CHAPTER XIII. THE WRECK OF THE "MARY"—GALES ABROAD.
"Yet more! the billows and the depths have more!
High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast!
They hear not now the booming waters roar,
The battle-thunders will not break their rest.
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave!
Give back the true and brave!"
Mrs. Hemans.
The year was fast dying out. Inland the wild winds did little to disturb the progress of Christmas preparations, or the happiness of Christmas gatherings. The blasts swept ragingly along, and the last of the dead leaves were torn from the withering branches. The stalwart trees battled sturdily in the woods; but many a stout veteran that had long laughed at storms, at last was bowed in the grasp of the gale, and fell prostrate, or, like a fainting giant, leant with arms all abroad against his fellow-strugglers in the strife.
In the towns there was much wondering gossip at the force of the wind, and here and there some trivial disasters to record; but for all its rage and bluster, the gale did not gather on shore many trophies of its strength, and swept moaningly out to sea, to find in the yielding waters a more ready ally, as it would visit with its wrath man and his works.
The brave ships that were caught by the gale were prepared to accept the accustomed challenge. It overtook the tall vessels, and then the swelling sails garnered the force of the wind and held it captive, and made it speed the swift ship along.
It fell with its full strength upon the stout ships riding at anchor, and moaned through the shaking rigging, and by the swaying masts and yards, while the groaning cables shuddered in every link, and the strong anchors grappled the ground with a tighter and tighter grasp, and held the good ships safe, in spite of the raging wind and rush of sea, safe from the greedy waiting sands, or cruel rocks.
Thus on the tempest-lashed ocean all was life, and energy, and conflict; and the dying year, as its closing hours sped away, had at sea the howling winds and seething waves to sing its dirge, and storm weary sailors, and storm-beaten ships to mark its close.
Ships from the Thames, from the east coasts of England and Scotland, from all northern Europe—ships sailing under every flag, and bound to all ports, gathered day by day in the Downs anchorage, where they waited for the strong south-westerly gales to give place to a more favourable slant of wind, that they might pursue their way down Channel; but still the strong adverse winds prevailed. But while the outward-bound ships were thus obliged to halt in their course, the homeward-bound ships came foamingly along, their masts bending like whips under the small spread of canvas they were alone able to carry. Like white-winged gulls they fled over the leaping seas, and threaded their way through the crowded anchorage of the Downs.
The careless sailors laughed at the heavy blasts of wind which in their force only hurried the good ship on, and thus gave the crews a better prospect of realising their hopes of being in Old England on the near Christmas tide, to spend it with their friends on shore, and share in, and by their presence greatly add to, all the pleasures of the season.
But the smaller vessels at anchor in the Downs began to ride uneasily, the force of the gale fell on them with unchecked fury, the swift tide pressed them sore, and raging seas broke over them again and again. Their anchors began to drag; the breakers on the Goodwin Sands leapt and foamed dangerously near to leeward; there was also danger of collision if their anchors continued to drag, the ships in the Downs being so crowded together. Yes, there must be a flight from the Downs on the part of many of the smaller craft. Some vessels make for Ramsgate harbour, not many, as the charges are now so high and restrictive as almost to make it cease from being a harbour of refuge. Other vessels make for an anchorage round the North Foreland; a dangerous experiment this, as it frequently happens that a sudden lull comes in the southerly gale, and in a short time the wind chops right round, and begins to blow from the northward harder than ever. It was so on the occasion of which we are writing. If a strong fort, under which a fleet was anchored for protection, suddenly fell into the hands of the enemy, a greater change would not be wrought in the position, as to the safety of the vessels, than is occasioned by this sudden shift of wind to the vessels in the Margate Roads. The high cliffs which have been their shield now become their deadly peril. It had been desirable to gain their shelter, it is now a necessity to escape from their neighbourhood as soon as possible. And so, on this occasion, as the wind chopped round all was at once astir; some ships succeeded in regaining their anchors, others had no time or power to do so; some were driven ashore; twenty or thirty vessels had to slip their cables, and as, with no anchors on board, the captains did not dare to remain in the neighbourhood of the Sands or land, these vessels were hauled on a wind, and like a flock of weary frightened birds went staggering out into the North Sea.[1] The hovelling-luggers from Ramsgate, Margate, Deal, and Broadstairs are out during the gale; they go in chase of the ships that have fled from their anchorage; they place men on board such vessels as need them, either to act as pilots, or to assist the weary crews. Some of the luggers receive orders to fetch anchors and cables for such vessels as have lost theirs, and away they go plunging and speeding through the seas, making for the nearest port where they can find agents to supply them; and then out again with all speed, heavily laden, with anchors and chains, in search of the vessels which have employed them, and which have, likely enough, been driven by the force of the gale, far from the position in which the luggers left them.
At midnight the gale gathers increased force; the dark heavy clouds seem to settle lower and lower, and as the snow-squalls sweep by, the air and sea seem one confused mass of flying foam and snow.
The storm rages at Ramsgate Pier with all its fury; the pier stands an advanced fortress unmoved by the fierce attack of the waves, and it is well manned by brave boatmen, the reserved guard of the storm—Storm Warriors ready to sally forth to rescue life at the first signal of danger. One or two waggons, heavily laden with chains, and trucks with anchors, are being drawn down the pier by the struggling horses, the spray in heavy volumes washing over all.
Luggers in the harbour, and alongside the pier, are rolling and pitching in the rough tumble of the miniature sea that the gale arouses even there.
An anchor is hanging from the crane, a lugger beneath it is tossing up and down; the men are doing their utmost to guide the anchor in its descent into the boat as she plunges about; it is perilous work for all hands; it seems a marvel that it can be done without staving in the boat, or crushing the men.
A group of boatmen are crouching under shelter of the wall of the pier, near the life-boat; the night wears away—it is three o'clock in the morning.
A boatman makes his way to the pier-head; he finds the coxswain of the life-boat on the look-out.
"Well, Jarman, a heavy gale this."
"A heavy gale indeed, Gorham; it is blowing great guns and no mistake—a terrific sea, too; just the night for our work, and I shall not be surprised if some is cut out for us, and pretty stiff too, before the morning."
"Likely enough, it is a sort of touch-and-go night for the Goodwin. I noticed before dark several vessels riding in the Gulls; now the wind has cast in so heavily from the north, it will go hard with some of them, I fear.
"Yes, I noticed them; they must have a bad time of it now; it is to be hoped that the anchors will hold; it will be almost sudden death for any poor fellows whose ships touch the Goodwin to-night; why, with the sea that must be now raging there, it would take in a ship almost at a mouthful."
"True enough, coxswain; I have been very anxious about them all night—cannot help thinking about them." And it is supposed that the boatman's fears were very terribly justified. One vessel was wrecked in the way we are about to tell; and very grave fears were felt as to the fate of several others; when the morning came, not one of the vessels that had been noticed the evening before as being anchored in such a dangerous position was to be seen, and yet it was almost certain that not any of them could have got away in safety.
Fishing-smacks that had been lying-to not far from the North Foreland saw the fleet of vessels driven from the Margate Roads, and afterwards saw several of them flying signals of distress, and apparently in a sinking condition; but from the extraordinary force of the gale, the fishermen could render no assistance, and the weather was too dark and thick for the signals for help to be seen from the light-vessels, or from the shore; moreover, a good deal of wreckage was seen floating about in the morning, and the mast-head of one vessel was discovered standing out of the water upon the Goodwin, the last seen relic of some unknown ship and crew.
Among the vessels observed during the afternoon to be at anchor in a very perilous position in the Gull Stream, and making very bad weather of it, was the Mary, a schooner of about 170 tons; she had been a Dutch galliott, had a cargo of coals on board, and was bound from Shields to Dieppe.
There was one fine young man on board, David Fullarton. Life seemed more especially dear to him, as he was engaged to be married; the arrangements for the wedding had been made; he had been busy in preparing a home; and a short voyage from Shields to Dieppe and back, would do something towards the expenses, and he would not be long away; and so there were bright memories to look back upon, bright hopes before him; but this terrible storm seems to cover all with its shadow. As soon as darkness sets in, and the gale shows signs of increasing in force, Fullarton becomes very anxious, and keenly alive to the danger the schooner is in; time after time he entreats the captain to have the masts cut away, that the vessel may ride more easily, and be less exposed to the fury of the wind. "Do! captain, pray do! for the sake of our lives let it be done! we are dragging our anchors—we are fast driving on the Sands;" and again he begs the captain to signal for assistance. "Why not! why not? you will do it too late, captain, too late!" the poor fellow cries in his restlessness and distress.
The night grows on, and its terrors multiply; the intense darkness, the wild sea, the howling winds moaning and wailing through the rigging, the hoarse roar and thunder of the breakers raging on the near Goodwin Sands.
At last, the captain feels that the schooner is in great danger, and orders the crew to set a tar-barrel on fire; they hasten to do so—Fullarton working with eager haste; but the wash of the sea over it and the heavy wind will not let it burn; they fill the barrel with tow and tar, and grease, and at last get it to flare up with a fierce flame that resists the storm; the watch on board the Gull light-ship had noticed before dark the danger of the vessel, and had been keenly on the look-out in her direction for signals of distress; on Ramsgate Pier, also, an anxious look-out had been kept for some hours, the boatmen expecting disasters in that quarter.
It is a little before four in the morning; the men on board the light-vessel see the signal of distress, and fire a gun and send up a rocket to convey to the shore the tidings that help is wanted.
The boatmen at once commence preparations with all energy, they arouse the men asleep in the watch-house on the pier, a man hurries to give the harbour-master notice, the crew of the steamer Aid get ready for sea, the harbour-master hurries down the pier and gives the men orders to start on their merciful and perilous errand.
Away they go in the teeth of the hurricane, clearing their way through the leaping foaming waves and the clouds of heavy spray.
The town and harbour lights gleam out in the darkness, but there is no looking back for them on the part of the men, and there may be none; until by God's mercy, their work is successfully finished, and then doubly will the lights shine out a glad welcome on their triumphant return home.
The lights they now look for are the beacon fires of warfare; calls to conflict and peril; guides into the thickest of the dread battle-field. As the life-boat lifts on the curl of a wave, the crew see the flickering flame of the signal-fire that is burning so fiercely in the tar-barrel on the wreck; they make in for the signal at once, pass through the Cud channel; snow-squalls come sweeping by, adding to the cold and darkness, and shutting out from their view all lights on the Sands; the men are eager and excited in their quick sympathy for the shipwrecked crew—eager to brave all the dangers of the lashing seas which they know must be leaping and tearing about the wreck. And they well realize the deadly peril the poor shipwrecked seamen must be in, and think little in their struggle onward of all the hardships they themselves are enduring.
For about forty minutes they battle their way, and then find themselves near the wreck; the signal flame from the burning tar-barrel leaps, and flickers, and burns low, and is almost extinguished by the spray; the life-boatmen watch it anxiously, for they know that if the crew of the vessel cannot succeed in keeping it alight, it will be almost impossible for them to find the vessel in the darkness of the night; the crew of the schooner also feel this to be the case, and bring clothes and bedding, and all the tar and oil they can get at, and by great exertions manage to keep the fire burning.