The Lifeboat

It may be as well to remark here—in order to clear up this mystery—that although Coleman had not observed the flash of Rodney Nick’s lantern, his sharp eye had observed the gleam of the light in the boat, when one of the men, as already mentioned, threw it on the face of his timepiece.

Supposing, erroneously, that this latter was a signal to the shore, Coleman, nevertheless, came to the correct conclusion that some one must be awaiting Long Orrick near at hand, and felt convinced that the Smugglers’ Cave must needs be the rendezvous.

Hastening cautiously to Bax, whose station was not far distant from the cave, he communicated his suspicions, and they went together towards the place.

“I’ll go in first,” said Coleman, “’cause I know the place better than you do.”

“Very good,” assented Bax, “I’ll stand by to lend a hand.”

Arrived at the cavern, Bax waited outside, and Coleman went in so stealthily that he was at Rodney Nick’s side before that worthy had the smallest suspicion of his presence. Indeed, Coleman would certainly have run against the smuggler in the dark, had not the latter happened to have been muttering savage threats against wind and tide, friends and foes, alike, in consequence of the non-appearance of the boat.

Seizing him suddenly from behind, Coleman placed his knee in the small of his back, forced him almost double, and then laid him flat on the ground.

At the same moment Bax knelt by his side, put one of his strong hands on the smuggler’s right arm—thereby rendering it powerless—and placed the other on his mouth.

So quickly was it all done that Rodney was bound and gagged in less than two minutes. Coleman then ran out just in time to receive the first instalment of the brandy, as already related. Being much the same in build and height with Rodney Nick, he found no difficulty in passing for him in the darkness of the night and violence of the wind, which latter rendered his hoarse whispers almost unintelligible.

In this way several kegs of brandy, boxes of cigars, and bundles of tobacco were landed and conveyed to the cavern by Coleman, who refused to allow Bax to act as an assistant, fearing that his great size might betray him.

On the fifth or sixth trip he found Long Orrick waiting for him somewhat impatiently.

“You might have brought a hand with ye, man,” said the latter, testily.

“Couldn’t git one,” said Coleman, taking the keg that was delivered to him.

“What say?” cried Orrick.

“Couldn’t git one,” repeated the other, as loudly and hoarsely as he could whisper.

“Speak out, man,” cried Long Orrick, with an oath; “you ain’t used to have delicate lungs.”

“I couldn’t git nobody to come with me,” said Coleman, in a louder voice.

The tone was not distinct, but it was sufficient to open the eyes of the smuggler. Scarcely had the last word left his lips when Coleman received a blow between the eyes that laid him flat on the beach. Fortunately the last wave had retired. There was only an inch or so of foam around him. Long Orrick knelt on his foe, and drew a knife from his girdle. Before the next wave came up, Coleman with one hand caught the uplifted arm of his adversary, and with the other discharged a pistol which he had drawn from his breast. In another instant they were struggling with each other in the wave which immediately swept over the beach, and Bax was standing over them, uncertain where to strike, as the darkness rendered friend and foe alike undistinguishable.

The men in the boat at once rushed to the rescue, omitting to take weapons with them in their haste. Seeing this, Bax seized the struggling men by their collars, and exerting his great strength to the utmost, dragged them both high upon the beach. He was instantly assailed by the crew, the first and second of whom he knocked down respectively with a right and left hand blow; but the third sprang on him behind and two others came up at the same moment—one on each side—and seized his arms.

Had Bax been an ordinary man, his case would have been hopeless; but having been endowed with an amount of muscular power and vigour far beyond the average of strong men, he freed himself in a somewhat curious manner. Bending forward, he lifted the man who grasped him round the neck from behind quite off his legs, and, by a sudden stoop, threw him completely over his head. This enabled him to hurl his other assailants to the ground, where they lay stunned and motionless. He then darted at Coleman and Long Orrick, who were still struggling together with tremendous fury.

Seeing his approach, the smuggler suddenly gave in, relaxed his hold, and exclaimed, with a laugh, as Bax laid hold of him—

“Well, well, I see it’s all up with me, so it’s o’ no use resistin’.”

“No, that it ain’t, my friend,” said Coleman, rising and patting his foe on the back. “I can’t tell ye how pleased I am to meet with ye. You’re gettin’ stouter, I think. Smugglin’ seems to agree with ye!—hey?”

He said this with a leer, and Bax laughed as he inspected Long Orrick more narrowly.

The fact was that the smuggler’s clothing was so stuffed in all parts with tobacco that his lanky proportions had quite disappeared, and he had become so ludicrously rotund as to be visibly altered even in a dark night!

“Well, it does agree with me, that’s a fact,” said Long Orrick, with a savage laugh; in the tone of which there was mingled however, quite as much bitterness as merriment.

Just at this moment the rest of Coleman’s friends, including Tommy Bogey and Peekins, appeared on the scene in breathless haste, having been attracted by the pistol-shot.

In the eager question and answer that followed, Long Orrick was for a moment not sufficiently guarded. He wrenched himself suddenly from the loosened grasp of Bax, and, darting between several of the party, one of whom he floored in passing with a left-handed blow, he ran along the shore at the top of his speed!

Bax, blazing with disappointment and indignation, set off in fierce pursuit, and old Coleman, bursting with anger, followed as fast as his short legs and shorter wind would permit him. Guy Foster and several of the others joined in the chase, while those who remained behind contented themselves with securing the men who had been already captured.

Chapter Twelve.

The Storm—The Wreck of the Homeward Bound—The Lifeboat

A stern chase never was and never will be a short one. Old Coleman, in the course of quarter of a mile’s run, felt that his powers were limited and wisely stopped short; Bax, Guy, and Tommy Bogey held on at full speed for upwards of two miles along the beach, following the road which wound along the base of the chalk cliffs, and keeping the fugitive well in view.

But Long Orrick was, as we have seen, a good runner. He kept his ground until he reached a small hamlet named Kingsdown, lying about two and a half miles to the north of Saint Margaret’s Bay. Here he turned suddenly to the left, quitted the beach, and made for the interior, where he was soon lost sight of, and left his disappointed pursuers to grumble at their bad fortune and wipe their heated brows.

The strength of the gale had now increased to such an extent that it became a matter not only of difficulty but of danger to pass along the shore beneath the cliffs. The spray was hurled against them with great violence, and as the tide rose the larger waves washed up with a magnificent and overwhelming sweep almost to their base. In these circumstances Guy proposed to go back to Saint Margaret’s Bay by the inland road.

“It’s a bit longer,” said he, as they stood under the lee of a wall, panting from the effects of their run, “but we shall be sheltered from the gale; besides, I doubt if we could pass under the cliffs now.”

Bax made no reply, but, placing his hand on his friend’s arm, stood for a few seconds in the attitude of one who listens with profound attention.

“There it is,” said he at last. “Do ye hear that, Guy?”

“I hear it,” cried Tommy Bogey, with some excitement.

“I hear nothing but the howling of the wind,” said Guy, “and the roaring of the sea.”

“Hush! listen! the minute-gun,” said Bax in a low voice; “it comes from Saint Margaret’s Bay; there, did you not—”

“Ah! I heard it,” cried the other; “come, let us run down along the beach a bit, and see if we can make out whereabouts she is.”

Guy spoke as if he had no doubt whatever of the cause of the sounds which had attracted the attention of himself and his friends. Without another word they all bent their heads to the storm, and forced their way out upon the exposed beach, where they found some fishermen assembled in the lee of a boat-house, looking eagerly towards the direction whence the sounds came.

“I’m afear’d she’s got on the rocks to the nor’ard o’ the bay,” said one of the men, as Bax and his companions ran towards them; “there goes another gun.”

A faint flash was seen for an instant away to the southward. It was followed in a few seconds by the low boom of a distant gun. Almost at the same moment the black heavens seemed to be cleft by a sheet of vivid flame, which towered high into the sky, and then went out, leaving the darkness blacker than before.

“That’s a rocket,” cried the fishermen.

“Heaven help them,” said Bax, as he hastily buttoned his oilskin coat close up to his chin. “Come, Guy, we’ll away and do what we can. Will any of you lads join us?”

Most of the younger men on the ground at once volunteered.

“Stop,” cried one of the older men, “the tide’s too high; ye can’t pass the cliff, I tell ye.”

The man was left abruptly by the whole party, for they knew well enough that if they took the inland road they might be too late to render effectual assistance, and any needless delay in attempting the beach road could only make matters worse.

There was no lifeboat on this part of the Kentish coast at that time, and the great distance of the spot from Ramsgate or Broadstairs rendered it highly improbable that either of the lifeboats belonging to these ports could be in time to render effectual assistance. Besides, the men knew well that on such a night the crews of these boats would have enough of work to do in attending to the wrecks in their own immediate neighbourhood.

They followed Bax, therefore, at a steady trot until they reached a part of the perpendicular cliff which projected somewhat towards the sea. At the foot of this the waves which on this coast roll to the shore with tremendous volume and power, burst with a loud roar and rushed up in thick foam.

“Don’t any of you come on that don’t feel up to it,” cried Bax, as he awaited the retreat of a wave, and prepared to make a dash. At that moment he wheeled round with the look and air of one who had forgotten something.

“Tommy,” said he, laying his hand on the boy’s head, “go back, lad, round by the land road.”

“No, Bax, I won’t,” replied Tommy, with a fervour of determination that would at any other time have raised a laugh in those who heard it.

“Come along, then, you obstinate beggar,” said Bax, sternly, seizing the boy by the arms, and throwing him over his shoulder as if he had been a lamb!

Tommy’s dignity was hurt. He attempted to struggle, but he might as well have hoped to free himself from the hug of a brown bear as to escape from the vice-like grip of his big friend. In another moment Bax was whelmed in spray and knee-deep in rushing water.

It was a short dangerous passage, but the whole party got round the cliff in safety, and hastened as rapidly as possible towards the scene of the wreck.

We must now beg the reader to follow us to another scene, and to go back a few hours in time.

Shortly after the sun set that night, and before the full fury of the storm broke forth, a noble ship of two thousand tons’ burden beat up the Channel and made for the Downs. She was a homeward bound ship, just arrived from Australia with a valuable cargo, and between two and three hundred passengers, many of whom were gold-diggers returning to their native land, and nearly all of whom were possessed of a considerable sum in nuggets and gold-dust. The ship was owned by the house of Denham, Crumps, and Company. Her arrival had been already telegraphed to the firm in Redwharf Lane.

There was rejoicing that evening on board the “Trident.” Men and women and children crowded the high sides of the weather-worn ship, and, holding on by shrouds, ratlines and stays, standing on tip-toe, clambering on carronades, and peeping through holes, gazed long and ardently at the white cliffs of dear Old England.

Some of them had not set eyes on the “old country,” as it is affectionately called in our colonies, for many years. Some there were who had gone out as boys, and were returning bald-headed and grey-bearded men. There were others who had been out only a few years, but who, happening to be on the spot when the goldfields were discovered, had suddenly made fortunes. They were returning to surprise and gladden the hearts of those who, perchance, had sent them off to seek their fortunes with the sad feeling that there was little chance of seeing them again in this world.

There were ladies, also, who had gone out to the distant land with an unbelieving, almost despairing, hope of finding employment for those talents which they had, alas! found to be of but little value at home. These were, in some cases, returning with lucky gold-diggers and blooming children to their native land. In other cases they were merely about to visit home to induce some parent or sister, perhaps, to venture out to the land of gold.

But all, whether young or old, male or female, gentle or simple, were merry and glad of heart that night as they clustered on the bulwarks of the “Trident,” and gazed at the longed-for and much loved shore. There was no distinction of ranks now. The cabin and the ’tween-deck passengers mingled together and tried to relieve the feelings of their hearts by exchanging words of courtesy and goodwill.

The stormy and threatening aspect of the sky had no terrors now for the passengers on board the “Trident.” For weeks and months they had tossed on the bosom of the great deep. They were familiar with the varied moods of wind and wave; they had faced the dangers of the sea so often that they scarce believed that any real dangers could exist. The very children had become sailors; they were precociously weather-wise, and rather fond of being tossed on the waves than otherwise. The prospect of a storm no longer filled them with alarm, as it used to do at the beginning of the voyage, for they had encountered many storms and weathered them all. Yes, they had experienced all the dangers of the sea, but it was reserved for that night—that last night of the long, long voyage—to teach them the dangers of the land; the terrors of a storm in narrow waters, among shallows and on a lee-shore,—and to convince them that for man there is no real safety whatever in this life, save, only, in the favour and love of God.

There were some on board the “Trident,” however, who knew the danger of their position full well, but who were too considerate of the feelings of the women and children to let their knowledge appear even in their looks. The sailors knew the danger of a lee-shore; but sailors are to a large extent a reckless and hopeful class of men, whose equanimity is not easily upset. The captain, too, and the pilot, were alive to their critical position, but both were sanguine and hoped to get into the Downs before the storm should break.

A few of the male passengers also seemed to be aware of the fact that approaching the Downs on such a night was anything but matter of gratulation. One in particular, a tall strong man of about forty, with a bushy black beard and a stern aspect, walked about the quarterdeck with a frown on his countenance that betokened a mind ill at ease.

Going up to the captain, who stood near the wheel, this man asked him what he thought of the weather.

“It don’t look well; we shall have a dirty night, I fear,” replied the captain.

“Do you expect to make the Downs before the storm breaks?” inquired the passenger.

“Well, I hope so,” said the Captain.

“Supposing you do,” continued the dark man, “do you consider your cables and ground-tackle strong enough to hold the ship in the face of an easterly gale?”

“Why do you ask that?” said the Captain in surprise.

“Because,” replied the passenger, “I have my doubts on the point.”

“Well, to tell you the truth,” said the other, in a low tone, “I confess that my mind is more uneasy on that score than on any other. The cables are fit enough to hold her in ordinary weather; but if we were obliged to anchor off a lee-shore in a heavy gale on an exposed coast like this I would be somewhat anxious.”

“Why is the ground tackle not strong enough?” asked the passenger.

“Well, it’s not easy to answer that,” replied the Captain, with a smile, “and yet it ain’t difficult to conceive that it would cost a good deal to supply new and heavier chains and anchors to the ship.”

“Ay, the old story—economy!” said the passenger bitterly, almost fiercely; “a set of selfish land-lubbers who know nothing whatever about the sea, and care for nothing on earth but their own pockets and bellies, are allowed by the Government of this land to send ships loaded with human beings to sea in such a state that it almost calls for the performance of a miracle to secure their safe arrival in port. This is pointed out again and again to them without effect. The sea throws its dead by dozens on our shores every gale that blows, crying out, ‘Look here at the result of economy and selfishness!’ Goods to the extent of thousands of pounds are destroyed annually, and the waves that swallow them belch out the same complaint. Even the statistics that stare in the face of our legislators, and are published by their own authority, tell the same tale,—yet little or nothing is done to prevent misers from sending ships to sea in a totally unfit condition to face even ordinary dangers. Bah! the thing is past remedy, for the men who should act are deaf and blind. Mark my words, Captain; if we don’t weather the South Foreland before ten o’ the clock this night, the ‘Trident’ will be a total wreck before morning.”

The passenger turned on his heel with an angry fling and went below, while the Captain, who was somewhat overawed by his vehemence, walked aft to converse with the pilot.

The gale soon burst on the ship, sending nearly all the passengers below, and compelling the Captain to reduce sail. Darkness overspread the scene, and as the night wore on, the gale increased to such a degree that the ship laboured heavily. Soon the lights on the South Foreland were descried and passed in safety.

“Get the anchors clear,” said the pilot. “Ready about there!”

No one ever knew the reason of the order given at that time. Perhaps the pilot thought he was a little too near the land, and meant to haul off a little; but whatever the reason might have been, the command was only half carried out when the sheet of the jib gave way; the loosened sail flapped itself to shreds in a second, and the ship, missing stays, fell off towards the shore.

“Better wear ship,” cried the Captain, springing in alarm to the pilot’s side.

“Too late for that. Shore’s close under our lee. Let go the anchors!”

The shout with which the command was given proved the necessity of its being instantly obeyed; but the men needed no urging, for at that moment a temporary lull in the furious blast allowed them to hear the roaring of the breakers at the foot of the cliffs.

Two anchors were at once let go, and the ship was brought up with a tremendous shock.

And now commenced that prolonged struggle for life which is, alas! too often the lot of those who venture out upon the stormy sea. Yet it was some time before the passengers of the “Trident” could be brought fully to realise their danger. It was hard to believe that, after weathering the cyclones of the southern seas, and the gales of the Atlantic, they had reached home at last to be cast a wreck upon their own threshold, and to perish within hail almost of relatives and friends.

For a long time they refused to credit the appalling truth that their case was all but hopeless,—anchored as they were close to a lee shore, with inadequate ground tackle, and an increasing gale. When the chain of the smaller anchor snapped, and the Captain ordered the minute-gun to be fired, and rockets to be thrown up, then the wail of terror began:—

“Then shrieked the timid, and stood still the brave.”

“You’d better order the boats to be lowered,” said the dark passenger to the Captain, with a sneer that seemed unnatural as well as unfeeling in the circumstances.

The Captain, who was standing by the starboard mizzen shrouds at the time, glanced angrily at him for a moment, and said:—

“Ha! You know well enough that there ain’t boats enough in the ship to carry all the passengers, and if there were, they could not live for a moment in such a sea.”

“Yes,” replied the dark man, vehemently, “I know that well enough; and I know, too, that there’s no lifeboat of any kind aboard, nor life-jackets, nor life-buoys, beyond what would suffice to float some half dozen men; and the owners knew this before sending their ship to sea, and, knowing it, they cared not a rap, because they had insured ship and cargo to the full value. Human life, not being counted part of the cargo, is of no value whatever to them.”

“Come, Mr Clelland,” said the Captain, reproachfully, “is this a time for a Christian man to encourage bitter feelings against his fellows because of systems and customs, bad or good?”

“Ay, it is the time,” answered the other; “at least if I don’t let out my mind now, it’s not likely I’ll find a fitter time to do it in this world.”

He said this somewhat sadly, and turned away, just as the Captain gave orders to throw up another rocket.

Far along that stormy coast the rocket was seen by hundreds who knew well what the signal meant, and many of whom, no doubt, offered up prayer to God for those who were in danger. Most of them, however, felt that they could do nothing in the way of affording aid. Our friend Bax and his companions were not of this mind, as we have seen.

Some of the stout-hearted boatmen of Deal also thought that something might be done, and launched their luggers, but were in some cases obliged to desist owing to the ever-increasing fury of the storm.

The rockets were seen also by another party of seamen, who stood grouped under the lee of a boat-house far away to the southward. This was the crew of a small lifeboat which stood ready to be launched. The boat was quickly run out of its house by command of its coxswain, and the crew hastily equipped themselves for their dangerous work.

They put on life-jackets made of a number of pieces of cork sewed on canvas, in such a way as to cover their bodies from shoulder to waist without interfering with the play of the arms. Some of the men objected to put these on at first, feeling afraid lest their courage should be called in question, in consequence of their using a contrivance which was not in such general use at that time as it is now. Their objections were overcome, however, except in the case of one young man, who exclaimed, “No, no, none o’ yer floats for me. When my time comes I must go, and them things won’t save me.”

The poor man did not see that the same argument, if correct, would have justified his going off in a coble instead of a lifeboat. The want of perception on this point, and false pride, cost him his life.

Several young women, wives of some of the men, had assembled there to dissuade their husbands from going out on such a terrible night. These were so alarmed at the terrific thunder of the surf on the shores of the little bay, and the howling of the wind, that they clung to the men and entreated them with tears not to venture. Is it a matter of wonder that these bold fellows, who could not be appalled by the storm, found it difficult to resist the power of woman’s tears? They wavered for a few seconds; but when the coxswain, who was a cool, intrepid old man-of-war’s man, cried in a hearty voice, “Now then, lads, look alive; shove off and jump in!” every man sprang to his post, and the lifeboat was afloat in an instant. Through some mismanagement, however, she turned broadside to the sea, was overturned instantly, and rolled over on the beach. The women shrieked; the men on shore ran to the rescue, and fortunately saved every man with the exception of the one who had refused to put on the life-jacket, and who being less able to support himself than his companions when washed back into deep water by each retiring wave, became at length exhausted and ceased to struggle for life. When he was at last laid hold of and dragged ashore, he was dead.