CHAPTER XV. DEAL BEACH.
"Then courage, all brave mariners,
And never be dismay'd,
While we have bold adventurers,
We ne'er shall want a trade;
Our merchants will employ us
To fetch them wealth, we know;
Then be bold—work for gold,
When the stormy winds do blow."
M. Parker.
Few places in the world, if any, have proved the scene of more daring sailor-life than Deal beach. Generation after generation of boatmen have passed away, having spent their lives, from early boyhood, in continuous strife with the swift tide, strong seas, and rolling surf that race through the channels off Deal, and break upon the Goodwin, or upon the Shingle beach.
Other antagonists the old days used to provide, and the young men's hands grew hard with handling the bow, or spear, or javelin, or the musket, cutlass, or boarding-pike, as well as with handling the tiller and the ropes.
In the days of old, the Northern Sea Kings were, to the east coast of England, like clouds on the horizon, ever threatening a storm, but without any indication as to where the storm would break.
The coast of Kent was especially open to their attacks; they came down like wolves on the fold; a bright sunny morning, a bowling northerly breeze, a few specks on the horizon standing out darkly with the clear dawn behind them.
A few hours, and the Norsemen were at work; a fishing-village, wrecked and half buried in ruins, some of its stout defenders lying gashed and ghastly among its smoking embers; trembling fugitives still hurrying inland with a few of their lighter and more treasured goods, and the marauders holding swift and triumphant debauch upon the shore, as with rude cries of mirth and victory, they prepare to start seaward again before time can be found to gather forces to make any attack upon them, or any efforts can be made to regain the plunder the hardy robbers have obtained, or to revenge the slaughter they have worked.
The Romans, when they were lords of the land, felt the necessity of resisting these roving Sea Kings in a determined and organised manner; they formed nine military stations along the coast, and placed all under the command of an officer, to whom they gave the sounding title of Count of the Saxon Shore.
Four of these stations were in Kent—Reculver, Richborough, Dover, and Lymne. Remains of the Roman fortifications still bear witness that they were intended in defence from an enemy whose power was not lightly esteemed.
This military organisation of the Romans was afterwards developed into the establishment of the Cinque Ports and their respective members, the jurisdiction of which embraced a coast line from Reculver to Hastings.
The inhabitants of the Cinque Ports well earned and fully obtained great honour in the old days. The free men of the ports were styled barons, and held rank among the nobility of the kingdom. They stood the vanguard of defence against all England's continental enemies, and their service is thus described by Mr. Boys in his 'History of Sandwich':
"The inhabitants were always on the watch to prevent invasion; their militia were in constant readiness for action, and their vessels stout and warlike, so that, in Edward the First's time, they alone equipped a fleet of one hundred sail, and gave such a blow to the maritime power of France as to clear the Channel of those restless and insidious invaders. The state depended upon them for the safety of its coast-line and towns, and their services went by no means unrewarded; an encouragement they had always been accustomed to receive, and this for commercial as well as for warlike enterprise, as by the wisdom of our Saxon ancestors, a merchant who had at his own expense three times freighted vessels with home produce was entitled to the rank of thane or baron. The Barons of the Cinque Ports walked in procession at the coronations of the kings and queens, and at the feast of the coronation had an especial table allotted to them in Westminster Hall at the right of the king; this privilege was preserved up to the time of the coronation of George the Third."
All this is evident and sufficient testimony of the nature and extent of the services of our coast heroes in defence of their country; and still the enterprise and daring continue, and bold, vigilant warfare goes on, although defence against a foreign foe has long ceased to be its first consideration. In later times, indeed, the revenue officers unfortunately, and to no small extent, took the place of the foreign foe in the minds and labours of by no means a few of the boatmen and inhabitants of these towns situated so conveniently adjacent to the Continent; and the enterprise and labours of the boatmen were no less daring, if less patriotic than in former days, and smuggling was elevated into as organized a business as fishing is now: one writer rather quaintly remarks, "Yet even this smuggling is not without its utility, for however the revenue may suffer, it gives birth to a very intrepid race of seamen, who are of the greatest service in relieving others from the dangers which befall shipping on this coast in bad weather."
Certainly the boatmen of Deal beach are not now, and probably never have been, surpassed for skill and daring.
If they can by any possibility get their famous luggers out to sea, no hurricane daunts them; their splendid boats glide over the seas, escaping the broken water—now high on the wave, now buried in the trough—and look like so many strong-winged gulls, as they seem almost to play with the storm.
Falconer, in his 'Shipwreck,' pays the following tribute to the skill and courage of the boatmen:
"Where e'er in ambush lurks the fatal sands,
They claim the danger, proud of skilful bands!
For while, with darkling course, the vessels sweep
The winding shore, or plough the faithless deep;
Or bar, or shelf, the watery path they sound
With dexterous arm, sagacious of the ground.
Ceaseless they combat every hostile wind,
Wheeling in mazy track with course inclined;
Expert to moor where terrors line the road,
Or win the anchor from its dark abode."
Let us take a peep at Deal beach, and try to realize some of the scenes that are there to be witnessed.
Suppose a fine clear winter's day. A gentle south-westerly breeze has been blowing on and off for several days; many ships have found their way out of the Thames, or have beaten down helped by the tides from the North Sea, and having reached the Downs there ride safely at anchor; the ships-boats, or the galley punts, as the small Deal boats are called, are doing the little work that is to be done, and the large luggers are drawn high upon the beach.
The boatmen are lounging about the beach here and there, or they are smoothing the shingle down with shovels, where the tide has heaped it up, to give the luggers a fair run down into the sea in the event of their being wanted; tanned sails are spread abroad upon the shingle drying, women hang about knitting and watching the ships at anchor for any signal for a boat; at times there is a move down the beach to help a boat that is coming ashore out of the surf and to drag it up high and dry.
The wind gets a slant to the south-east as the tide ebbs, and at once all are alert in the fleet of ships at anchor in the Downs, that have been waiting for a fair breeze. There is a hurry to the beach of all officers, sailors, or passengers that may be ashore; the last supply of fresh provisions is taken on board those ships on which the Captain can afford to be luxurious: you can hear the orders shouted, the capstans at work; jibs are set, topsails loosened, the anchors got up and catted, the sails let fall, and away the ships go down Channel; a fresh northerly breeze bowls along and lasts some days, the outward bound ships go flying through the Downs with top-gallant sails set; and except that they land a few pilots, there is nothing whatever for the Deal men to do.
At last a change of weather promises, the homeward-bound are to have a turn; the outward-bound must anchor in the Downs and wait a while. The French coast shows out clearly, the gulls are whirling about uttering shrill plaintive cries; the boatmen watch the sunset, greyish white streaky clouds are gathering in the west, the sun looks sheer, is the boatmen's word for it, and as the long rays of light break through the clouds—ah! yes, we shall have a change of wind and weather. "The sun is setting up his backstays." "Bright skies make dirty ways;" and before daylight closes the men overhaul their luggers and see that everything is ready for a sudden start, should their services be needed.
A mizzling rain comes on, the wind is round to the westward and freshening; some of the vessels which have been among the last to pass Deal bound to the southward, give up the hope of getting down Channel in the face of the freshening breeze, and return to find anchorage in the Downs.
It is a likely night for work, and the boatmen get ready for a cruise; everything is prepared to launch one of the large luggers; she is now drawn up high upon the beach; her crew of fifteen men hasten to get ready for sea. It is a dark and squally winter's morning, about one o'clock; fourteen of the men are now on board, each at his station; one man stands ready to cut the lashing of the stop which holds the boat in position on the ways; they wait till a squall passes; the word is given, the lashing cut, the man springs to the gunwale of the boat, and climbs on board. Scarcely has he tumbled over the side when the boat rushes down the greased ways and is launched into the surf; the mizen is already set, the foresail is hoisted with all speed, and the boat speeds on her way seaward.
As the day comes the breeze freshens, and many luggers are cruising about, speaking the vessels at anchor, or the vessels running through the Downs, ready to offer any assistance in their power; upon some of the vessels they put men to pilot them into Ramsgate harbour, or round the North Foreland into the Margate Roads.
Or if the wind has blown heavily, there will be generally some vessels that have lost their anchors and cables, and the boatmen will receive orders to supply fresh ones.
There is sometimes a degree of surprise expressed at the amount claimed by a boat's crew for taking an anchor and cable off to a vessel in distress; it requires some knowledge of the work to appreciate its danger, and how hardly and well the money awarded is generally earned.
Consider, as an example, the case of the Albion lugger, as it happened during the gale, some of the incidents of which we are about to relate.
The Albion during her cruise meets with a vessel which is driving before the increasing storm; she has lost both her anchors and cables, and the lugger receives orders to supply her from the shore; the hardy crew receive the order gladly, put the lugger round, and beat through the heavy seas, making for Deal. They have to force the boat against wind and tide, and much skill is required to prevent her being filled by the rising seas which sweep around her; now she rushes upon the beach, the surf breaks over her and half fills her with water; with a tremendous thump and shake, she strikes the shore with her iron keel.
As the wave which bore the lugger in upon the beach recedes, a man springs overboard from the bow with a rope in his hand; many catch hold of the rope, and haul their hardest to keep the boat straight, head on to the beach; there is a stem strap—a chain running through a hole in the front part of the keel; a boatman watches his opportunity, and as a wave sweeps back, rushes down and passes a rope through the loop of the strap; the other end of this rope is fastened to a powerful capstan, which is placed high up on the beach. "Man the capstan! Heave with a will," and the strong men strain at the capstan bars until the capstan creaks again. There is no starting the lugger; she is so full of water from the surf breaking on the beach, that she is too heavy for the men at one capstan to move her; ropes are led down from two other capstans, and rove through a snatch block fastened to a boat on the beach; all put out their strength, round they tramp with a "ho! heave ho!" and slowly the lugger travels up the beach, and is safe from the roll of the breakers. The men get the water out of her, haul her higher up on to a swivel platform, turn her round head to the sea, and the leading hands hurry away to inquire about an anchor and cable. The agent supplies them with such as seem suitable for the size of the vessel, and which will perhaps weigh together about seven tons.
There is no small amount of labour attached to getting the anchor and chain cable on board the lugger, but in a short time all are again ready for sea.
The gale has rapidly increased in force, and a frightful surf is running on the beach; the roar of the breakers on the shingle, the howling of the storm, the gleam of white foam, shining out of the mist and gloom, all picture the wildness of the storm, but the undaunted boatmen do not hesitate; all is ready, the signal given, the boat rushes down the steep ways, and is launched into the sea. A breaking wave rolls in swiftly, it meets the bow of the lugger in its rush, fills her; for a moment the big boat runs under water, and then is lifted and twisted like a toy in the grasp of the sea, and is thrown in the heave of the wave broadside on to the beach; a cry of horror from all on shore, and a rush down to aid the crew, who are all—there are fifteen of them—struggling in the surf; now the men are washed up by the wave, and feel the ground, and stagger forward; now they are caught again by a breaker and rolled over; it is for each of them a terrible battle with the fierce seas; here, one gets on his feet and stumbles forward, he is caught by the men on shore and dragged up the beach; there, a man is lying struggling on the shingle, trying in vain to rise, exhausted and confused; two men seize his collar and pull him forward a yard or two, then get him to his feet, and he escapes the next wave, which would have washed him out to sea again. Now all the men seem to be saved; names are shouted—do all answer? no! there is one missing; all rush to the water's edge, and gaze into the darkness; eagerly watching each shadow mid the surf; there he is! no! yes it is! there lifting on the surf; there rolling over: "Quick, quick, form a line!" and the brave boatmen grasp each other's hands with iron strength and form a chain, the lowest of the four or five men at the sea end of the chain being in the water; the waves battle with them, but sturdily they persevere; at last the body is within the reach of the seaward man, he grasps it, the men are dragged up the beach, and the poor insensible man is carried ashore. Alive? or dead? they cannot say, and with a great fear in their hearts they carry him hurriedly up the beach, and soon, to the great joy of all, he gives signs of life, and gradually recovers.
In the meanwhile the poor boatmen on the beach have nothing that they can do, but watch their fine boat, which was worth five hundred pounds, being torn, and hammered to pieces in the surf, plank after plank is wrenched from her, now with a loud crash she is broken in half, the two halves part, the anchor and cable fall through her, they can see part of the fore-peak with one side torn away, floating in the breakers; soon that also is rent to pieces, and nothing but fragments of the boat float in the surf, or are strewn about the beach, and the boatmen, heavy-hearted, but thankful that they have escaped with their lives, go slowly to their homes, to rest for a few hours, and recruit their strength, and then to be ready to form part of the crew of any other boat, and at the first summons to rush out again to the encounter with the stormiest seas.
In a narrative of adventure and conflict with the seas that rage over the Goodwin Sands, it would not be well to refrain from bearing testimony to how readily, how gallantly, the men of Deal, of Broadstairs, of Walmer, and of Kingsdown, as well as of Ramsgate, man their respective life-boats, whenever the call is made for their services, and race out to the scene of action, full of hardihood, of skill, of courage—true Storm Warriors, ever ready to dare all and do all that they may rescue the drowning from a watery grave.