerous shoals. Two of these sentinels, the Tongue lightship and the Prince’s lightship, in the vicinity of the Girdler Sands, saw the signals of distress. Instantly their guns and rockets gleamed and thundered intelligence to the shore. Such signals had been watched for keenly that night by the brave men of the Margate lifeboat, who instantly went off to the rescue. But there are conditions against which human courage and power and will are equally unavailing. In the teeth of such a gale from the west-nor’-west, with the sea driving in thunder straight on the beach, it was impossible for the Margate boat to put out. A telegram was therefore despatched to Ramsgate. Here, too, as at Broadstairs, and everywhere else, the heroes of the coast were on the lookout, knowing well the duties that might be required of them at any moment.

The stout little Aid was lying at the pier with her steam “up.” The Ramsgate lifeboat was floating quietly in the harbour, and her sturdy lion-like coxswain, Isaac Jarman, was at the pier-head with some of his men, watching. The Ramsgate men had already been out on service at the sands that day, and their appetite for saving life had been whetted. They were ready for more work. At a quarter past eight p.m. the telegram was received by the harbour-master. The signal was given. The lifeboat-men rushed to their boats.

“First come, first served,” is the rule there. She was over-manned, and some of the brave fellows had to leave her. The tight little tug took the boat in tow, and in less than half an hour rushed out with her into the intense darkness, right in the teeth of tempest and billows.

The engines of the Aid are powerful, like her whole frame. Though fiercely opposed she battled out into the raging sea, now tossed on the tops of the mighty waves, now swallowed in the troughs between. Battered by the breaking crests, whelmed at times by “green seas,” staggering like a drunken thing, and buffeted by the fierce gale, but never giving way an inch, onward, steadily if slowly, until she rounded the North Foreland. Then the rescuers saw the signals going up steadily, regularly, from the two lightships. No cessation of these signals until they should be answered by signals from the shore.

All this time the lifeboat had been rushing, surging, and bounding in the wake of her steamer. The seas not only roared around her, but absolutely overwhelmed her. She was dragged violently over them, and sometimes right through them. Her crew crouched almost flat on the thwarts, and held on to prevent being washed overboard. The stout cable had to be let out to its full extent to prevent snapping, so that the mist and rain sometimes prevented her crew from seeing the steamer, while cross seas met and hurled her from side to side, causing her to plunge and kick like a wild horse.

About midnight the Tongue lightship was reached and hailed. The answer given was brief and to the point: “A vessel in distress to the nor’-west, supposed to be on the high part of the Shingles Sand!”

Away went the tug and boat to the nor’-west, but no vessel could be found, though anxious hearts and sharp and practised eyes were strained to the uttermost. The captain of the Aid, who knew every foot of the sands, and who had medals and letters from kings and emperors in acknowledgment of his valuable services, was not to be balked easily. He crept along as close to the dangerous sands as was consistent with the safety of his vessel.

How intently they gazed and listened both from lifeboat and steamer, but no cry was to be heard, no signal of distress, nothing but the roaring of the waves and shrieking of the blast, and yet they were not far from the perishing! The crew of the Demerara were clinging to their quivering mast close by, but what could their weak voices avail in such a storm? Their signal fires had long before been drowned out, and those who would have saved them could not see more than a few yards around.

Presently the booming of distant cannon was heard and then a faint line of fire was seen in the far distance against the black sky. The Prince’s and the Girdler lightships were both firing guns and rockets to tell that shipwreck was taking place near to them. What was to be done? Were the Shingles to be forsaken, when possibly human beings were perishing there? There was no help for it. The steamer and lifeboat made for the vessels that were signalling, and as the exhausted crew on the quivering mast of the Demerara saw their lights depart, the last hope died out of their breasts.

“Hope thou in God, for thou shalt yet praise Him,” perchance occurred to some of them: who knows?

Meanwhile the rescuers made for the Prince’s lightship and were told that a vessel in distress was signalling on the higher part of the Girdler Sands.

Away they went again, and this time were successful. They made for the Girdler lightship, and on the Girdler Sands they found the Fusilier.

The steamer towed the lifeboat to windward of the wreck into such a position that when cast adrift she could bear down on her. Then the cable was slipped and the boat went in for her own special and hazardous work. Up went her little foresail close-reefed, and she rushed into a sea of tumultuous broken water that would have swamped any other kind of boat in the world.

What a burst of thrilling joy and hope there was among the emigrants in the Fusilier when the little craft was at last descried! It was about one o’clock in the morning by that time, and the sky had cleared a very little, so that a faint gleam of moonlight enabled them to see the boat of mercy plunging towards them through a very chaos of surging seas and whirling foam. To the rescuers the wreck was rendered clearly visible by the lurid light of her burning tar-barrels as she lay on the sands, writhing and trembling like a living thing in agony. The waves burst over her continually, and, mingling in spray with the black smoke of her fires, swept furiously away to leeward.

At first each wave had lifted the ship and let her crash down on the sands, but as the tide fell this action decreased, and had ceased entirely when the lifeboat arrived.

And now the point of greatest danger was reached. How to bring a lifeboat alongside of a wreck so as to get the people into her without being dashed to pieces is a difficult problem to solve. It was no new problem, however, to these hardy and fearless men; they had solved it many a time, before that night. When more than a hundred yards to windward of the wreck, the boat’s foresail was lowered and her anchor let go. Then they seized the oars, and the cable was payed out; but the distance had been miscalculated. They were twenty yards or so short of the wreck when the cable had run completely out, so the men had to pull slowly and laboriously back to their anchor again, while the emigrants sent up a cry of despair, supposing they had failed and were going to forsake them! At length the anchor was got up. In a few minutes it was let go in a better position, and the boat was carefully veered down under the lee of the vessel, from both bow and stern of which a hawser was thrown to it and made fast. By means of these ropes and the cable the boat was kept somewhat in position without striking the wreck.

It was no easy matter to make the voice heard in such a gale and turmoil of seas, but the captain of the Fusilier managed to give his ship’s name and intended destination. Then he shouted, “How many can you carry? We have more than a hundred souls on board; more than sixty of them women and children.”

This might well fill the breasts of the rescuers with anxiety. Their boat, when packed full, could only carry about thirty. However, a cheering reply was returned, and, seizing a favourable opportunity, two of the boatmen sprang on the wreck, clambered over the side, and leaped among the excited emigrants. Some seized them by the hands and hailed them as deliverers; others, half dead with terror, clung to them as if afraid they might forsake them. There was no time, however, to humour feelings. Shaking them all off—kindly but forcibly—the men went to work with a will, briefly explained that there was a steamer not far off, and began to get the women first into the boat.

Terror-stricken, half fainting, trembling in every limb, deadly pale, and exhausted by prolonged anxiety and exposure, the poor creatures were carried rather than led to the ship’s side. It needed courage even to submit to be saved on such a night and in such circumstances. Two sailors stood outside the ship’s bulwarks, fastened there by ropes, ready to lower the women. At one moment the raging sea rose with a roar almost to the feet of these men, bearing the kicking lifeboat on its crest. Next moment the billow had passed, and the men looked down into a yawning abyss of foam, with the boat surging away far out of their reach, plunging and tugging at the ropes which held it, as a wild horse of the plains might struggle with the lasso. No wonder that the women gazed appalled at the prospect of such a leap, or that some shrieked and wildly resisted the kind violence of their rescuers. But the leap was for life; it had to be taken—and quickly, too, for the storm was very fierce, and there were many to save!

One of the women is held firmly by the two men. With wildly-staring eyes she sees the boat sweep towards her on the breast of a rushing sea. It comes closer. Some of the men below stand up with outstretched arms. The woman makes a half spring, but hesitates. The momentary action proves almost fatal. In an instant the boat sinks into a gulf, sweeps away as far as the ropes will let her, and is buried in foam, while the woman is slipping from the grasp of the men who hold her.

“Don’t let her go! don’t let her go!” is roared by the lifeboat-men, but she has struggled out of their grasp. Another instant and she is gone; but God in His mercy sends the boat in again at that instant; the men catch her as she falls, and drag her inboard.

Thus, one by one, were the women got into the lifeboat. Some of these women were old and infirm; some were invalids. Who can conceive the horror of the situation to such as these, save those who went through it?

The children were wrapped up in blankets and thus handed down. Some of the husbands or fathers on board rolled up shawls and blankets and tossed them down to the partially clothed and trembling women. It chanced that one small infant was bundled up in a blanket by a frantic passenger and handed over the side. The man who received it, mistaking it for merely a blanket, cried, “Here, Bill, catch!” and tossed it into the boat. Bill, with difficulty, caught it as it was flying overboard; at the same moment a woman cried, “My child! my child!” sprang forward, snatched the bundle from the horrified Bill, and hugged it to her bosom!

At last the boat, being sufficiently filled, was hauled up to her anchor. Sail was hoisted, and away they flew into the surging darkness, leaving the rest of the emigrants still filled with terrible anxiety, but not now with hopeless despair.

The lifeboat and her tender work admirably together. Knowing exactly what must be going on, and what would be required of him, though he could see nothing, the captain of the Aid, after the boat had slipped from him, had run down along the sands to leeward of the wreck, and there waited. Presently he saw the boat coming like a phantom out of the gloom. It was quickly alongside, and the rescued people—twenty-five women and children—were transferred to the steamer, taken down to her cabin, and tenderly cared for. Making this transfer in such a sea was itself difficult in the extreme, and accompanied with great danger, but difficulty and danger were the rule that night, not the exception. All went well. The Aid, with the warrior-boat in tow, steamed back to windward of the wreck; then the lifeboat slipped the cable as before, and returned to the conflict, leaping over the seething billows to the field of battle like a warhorse refreshed.

The stirring scene was repeated with success. Forty women and children were rescued on the second trip, and put on board the steamer. Leaden daylight now began to dawn. Many hours had the “storm warriors” been engaged in the wild exhausting fight, nevertheless a third and a fourth time did they charge the foe, and each time with the same result. All the passengers were finally rescued and put on board the steamer.

But now arose a difficulty. The tide had been falling and leaving the wreck, so that the captain and crew determined to stick to her in the hope of getting her off, if the gale should abate before the tide rose again.

It was therefore agreed that the lifeboat should remain by her in case of accidents; so the exhausted men had to prepare for a weary wait in their wildly plunging boat, while the Aid went off with her rescued people to Ramsgate.

But the adventures of that night were not yet over. The tug had not been gone above an hour and a half, when, to the surprise of those in the lifeboat, she was seen returning, with her flag flying half mast high, a signal of recall to her boat. The lifeboat slipped from the side of the wreck and ran to meet her. The reason was soon explained. On his way back to Ramsgate the captain had discovered another large vessel on her beam-ends, a complete wreck, on that part of the sands named the Shingles. It was the Demerara, and her crew were still seen clinging to the quivering mast on which they had spent the livelong night.

More work for the well-nigh worn out heroes! Away they went to the rescue as though they had been a fresh crew. Dashing through the surf they drew near the doomed ship, which creaked and groaned when struck by the tremendous seas, and threatened to go to pieces every moment. The sixteen men on the mast were drenched by every sea. Several times that awful night they had, as it were, been mocked by false hopes of deliverance. They had seen the flashing of the rockets and faintly heard the thunder of the alarm-guns fired by the lightships. They had seen the lights of the steamer while she searched in vain for them on first reaching the sands, had observed the smaller light of the boat in tow, whose crew would have been so glad to save them, and had shouted in vain to them as they passed by on their errand of mercy to other parts of the sands, leaving them a prey to darkness and despair. But a merciful and loving God had seen and heard them all the time, and now sent them aid at the eleventh hour.

When the lifeboat at last made in towards them the ebb tide was running strongly, and, from the position of the wreck, it was impossible to anchor to windward and drop down to leeward in the usual fashion. They had, therefore, to adopt the dangerous plan of running with the wind, right in upon the fore-rigging, and risk being smashed by the mast, which was beating about with its living load like an eccentric battering-ram. But these Ramsgate men would stick at nothing. They rushed in and received many severe blows, besides dashing into the iron windlass of the wreck. Slowly, and one by one, the enfeebled men dropped from the mast into the boat. Sixteen—all saved! There was great shaking of hands, despite the tossings of the hungry surf, and many fervid expressions of thankfulness, as the sail was hoisted and the men of the Demerara were carried away to join the other rescued ones, who by that time thronged the little Aid almost to overflowing.

At Ramsgate that morning—the morning of the 4th—it was soon known to the loungers on the pier that the lifeboat was out, had been out all night, and might be expected back soon. Bright and clear, though cold, was the morn which succeeded that terrible night; and many hundreds of anxious, beating, hopeful hearts were on the lookout. At last the steamer and her warrior-boat appeared, and a feeling of great gladness seemed to spread through the crowd when it was observed that a flag was flying at the mast-head, a well-known sign of victory.

On they came, right gallantly over the still turbulent waves. As they passed the pier-heads, and the crowd of pale faces were seen gazing upwards in smiling acknowledgment of the hearty welcome, there burst forth a deep-toned thrilling cheer, which increased in enthusiasm as the extent of the victory was realised, and culminated when it became known that at one grand swoop the lifeboat, after a fight of sixteen hours, had rescued a hundred and twenty souls from the grasp of the raging sea!

Reader, there was many a heart-stirring incident enacted that night which I have not told you, and much more might be related of that great battle and glorious victory. But enough, surely, has been told to give you some idea of what our coast heroes dare and do in their efforts to rescue the perishing.

Chapter Three.

Light and Shade in Lifeboat Work

But victory does not always crown the efforts of our lifeboats. Sometimes we have to tell of partial failure or defeat, and it is due to the lifeboat cause to show that our coast heroes are to the full as daring, self-sacrificing, and noble, in the time of disaster as they are in the day of victory.

A splendid instance of persevering effort in the face of absolutely insurmountable difficulty was afforded by the action of the Constance lifeboat, belonging to Tynemouth, on the night of the 24th November, 1864.

On that night the coast of Northumberland was visited by one of the severest gales that had been experienced for many years, and a tremendous sea was dashing and roaring among the rocks at the mouth of the Tyne. Many ships had sought refuge in the harbour during the day, but, as the shades of evening began to descend, the risk of attempting an entrance became very great. At last, as the night was closing in, the schooner Friendship ran on the rocks named the Black Middens.

Shortly afterwards a large steamer, the Stanley, of Aberdeen, with thirty passengers (most of whom were women), thirty of a crew, a cargo of merchandise, and a deckload of cattle, attempted to take the river. On approaching she sent up rockets for a pilot, but none dared venture out to her. The danger of putting out again to sea was too great. The captain therefore resolved to attempt the passage himself. He did so. Three heavy seas struck the steamer so severely as to divert her from her course, and she ran on the rocks close to the Friendship, so close that the cries of her crew could be heard above the whistling winds and thundering waves. As soon as she struck, the indescribable circumstances of a dread disaster began. The huge billows that had hitherto passed onward, heaving her upwards, now burst over her with inconceivable violence and crushed her down, sweeping the decks continuously—they rocked her fiercely to and fro; they ground her sides upon the cruel rocks; they lifted her on their powerful crests, let her fall bodily on the rocks, stove in her bottom, and, rushing into the hold, extinguished the engine fires. The sound of her rending planks and timbers was mingled with the piercing cries of the female passengers and the gruff shouting of the men, as they staggered to and fro, vainly attempting to do something, they knew not what, to avert their doom.

It was pitch dark by this time, yet not so dark but that the sharp eyes of earnest daring men on shore had noted the catastrophe. The men of the coastguard, under Mr Lawrence Byrne, their chief officer, got out the rocket apparatus and succeeded in sending a line over the wreck. Unfortunately, however, owing to mismanagement of those on board the steamer, it proved ineffective. They had fastened the hawser of the apparatus to the forecastle instead of high up on the mast, so that the ropes became hopelessly entangled on the rocks. Before this entanglement occurred, however, two men had been hauled ashore to show the possibility of escape and to give the ladies courage. Then a lady ventured into the sling-lifebuoy, or cradle, with a sailor, but they stuck fast during the transit, and while being hauled back to the wreck, fell out and were drowned. A fireman then made the attempt. Again the cradle stuck, but the man was strong and went hand over hand along the hawser to the shore, where Mr Byrne rushed into the surf and caught hold of him. The rescuer nearly lost his life in the attempt. He was overtaken by a huge wave, and was on the point of being washed away when he caught hold of a gentleman who ran into the surf to save him.

The rocket apparatus having thus failed, owing to the simple mistake of those in the wreck having fastened the hawser too low on their vessel, the crew attempted to lower a boat with four seamen and four ladies in it. One of the davits gave way, the other swung round, and the boat was swamped. Three of the men were hauled back into the steamer, but the others perished. The men would not now launch the other boats. Indeed it would have been useless, for no ordinary boat could have lived in such a sea. Soon afterwards all the boats were washed away and destroyed, and the destruction of the steamer itself seemed about to take place every moment.

While this terrible fight for dear life was going on, the lifeboat-men were not idle. They ran out their good boat, the Constance, and launched her. And what a fearful launching that was! This boat belonged to the Institution, and her crew were justly proud of her.

According to the account given by her gallant coxswain, James Gilbert, they could see nothing whatever at the time of starting but the white flash of the seas as they passed over boat and crew, without intermission, twelve or thirteen times. Yet, as quickly as the boat was filled, she emptied herself through her discharging-tubes. Of these tubes I shall treat hereafter. Gilbert could not even see his own men, except the second coxswain, who, I presume, was close to him. Sometimes the boat was “driven to an angle of forty or forty-five degrees in clearing the rocks.” When they were in a position to make for the steamer, the order was given to “back all oars and keep her end-on to the sea.” The men obeyed; they seemed to be inspired with fresh vigour as they neared the wreck. Let Gilbert himself tell the rest of the story as follows.

“When abreast of the port bow, two men told us they had a rope ready on the starboard bow. We said we would be there in a moment. I then ordered the bow-man to be ready to receive the rope. As soon as we were ready we made two dashing strokes, and were under the bowsprit, expecting to receive the rope, when we heard a dreadful noise, and the next instant the sea fell over the bows of the Stanley, and buried the lifeboat. Every oar was broken at the gunwale of the boat, and the outer ends were swept away. The men made a grasp for the spare oars. Three were gone; two only remained. We were then left with the rudder and two oars. The next sea struck the boat almost over end on board the Friendship, the boat at the time being nearly perpendicular. We then had the misfortune to lose four of our crew. As the boat made a most fearful crash, and fell alongside the vessel, James Grant was, I believe, killed on the spot, betwixt the ship and the boat; Edmund Robson and James Blackburn were thrown out, Joseph Bell jumped as the boat fell. My own impression is that the men all jumped from the boat on to the vessel. We saw them no more. There were four men standing in a group before the mainmast of the schooner. We implored them to come into the boat, but no one answered.”

Little wonder at that, James Gilbert! The massive wreck must have seemed—at least to men who did not know the qualities of a lifeboat—a surer foothold than the tossed cockleshell with “only two oars and a rudder,” out of which four of her own gallant crew had just been lost. Even landsmen can perceive that it must have required much faith to trust a lifeboat in the circumstances.

“The next sea that struck the lifeboat,” continues the coxswain, “landed her within six feet of the foundation-stone of Tynemouth Dock, with a quickness seldom witnessed. The crew plied the remaining two oars to leeward against the rudder and boathook. We never saw anything till coming near the three Shields lifeboats. We asked them for oars to proceed back to the Friendship, but they had none to spare.”

Thus the brave Constance was baffled, and had to retire, severely wounded, from the fight. She drove, in her disabled and unmanageable condition, into the harbour. Of the four men thrown out of her, Grant and Robson, who had found temporary refuge in the wrecked schooner, perished. The other two, Bell and Blackburn, were buoyed up by their cork lifebelts, washed ashore, and saved. The schooner itself was afterwards destroyed, and her crew of four men and a boy were lost.