CHAPTER XXIII. HARDLY SAVED.
"Much would it please you sometimes to explore
The peaceful dwellings of our borough poor;
To view a sailor just returned from sea,
His wife beside, a child on either knee,
And others crowding near, that none may lose
The smallest portion of the welcome news....
The trembling children look with steadfast eyes,
And panting, sob involuntary sighs;
And sleep awhile his torpid touch delays,
And all is joy, and piety, and praise."
Crabbe.
The second mate and cabin-boy still remain on board the wreck; they have watched with the greatest horror and dread the terrible death of the chief mate, and are themselves almost in absolute despair.
The seas continue to wash over the ship with great violence; the deck-house, under the protection of which the sailors have been crouching, begins to break up, and wrench, and tear, and is carried away piecemeal; the second mate, as the wreck wrestles and writhes beneath him, under the rush of a huge wave, fears that it is going to break up altogether, that the ship's last moment is come, and he throws himself upon the rope by which the life-boat is made fast to the ship, and begins to make his way along it; it is almost level with the water, for the wreck has so worked herself down in the Sands that her gunwale is but four or five feet above the sea; the breakers rush over the poor fellow as he painfully struggles on; he is again and again buried by the waves, but he clings on; and half working his way, half carried by the seas and tide, he reaches the high bow of the life-boat, which is leaping, and falling, and jerking, tearing the hawser to which the sailor is clinging, up and down through the seas, as if trying its utmost violence to jerk him from his hold.
But still he holds on, his hands convulsively clutching the rope as his body is being swayed and thrown violently about; he is exhausted, and breathless—he is half drowned; his face is pale as death, his jaw drops, he seems about to swoon; in another moment he will be gone; he gives a wild despairing look at the life-boat, and as the waves dash him against it, makes an effort to grasp it; the man in the bow of the boat has been watching his every movement, has shuddered with dismay as he saw the seas wash over him, expecting him to be carried away in the strong tide. No! he still grasps the rope, and at last is within reach; in one spring, and with a cry to his mates, "Hold me! hold me!" the boatman throws himself upon the raised foredeck of the life-boat, and with his body half stretched over the stem, he grasps the collar of the sailor; the drowning man throws his arm around the boatman's neck, and clings to him convulsively, by his weight dragging the man's head down and burying it in the water; but the brave fellow clings as hard to the half-dead sailor as the sailor does to him; the seas wash bodily over them and over the bow of the boat; up and down the boat plunges them both, but he still holds on; three or four of the boatmen have hold of his legs, and are doing their utmost to pull him back into the boat, but they cannot do so, and so the struggle goes on; it is only as the boat rises on a wave and throws her bow up in the air that the men can breathe.
Now a shout of horror, and a cry—"Look-out! look out! sheer the boat, quick! quick! port—port your helm!" For right down upon the bow of the boat, tossing on the huge seas, and borne swiftly by the tide comes the wreck of one of the ship's largest and heaviest boats; it has been entangled in the mast, which is hanging over the side of the ship, but it has now washed free, and comes driving down as if to stave in the bow of the boat, and crush to death the two poor fellows hanging on to the side:—the boat sheers a little; a cross wave catches the wreckage, and it just sweeps clear. Thank God! is the cry of every man in the boat.
The boatmen cannot get the two men in over the high bow of the boat, and the poor fellows are drowning fast; and so they drag the life-boatman by his legs along the side of the boat, he still clinging to the sailor, and get him to the waist of the boat where the gunwale is very low; some of the men can now catch hold of the sailor, they drag him on board, and the boatman is pulled in by his legs. The brave fellow is very exhausted by his great and gallant exertions; but he has saved the man's life, and that is every consolation to him; the mate of the vessel is almost unconscious. If the boatman had not clung to him as the seas broke over them both, he must have let go his hold and soon have been beaten under by the waves, for he was quite incapable of any further exertion.
The boatmen again turn their attention to the wreck; they have been so much engaged with the two men struggling in the water, that they have not been able to think of the poor boy still clinging to the vessel in loneliness and fear.
The deck-house has by this time been completely washed away, and no longer affords him any protection. The poor little fellow is clinging to the gunwale, holding on to the cleats; and he is calling out in good English, and in the most piteous tones, O save me! O save me! O do save me! He is only thirteen years old. The boatmen answer him back; and much as they have passed through, it affects them very deeply to see the poor child in his fear, and misery, and danger, to hear his cries and sobs, and not to know how to help him. Continually he is completely buried in the seas, and it seems wonderful that he can hold on; each time the waves rush over the wreck, the boatmen expect to find him washed away like a cork, but he still holds on, and again and again his piteous pleading voice is heard 'mid the roar of the storm—"O save me! O save me! O be quick and save me!"—"What can we do? What can we do?" the boatmen ask each other in tones of real sorrow and dismay; there is not a man among them who is not ready to risk his own life to save the boy, but nothing can be done. It is impossible for them to climb on board the wreck by the rope with which the life-boat is fastened to the vessel, for the wreck is now so overrun by the tide that the bend of the rope is continually under water, and the wreckage of the vessel's masts is washing over it; moreover, although it was possible for a man to come down the rope, the sea and tide making with him, it would be impossible for a man to work his way up the rope against such a tremendous rush of water and breaking surf as are continually sweeping over it. The steamer is not in sight, or they might be tempted to go to her, get towed to windward again, and try to run in upon the wreck and grapple her closer; but this would be almost impossible, so wild is the sea on the weather side, and on the lee side the wreck of one of the masts is flying about in the broken water in a way, which would at once prove fatal to the life-boat if she got entangled with it.
And so all they can do is to wait on, till the tide slackens, when perhaps they will be able to haul the life-boat up to the wreck, and save the boy. But while the tide runs so fiercely they can only wait, and watch the poor little lad. They do not forget the captain of the vessel, they will go in search of him by-and-by, but they conclude that all life must have been beaten out of him long since; and they must not leave the living to go and search for the body of one whom they think must very certainly be by this time dead.
A short time, and the tide rapidly slackens, an eddy comes rushing through some channel in the Sands, and the boat begins to sheer about wildly; and is soon in danger of being crushed against the wreckage of the masts, which is heaving and tossing about among the very heaviest of the seas.
"We must make an effort soon," the coxswain cries; "make ready, my men; try and keep the wreckage clear; haul the boat up to the ship sharp, when I tell you: we will soon have the poor little chap."
Scarcely are the words shouted out by the coxswain when some of the men give a cry—"What's that! look out! yes, he is overboard, washed over by that big sea. Where is he? where is he? There he is! No! only his cap, there he lifts on that sea—he is coming straight for the boat."—From the change and eddy of the tide, the rush of the sea past the boat is not nearly as rapid as it was, and the poor boy comes floating slowly from the ship; once or twice he has been rolled under by the waves, now he is on the surface again, and near the boat. "Here he comes! look! on that wave! Lost! no, he floats again; slacken the hawsers; now he is within reach, carefully, quick; now you have got him; he is making no effort, and floating with his head under water;" a boatman manages to hook his jacket with a long boat-hook, and pulls him towards the boat—gently the men lift him in, sorrowfully; and tears are in the eyes of more than one, as they look upon the small face. "Poor little chap! too late! too late! he is gone," they say—and think that the delicate little face and slender childlike form suggest that he is fitted rather for quiet home scenes, and home care, than for such scenes of hardship and peril as he has had to endure.
"Now, my men," shouts the coxswain; "stations all! put the poor boy down here in the stern-sheets. If we do not look sharp we shall be driven upon the wreck, and likely enough all lost."
"Ay! ay! all right. Get the foresail clear! All clear,—hoist as the boat sheers; stand by to cut the cable, and ship's ropes; hoist away! Now she pays round; cut the cable; all gone; round the boat flies; away she goes before the wind. Make all fast. Now come and look to the poor lad again;" and some of the boatmen with tender fatherly pity in their hearts, take up the little fellow. They chafe his hands and rub his back and limbs, and his chest over his heart, with strong rum, put a little rum to his lips, and persevering as well as they can, following the instructions given to all life-boat men, for recovering the apparently drowned, after about half an hour they have the joy of seeing him show signs of life; the men who can be spared from working the boat continue their care of him; his circulation returns, and he can drink a little water; some of the men take off their jackets which have been kept dry by their waterproof overalls, and wrap him up in them; they then spread the mizen sail above him, to prevent the seas breaking over him; and the poor lad lies quiet, gradually recovering his strength.
During this time, the coxswain and the men have been consulting about the poor captain, who floated away with the life-buoy round him some two hours before; and they determine to run down the Stream-reach in search of him, dead or alive. But alive scarcely for one moment can they hope to find him.
The Stream-reach or Stream-wreckage, as it is called, is where the currents setting down on either side of the Sands meet on the highest part.
Most of the wreckage is washed up into it, and what remains of a lost ship or cargo will often be kept in this stream, and float away in one long line some miles to leeward. Along this Stream-reach, and in the heaviest of the seas, the men steer the life-boat, all keeping a keen look-out for the body of the lost captain.
They look back at the wreck several times as they speed away; and they soon see the foremast of the vessel go over the side; the hull of the vessel seems also to heave over, and that is the last that is seen of the Providentia, for by the next morning her hull is completely torn to pieces, the lower part buried in the Sands, and the remaining portion utterly swept away.
They run down the Stream-reach for about two miles; when one of the men fancies that he can see an arm waving. All look in the direction pointed out; and to their astonishment they see the captain in the life-buoy; as he rises on the sea, he shouts to them and again waves his arm.
The coxswain at once steers the boat for him, but the seas are so heavy that they knock the boat to leeward, and they just miss him.
The brave fellow shouts, "All right!" as they pass a few yards from him.
The boatmen lose no time; they take the mizen-sail which covers the mate and lad, set it with all possible haste, shake out all reefs in the foresail, head the boat round, and sail well to windward of the captain; almost capsizing the boat under her press of canvas, so eager are they; they keep a good look-out for him, for the seas are leaping so violently that it is a hard thing to keep the poor fellow in view, and at last they lose sight of him altogether. As soon as the boat is well to windward they make across the Stream-reach, then sail down it, and soon catch sight of the captain again; they lower the mizen and run straight for him; soon they down with the foresail to lessen the speed of the boat, for fear they should over run him, and manage to drop gently down by his side.
They lay hold of him and drag him into the boat; the exertion of being pulled in over the side of the boat, and the reaction after his fearful time of suffering and suspense, is too much for his remaining strength, and he seems dying in the men's hands; they try and get him to swallow a little rum, but he cannot do so, and faints.
The men now set sail and make for the Gull light-ship; they see the steamer coming round the South Sands Head in search of them; she takes the boat in tow, and they proceed towards Ramsgate. In the meanwhile some of the men have been doing all they can for the captain, rubbing his back and limbs, and doing all they possibly can to restore his circulation; he soon gets a little better, and is able to tell them that his ship was a Russian ship, the Providentia, from Finland, and that he is a Russian Fin; this last fact enables the men to account for his wonderful powers of endurance in his long exposure to the beating of the waves and to the coldness of the water, for the Finlanders are the hardiest of all sailors. He also tells the men, that the Providentia was a full rigged ship of 700 tons, bound from Newcastle to the Mediterranean with coals. That they had run ashore about eleven or twelve o'clock the night before, in thick weather. That they made signals, which the light-vessels answered. That they had seen the light-vessels signal to the shore; and as he knew that he was near Ramsgate, he felt sure that the life-boat would come out to their rescue; he therefore tried to persuade the crew, eleven in number, to remain by the ship; but that they took the big boat, and left the ship in so heavy a sea that he feared they must all be lost (they were blown over on the French coast, and at last got into Boulogne). Upon reaching Ramsgate the captain, mate, and the boy were carried to the Sailors' Home, being too weak to walk, and were well cared for.
The captain made a long statement as to the gallant services of the life-boat men, and of his deep gratitude to them.
We may as well add, that as some of the men, who had run away so suddenly from their work on board the Dutch steamer, to make a rush for the life-boat, were walking upon the pier, they saw the Dutch mate hurrying to them, evidently in a state of excitement. Halloo! What's up now? think the men, remembering how the mate had shouted after them as they left the vessel. Halloo! What's up now? but the honest fellow comes to them, and shaking them heartily by the hands, says with deep feeling,—"Me sorry me called you bad men for running away from the steamer. You good men! you good men! Me give you more work if me can."
CHAPTER XXIV. SAVED AT LAST.
THE FATAL GOODWIN SANDS.
"There are to whom that ship was dear
For love and kindred's sake,
When these the voice of rumour hear,
Their inmost heart shall quake,
Shall doubt, and fear, and wish, and grieve,
Believe, and long to unbelieve,
But never cease to ache;
Still doom'd, in sad suspense, to bear
The hope that keeps alive despair."
J. Montgomery.
Do we not often find in the winter evening that our warm rooms seem more cosy, and the flames to lap more brightly and closely round the half-consumed log, as a blast of wind moans in the chimney, and perhaps the cry of some poor street hawker tells its plain tale of toiling misery as it goes shiveringly along the streets? Do we not find our sensations of personal comfort increased, and our sympathy for the sufferer quickened, as the wintry gale and slashing rain beat against our well-shuttered windows, and suggest the hardships we should have to endure if we were less cared for and less protected?
But if we may learn the deeper to realize our blessings, and the more to enlarge our sympathies, as we contrast our respective positions with such as are endured by many of the poor toilers on shore, truly still more may we do so as we consider the trials and hardships endured by many of the toilers at sea. Jamb down the window harder to prevent those few drops of rain bubbling in, draw the curtain closer and check that one breath of draught; and now think of those of your fellow-men who are breasting the storm in its wildest rage, out in the full perils and dense darkness of the night, where cruel winds and mad seas attack them in all their dread force; but neither daunt their courage, check their efforts, nor frustrate their skill; their errand is to save, and all personal considerations are lost in the grandness and hope of their enterprise.
Thinking of these things, we shall not fail again and again to render our ready and full-hearted sympathy, not only for the shipwrecked, crying aloud in their quick peril and deep agony for rescue, but also for the poor brave-hearted boatmen of our coasts, who never hesitate to do all and to dare all when the prospect before them is that of saving life.
Let us recall again some of the features in the lives of those whom we may well call the "Storm Warriors" of seafaring life, who not only find their bread upon the waters, but upon the most troubled waters of the most storm-lashed seas; who, the darker the night, the sterner the tempest, the more blinding the snowdrift, are the more full of expectation that their services will be required, and are therefore the more determined to urge their way out into the storm, to be ready to render aid at the first call for assistance, and perhaps to pluck a harvest of saved lives off the very edge of the scythe of death.
Yes, my readers, I would once again carry you in thought far away from quiet home scenes and peaceful associations, from the pleasant nooks and sunny corners of memories which you delight to recall, upon which you love to let your thoughts half consciously ponder; but I ask you to take the joy of your home peace—the gladness of your blessings—with you, that you may be quickened in every chord of sympathy as you let me draw your thoughts away into the dread darkness, which is only broken by spectral sheens of light shed by flying foam, there to picture the rolling sea-mountains hurling along their avalanches of white spray; to listen to the dread discords of a howling tempest; to hover in fancy mid a scene of fierce turmoil and strife, where the elements in their rage seem to have cast off all bonds to their fury, and to have determined to sweep from their path every vestige of man and his works; and now to let your eyes centre upon a shattered wreck, to which are clinging a few storm-beaten sailors trembling upon the very verge of a grave.
Are you practically interested in life-boat work, then you have a message to them in their hour of agony; you would have a message to many a loving wife and innocent child if they could now realize the danger of those they love, upon whom they depend. And your whisper is of rescue and of hope. Look where a fitful light gleams in the darkness; now rides high on the crest of a huge wave, now falls buried in the trough of the sea, shines out again, is hidden in a cloud of spray, but pressing on and on, getting nearer each moment to the shipwrecked.
The light gleams from a life-boat in which a small band of men are battling,—battling on in the teeth of the fierce storm. No terrors stay them, no failures quell their courage and their zeal; are not fellow-men held captive and threatened with death by fierce and cruel seas? and shall they, the Storm Warriors, not be ready at every peril, and at every hardship, and against all difficulties to make in to their rescue. In such scenes we see the men actually at their work in their efforts to save life and property; but the life-boat work does not merely consist in doing the work at the moment of its necessity, but also in the unwearying watch and readiness for when that time of emergency shall come. Many a Ramsgate boatman leaves his poor, but warm and comfortable home, his humble and loving home circle, to pace Ramsgate pier for hours, and this, night after night, for many winter months, and for the mere chance of being among the first to make a rush for the life-boat when the signal is given to man her,—a chance that may not come a dozen times in the season, and which, when it does come, may afford indeed a grand opportunity for daring all and doing all for the saving of life, but not for doing much in the way of refilling the half-empty cupboards at home, or rubbing off the debts that have been gradually growing during the winter season.
And in this, the last tale, I propose telling of the doing of the Storm Warriors, the Life Savers, who watch and struggle mid the fierce seas of the Goodwin Sands, I have deeds to relate done by our brave boatmen—acts of daring and determination—for which I claim a place amid the records of the bravest, grandest deeds of heroism of the age; a tale to tell which, unless I fail utterly in the telling—and this God forbid—I reverently pray, and pray it for the sake of noble deeds done, and for the sake of the good life-boat cause—a tale which must excite sympathy for those in suffering and in peril from the dangers of the sea; and sympathy and high esteem for the daring and unselfish workers of brave works;—a tale, the echoes of which may well stir, as a trumpet peal, stout hearts to perseverance and brave deeds, to do and dare all in God's name, and for the right, whatever storms of opposition may impede their onward course, and stand between them and their high and holy aim.
The early days of the new year were bleak and cold; strong northerly and easterly winds swept over land and sea; people on shore spoke of the weather as being seasonable, but shuddered over the word.
At Ramsgate, on the 5th of January, it was a fresh breeze from the east-south-east, and the anxious boatmen were as usual keeping a good look-out. About half-past eight in the morning, the booming of signal guns was heard; the signals came from both the Goodwin and the Gull light-ships.
The boatmen, who had been watching all night in momentary expectation of such a signal, speedily manned the life-boat.
The steamer, the Aid, was soon ready, with her brave crew full of courage and hardihood, and full of zeal as ever to second every effort made by the life-boat men in saving life. The steamer is steered for the North Sands Head light-vessel. As they were making their way across the Gull stream, they saw what proved to be a shipwrecked crew in their own boat; they took them on board the steamer, and found that they were the crew, eight in number, of the schooner Mizpah, of Brixham. The schooner had stranded on the Goodwin in a thick fog the night previously; the weather was still thick, and the men could give no account of the position of their vessel, and thought that it was hopeless to try and find her, and that it would be useless to try and get her off if they did find her, and so the steamer took the boat in tow and returned to Ramsgate.
It proved afterwards that the vessel floated off the Sands at high water. A Broadstairs hovelling-lugger, while cruising about, fell in with her, and succeeded in bringing her into Ramsgate. The vessel and cargo were worth £6000 or £7000; the Broadstairs men obtained £350 as salvage. The life-boatmen were glad to take a few hours' rest after their night's watch and morning's work, they therefore found their way homewards, leaving, however, plenty of ready and able boatmen to watch on the pier, eager to make up another crew should a call for their services be made. The cold became hour by hour more intense, and the fresh breeze steadily grew; as the tide made, the sea broke over the pier in heavy clouds of spray, thundered down upon it, and poured over it in foaming cascades into the harbour.
The evening grew on, the gale became terrific; heavy snow-storms went sweeping by, showers of freezing sleet rushed on before the wind, and the night was as dreary and dismal, as dark and cold, as night could well be.
At about half-past ten the storm was in its full fury, and the sea a very howling wilderness of raging waters.
At that moment the boom of a signal gun made itself heard, in spite of the roar of the wind and sea, and rockets were soon seen streaming up from the Gull light-ship.
"The life-boat was manned with despatch," would be the short report the coxswain would afterwards make to the harbour-master. This means, that directly the signal was given, all was astir at the pier-head, the harbour-men on watch hurried themselves to lose no moment in getting the life-boat ready for sea; that the crew of the steamer also made all zealous speed; that the boatmen, in spite of the piercing cold and terrific gale, rush along the pier, hurry down the harbour steps, spring into the boat, and at once set to work in preparing her for sea, as readily as schoolboys bound down the school stairs and out on to the common for the joy of a summer holiday.
It takes the steamer and life-boat about one hour and a half to urge their way through the terrible storm into the neighbourhood of the Gull light-ship; the crews speak her about one in the morning, and are told that the men on board saw, some time since, a large light burning south-east by south, but they had lost sight of it for about twenty minutes.
The steamer at once tows the boat in the direction described; a careful look-out is kept; the snow-storms come down more darkly than ever, and the men find it bitterly cold, as they are continually overrun by the foam and spray, and by the broken crests of the waves, which are very wild and running mountains high; still on and on the brave fellows battle their way, but they can discover no signs of any signal-light. The crew hold a consultation as to what is best to be done; there appears no possibility of any of the crew of the vessel which gave the signals of distress being still alive; she must have broken up at once, in so tremendous a sea, and it would be impossible for any poor fellow to float clinging to any piece of wreckage in the midst of such a terrific turmoil of water. Still some other vessel may be in danger; the night is wild and dark enough for disaster after disaster to occur; and so the men determine to wait and watch for any signal of distress, and not seeing one, to remain in the neighbourhood of the Sands at all events until daylight, that they may feel sure before they leave the Sands that they are not turning their backs upon any whom they might leave to perish in the storm for want of their aid.
And so, my readers, while most of you, if not all, were quietly in your beds (the wakeful ones of you perchance listening wistfully to the storm, and perhaps having your hearts moved to great pity and deep prayer for the poor fellows at sea), these brave boatmen, from choice, and not for the hope of money reward, but for the far dearer hope of saving life, waited on and on, by those gloomy storm-beaten Sands, a prey to all the fierceness of the gale, the raging seas, and deadly cold.
Time after time the mad rushing waves break over the boat, burying her in clouds of spray and foam, or, coming in heavier volume still, bury her and the men for a moment or two completely under water. It is to the crew something more than intense discomfort; their sufferings become very great, yet they will not give in; they do all that they can to encourage each other, and still let the boat lay to.
Willing as every man is to endure to the utmost, they soon find that it is getting beyond their strength; they feel as if frozen through and through, and are rapidly getting numbed and exhausted with the continual wash and beating over them of the heavy seas. There is no help for it, and unwillingly they make a signal for the steamer, and are towed back to Ramsgate, arriving between four and five in the morning.
The name of the vessel that was lost during that terrible night was never known; the greedy Sands soon swallowed up every vestige of the ship; her name may perhaps be found among the missing ships at Lloyds'. Hope, doubtless, long lingered, may still linger, in many mournful homes; still the story be told to wondering children, how their father or their brother sailed on such a day from a foreign port, and has not since been heard of; but no clue has ever yet been found as to which of the many missing vessels it was that came to such sudden destruction in that dread night on the Goodwin Sands.
Shall we linger another moment or two in thought over the poor fellows thus lost in the fierce seas. We fancy that the bronzing of a tropical sun was still ruddy upon their cheeks; a few weeks since they were ready to rest 'neath the shadow of the sails, and lie about the deck at night; and then speeding north they were met in the chops of the Channel by the rough welcome of a strong adverse wind, against which they sought, day and night, to beat their way, while the sails and cordage grew hard and stiff with frozen rain and spray.
Favoured at last with a slant of wind, the vessel finds her way up Channel; the crew already feel the hardship and dangers of their voyage at an end, as they begin to count the hours until they shall be in dock; night falls as they pass the South Foreland. The wind goes moaningly back to the old direction; hour after hour it increases, a gale sweeps along in dread force, the blinding snow bewilders the pilot, who can now see no guiding light, and soon in the darkness of the night, the force of the wind, and the swirl of the tide, the vessel is driven through the raging surf on to the Sands.
The crew make a rush for the boats; useless; they would not live a moment in such a boil of sea. The waves fly over the vessel, now lift her, and then let her crash with the force of all her weight down upon the Sands; now they beat with tremendous force against her, and shake her each moment to her keel; the captain burns a blue light, the spray washes it out, the men hasten to get a tar-barrel on deck, knock in the top, fill it with combustibles, and light it; it flares up, and for a time resists the rush of spray with which the air is full; the light-vessel sees the signal, fires a gun and a rocket; the life-boat starts upon her mission, but the waves close in upon the doomed ship in fierce hungry strife, lifting and crashing her down time after time; the decks are soon swept of everything that the force of water can tear from them, the tar-barrel is washed out; the men can no longer remain on the deck, but have to take refuge in the rigging, where they lash themselves to the shrouds, and they wait on in darkness and despair; a tremendous wave comes boiling along, it lifts the vessel, and almost rolls her over; the strong masts snap like reeds; the ship fills and sinks in the hole she has worked by her rolling and beating in the quicksand. Another half-hour, perhaps, and the life-boat is there; too late! only the tangled spars and cordage and broken pieces of wreck float near—tokens of the death and destruction that have been wrought: and a fine ship has been thus utterly and speedily destroyed—and all living things on board being swiftly engulfed, have found their graves in the strife of that deadly sea.
CHAPTER XXV. SAVED AT LAST.
WE WILL NOT GO HOME WITHOUT THEM.
"O, the most piteous cry of the poor souls!
Sometimes to see 'em, and not to see 'em; now
The ship boring the moon with her mainmast,
And anon swallowed with yest and froth;
How the poor souls roared, and the sea
Mocked them."
Winter's Tale.
As soon as it is daylight the coxswain of the life-boat and others of the boatmen feel very anxious; they fear that, when driven in by exhaustion on the previous night, they may, after all, have left some poor fellows clinging to a remnant of wreck; or perhaps have left a ship on the Sands, lost in the darkness of the night, and unable to make any signal of distress; the men cannot rest, and although the life-boat has only been in a few hours, the coxswain of the boat and the mate of the steamer go to the harbour-master, tell him their fears, and ask his permission to put to sea again and to search round the Sands.
The permission is readily given—"Go by all means," and the men are encouraged to make their search. Ten fresh hands join the coxswain and the bowman of the life-boat; and soon after daylight they start on their dangerous and merciful mission.
They are towed again by the steamer Aid, and make for the North Sands Head light-vessel, keeping a good look-out for the faintest signal of distress. The men discover nothing on the north side of the Sands, and they determine to work their way to the back of the Sands, on the French side, and there pursue their search.
Soon they see in the misty distance what seems to be a large vessel on the south-east spit of the Sands; they tow with all speed in her direction; they are proceeding along the edge of the Sand, just outside the broken water.
The waves are rolling along in all their fury, and beat down upon the Sands with tremendous force; the surf flying up in great sheets of foam, and the roar of the breakers is like loud quivering thunder; the scene is enough to make the stoutest heart quail; but, without one thought of flinching from whatever lies before them, the men cling to the life-boat as the seas break over them, and patiently bear all the cold and storm, and wash of water, as they are towed on nearer and nearer to the wreck.
One of the men said afterwards, in answer to questions as to what his feelings were as he watched the tremendous seas, and knew that shortly he would be battling for his life in the midst of them, "Well, Sir, I think that at all such times a man must naturally have his inward feelings; soldiers say that they have theirs, and I am very sure that we have ours; a man can't help knowing the danger, and thinking about it, and feeling about it too; but we are not going to be made cold-hearted about it, or we shouldn't be out there. We can't help seeing that we've got hard work before us, and we determine by God's help to do it, and we won't flinch. We hope to save others, and feel that we shall do our best to do so, but at the same time we know that we may lose our own lives in making the attempt. We think about this sometimes as we are sitting in the boat, holding on against the wash of the seas, but when we get to the wreck we forget all about ourselves, and only think about saving the others."
The seas become still heavier and heavier as they get nearer to the wreck and approach a more exposed part of the Sands; they now have to encounter one great rush of water, which, urged by the hurricane of wind and the strong tide, comes raging along in unbroken course through the Straits of Dover.
At last they get within a short distance of the wreck, and find her to be a large barque. She has settled down somewhat on the Sands, has heeled over a good deal, and huge waves are foaming over her. The men look at the awful rage of sea, hear the tremendous roar with which the mountainous waves break upon the Sand, and say to each other, "We have indeed our work cut out for us."
The boatmen can see no signs of any of the crew of the vessel being left on board. They may have been swept from the wreck, or have been lost in some vain effort to get to land in their own boat. The flag of distress is still flying, and the steamer tows the boat nearer to the wreck; they can now make out that the crew are crouching down under cover of the deck-house; while the huge waves make a complete breach over the vessel, and threaten every moment to wash the deck-house and the crew away.
The steamer tows the boat up to windward. The life-boatmen feel their turn for the battle has come, and make every preparation; they get their sails ready to hoist, make the cable up all clear for paying out; the coxswain sees that they are now far enough to windward, the steamer's tow-rope is cast off; the boat lifts on a huge wave as the strain of the rope is taken off her, they hoist the sail, round she flies in answer to her helm, and she makes in for the wreck; they mount on the top of huge seas, go plunging down into the trough of the waves; the spray flies over them as the gale catches the crests of the towering breakers, and fills the air with clouds of flying foam; a minute more and they are in broken water; the seas rush and leap and recoil, fly high and fall in tangled volumes over the boat; she is tossed in all directions by the wild broken waves, and as she fills again and again with water, becomes almost unmanageable.
The men have to cling with all their strength to the thwarts, but still the wind drives the boat on, and they get within about sixty yards of the wreck; the anchor is thrown out, the cable payed out swiftly; the sea is rushing with tremendous force over the ship; the boat sheers in under her lee-quarter; the boatmen cheer to the poor half-dead sailors who are crouching and clinging under shelter of the deck-house. All is hope; "A minute or two more," they think, "and we shall have saved them." A shout from the coxswain of the boat—"Hold on! hold on!" a glance upwards, a huge mountain of a wave comes rolling swiftly on, its crest curls over, breaks, falls upon the boat, the men and the boat are carried down by the tremendous weight of water. Some of the men seem almost crushed by the blow and pressure of the falling wave; they do not know whether the boat is upset or not, so is she rolled about in the whirl of the broken wave; they cling convulsively to her, she soon floats, lifted by her air-tight compartments, and she frees herself. The men breathe again; they find that the wave that buried them has taken the boat in its irresistible flood, and dragging the anchor with it, has carried it more than one hundred yards away from the ship.
The men lift themselves up, clear their faces from the water, shake it from their clothes, and look at the vessel; they determine that, please God, they will yet save the crew. They give a cheer to encourage and give hope to the poor fellows, and without further thought of the dread danger they have but just escaped, prepare for another attempt.
They hoist the sail quickly and get the boat's head round, and try and sheer her into the ship; but all their efforts are in vain, wave after wave breaks over them, the boat is tossed in all directions by the broken seas—sometimes the coxswain feels as if he would be thrown bodily forward on the men, as the waves lift the boat almost end on end.
Again and again are boat and men overrun bodily by the rush of the waves, but the boat behaves splendidly, lifts buoyantly from under the weight of water; her undaunted crew bear up bravely, and all are once more ready for another struggle. They labour on, but without success; they cannot make their way back to the ship: they get the oars out, the waves and wind take them and send them leaping from the rowlocks, and out of the men's hands; they must give it up for this time.
All their thoughts are for the poor shipwrecked crew, and the bitter—bitter disappointment they must feel. Again they cheer to them, and shout to them, to keep their hearts up—they will soon be at them again; and they make the best of their way back to the steamer. They have failed in their first attempt.
The steamer again tows them into position, and they make for the second time boldly in for the wreck; the coxswain steers as near to the stern as possible, avoiding the danger of being washed over it on to the deck of the vessel, and thus crushed to pieces; they get nearer to the vessel than they did before; the shipwrecked crew begin to stir themselves, the boatmen are about to run the boat alongside, when again they are overwhelmed in the rush of a fearful sea, buried in its deluge of broken water, and the boat is again hurled away by the force of the waves, and carried many fathoms from the vessel; the anchor holds, but the tide is running more strongly than ever, and in the direction to carry them right away from the wreck; and so it is hopeless for them to try to get any nearer to her from where they are.
The tide has risen and is nearly at its height; the vessel has fallen still more over upon her side; the lee side of the deck is completely under water, the top of the deck-house is just above the sea; the crew have been driven from their old place of shelter, they have lashed a spar across the mizen shrouds, and are all clinging to it, while the heavy waves beat continually over the poor fellows.
It is with terrible agony that the crew on board the wreck witness the second failure of the life-boat: "She will never come again," the captain says, in a voice of despair; "the men cannot do it, the very life must have been washed and beaten out of them." Great is their astonishment to find that no sooner does the life-boat clear herself of the water that seems almost to drown her, no sooner do the men free themselves from the rush of the foam, which has for a time overwhelmed them, than they begin to cheer again, as if only rendered the more determined by their second defeat; the more courageous by the difficulties and dangers they had already endured; and the shipwrecked crew, encouraged by the hoarse cheers of the exhausted half-drowned boatmen, do not lose all hope.
The boat is again towed into position, and for the third time makes in for the wreck.
This time they throw the anchor overboard farther from the vessel than before, give longer scope to the cable, sail in well under the ship's stern, and again steer as near as possible to the vessel's lee-quarter, and lower the foresail.
They are within a dozen yards of the ship; the bowman heaves a rope with all his force; it falls short of the men in the shrouds to whom he throws it, and the boat sweeps on; they check her with the cable, and bring her head to the ship abreast of her, but unhappily some distance off.
The captain of the shipwrecked vessel had despaired of the boat being able to come in the third time; but when he saw her coming, he felt fully convinced that it was their last opportunity of being saved, and determined that if the boat were again swept from the wreck, that he would jump into the sea and try and swim to her.
The boat comes and misses, and the crew of the boat see the captain hastily throw off his sea-boots, seize a life-buoy, and prepare to plunge into the sea: they shout to him not to do so, and to the crew to hold him back. "The tide in its set off the Sands would sweep him away; the seas would beat his life out of him: they will be back again soon, and won't go home without them."
The steamer has followed the boat as closely as possible, running down close to the edge of the Sands, just clear of the broken water. The life-boat has swung out to the full length of her cable, and is in deep water; the men upon being beaten away from the wreck for the third time, look round for the steamer, and to their astonishment see her making in straight towards them.
The men on board the steamer had watched with increasing anxiety and dismay the defeat of the successive gallant attempts made by the life-boat crew. They had grown more and more excited each time that the life-boat had returned to them, and feel now prepared to run almost any risk whatever to further help the life-boatmen in their brave but as yet unsuccessful efforts to save the crew.
And so the steamer makes right in across the broken water, straight for the life-boat; a rope is thrown from the steamer, and is made fast in the life-boat; they now hope, with the steamer's help, to be able to sheer the boat right in upon the wreck.
The boatmen have hold of their own cable, to which their anchor is fast; they gradually draw in upon this cable, and the steamer tries to tow the boat nearer and nearer to the vessel, and for the fourth time the life-boat makes in 'mid the wild raging seas for the rescue of the crew.
The steamer ventures into the rage of the sea, and her position becomes one of very great peril; she rolls in the trough of the tremendous waves till her gunwales are right under water; the foam and spray dash completely over her, and tons and tons of water deluge her deck. They gradually approach the vessel; the life-boat sheers in; the seas and tide and wind catch her in their full power, and whirl her away again.
A huge wave sweeps bodily over the steamer—she is in extreme danger; the life-boatmen watch her in the greatest alarm, fearing each moment that a wave will swamp her—but rolling, plunging, burying herself in the foaming seas, the steamer bravely holds her own, until to remain longer is certain death to all on board; and sorrowfully the crew of the steamer abandon their most gallant attempt, and make out of the rage of broken water.
The life-boatmen rejoice to see the steamer get clear of the deadly peril, but they are scarcely in less peril themselves; they cut the steamer's tow-rope, and then find that they must cut their own cable, to avoid being dashed over the wreck; and away they go again driven on before the gale. They look at each other, but only read courage and determination in each other's countenances. Beaten off for the fourth time, not one heart fails, not one speaks of giving up the attempt, not one of the brave fellows has any such thought for an instant; their one consideration is what next shall be attempted to save the poor fellows from a speedy and terrible death, which indeed threatens them every minute. Thus the only question is, what they shall try next? and weak and exhausted, and almost frozen with cold, but determined, and full of courage and zeal as ever, their one anxiety is for the poor shipwrecked crew, whose peril increases each minute, and they prepare for a fifth effort for their rescue, strong still in their old determination—"that they will not go home without them."
CHAPTER XXVI. SAVED AT LAST.
VICTORY OR DEATH.
"'Tis done—despite the winds—the roll
Of that storm-maddened fearful sea;
Bravery hath snatched each shivering soul,
O greedy death! from thee.
Then the rough seamen's hands they wring,
And some, o'erpowered by bursting feeling,
Their arms around them wildly fling,
While tears down many a cheek are stealing;
They bless them for their noble deed,
True saviours sent in hour of need."
N. Michell.
The ship's hull has now been for some time under water, and it is evident that the wreck is breaking up fast. She has coals and iron on board; this dead weight keeps her steady on the Sands, and prevents the waves lifting her and crashing her down, or she would long since have been torn and broken to fragments. As it is, the decks have burst, and the lighter portions of her cargo are being rapidly washed out of her; the sea in some places is black with coal-dust, and much wreckage, pieces of her deck and forecastle are being swept away by the tide.
Each time that the men on board the steamer and life-boat look at the vessel, count the crew still in the rigging, and find that not any are missing, they think it indeed a wondrous mercy that all should still be safe, and get each moment more impressed with feelings of deep sympathy for the poor fellows, and with the greater eagerness to dare all to save them.
Daniel Reading, the brave, skilful, and long-tried master of the steamer, is ill on shore, and so she is in charge of John Simpson, the mate; he and William Wharrier, the engineer, consult as to the possibility of making another effort with the steamer, for the tide is setting off the Sands with such force that they do not see how it is possible for the life-boat to get in to the wreck and save the crew, and they find that all the men on board the steamer are perfectly prepared to second them in any effort that they decide upon making.
They get the mortar-apparatus ready, and again urge the steamer through the seas in the direction of the wreck; they hope to get near enough to the vessel to fire a line from the mortar into the rigging, to which the shipwrecked crew will attach a rope, and then hauling this rope on board the steamer, they will take it to the life-boat's men, who will by it be able to haul the boat through the seas to the wreck. Cautiously the steamer approaches; the tide has been for some time rising fast; the steamer does not draw much water; they are almost within firing distance; the waves come rushing along and nearly overrun the steamer; at last a breaker larger than the rest catches her, lifts her high upon its crest, and letting her fall down into its trough as down the side of a wall, she strikes the Sands heavily; the engines are instantly reversed, she lifts with the next wave, and being a very quick and handy boat, at once moves astern before she can thump again, and they are saved from shipwreck; and thus the fifth effort to save the shipwrecked crew fails.
No time is lost; at once the steamer heads for the life-boat, and makes ready to tow her into position. Again not a word—scarcely a thought—about past failures, only eagerness to commence without delay a fresh attempt; the steamer is alongside the life-boat.
"Look out, my men, here is another rope for you." "All right!" the boatmen answer as they catch the line, and haul the hawser into the boat.
"All right! tow us well to windward, give us a good position, plenty of room, we must have them this time. All fast! away you go, hurrah!" The men watch the wreck as they are towed past her. "Oh! the poor fellows! to think we have not got them yet. Well, we have had a hard struggle for it, but, please God, we will save them yet—we will save them yet!"
"Ah! look how that wave buries them all; there they are again, let us give them a cheer, it will help them to keep their hearts up." And as the boat rose upon a sea, they shouted and waved to the shipwrecked crew.
"There, another breaker has gone right over her; how she heaves and works to it! Yes, and do you see how her masts are swinging about, and in different directions? they are getting unstepped and loose; she is breaking up fast, working all over—all of a quiver and tremble! Poor fellows! poor fellows! we have not a moment to spare. It must soon be all over, one way or the other!" Thus the men speak to each other; they are in a glow of eagerness and excitement, and can scarcely restrain themselves to get quietly to work. For as they watch the poor fellows, and time after time see the waves wash over them in quick succession—and as each wave passes, see them still clinging on—they almost feel as if they could jump at them to try and save them, and in their noble and gallant sympathy and determination lose all sense of weakness, and cold, and exhaustion.
When describing their feelings, one of the men said, "We were thoroughly warm at our work, and felt like lions, as if nothing could stop us."
It is in this spirit that they now consult together, as to the plan upon which they shall make their next effort. First one scheme is suggested, and then another, but these seem to give no better prospect of success than those that have been already tried in vain.
At last one of the men proposes a plan which must indeed either prove rescue to the shipwrecked or death to all.
"I tell you what, my men, if we are going to save those poor fellows, there is only one way of doing it; it must be a case of save all, or lose all, that is just it. We must go in upon the vessel straight, hit her between the masts, and throw our anchor over right upon her decks."
"What a mad-brained trick!" says one.
"Why, the boat would be smashed to pieces."
"Likely enough; but there is one thing certain, is there not? and that is that we are never going home to leave those poor fellows to perish, and I do not believe that there is any other way of saving them, and so we must just try it. And God help us, and them!"
Not a single word against it now!
What, charge in upon the vessel in that mad rage of sea! Victory, or death, indeed!
Most of the men on board the life-boat are married men with families—loved wives, and loved little ones dependent upon them. Thoughts of this, tender heartfelt thoughts of home, come to them.
"Well, and so we have, and have not those poor perishing fellows also got wives and little ones, and are they not thinking of their homes, and loved ones, as much as we are thinking of ours; and shall we go home, having turned back from even the greatest danger, without having tried all it is possible to try; go home to our wives and little ones, and leave them to perish thinking of theirs? No! please God, that shall never be said of us."
Such thoughts as these pass through the minds of some of the boatmen. And what think the poor nearly drowned crew of the unfortunate vessel.
There they are clinging to the loose and shaking rigging; a few feet above the boil of the hungry and raging sea. They have seen effort after effort made, and effort after effort fail; they have watched the men do more than they ever dreamt it was possible for men to do; and they have watched the life-boat live, and battle with seas with which they never thought it possible a boat could for one moment contend; time after time they have thought that the boatmen were drowned, as they saw the huge curling waves break over the boat, swamp it, bury it in the weight of their falling volume of water, and for some seconds hide all from view; they have been watching the men persevere in attempt after attempt, when they thought that from sheer exhaustion it would be impossible for them to make another effort for their rescue.
With equal wonder and admiration they watched the noble efforts of the steamer, marked how nearly she was wrecked, and when she failed, gave up all as lost; deciding in their minds that in such a rush of broken sea, strength of tide and gale of wind, that it is impossible for the boat to reach them, or for them to be saved, and all but one give up all hope. When the captain says in despair, "The life-boat can never make another effort," this man answers, "I have sailed in English ships; I have often heard about life-boat work, and I know that they never leave any one to perish as long as they can see them, and they will not leave us."
"And look, here she comes again. O God help them! God help them!"
Yes, here she comes again; the steamer had hastened to tow her well into position, well to windward of the wreck. "And here she comes again."
Once more the boat heads for the wreck—this time to do, or to die; each man knows it, each man feels it. They are crossing the stern of the vessel; "Look at that breaker—look at that breaker—hold on, hold on, it will be all over with us if it catches us, we shall be thrown high into the masts of the vessel, and shaken out into the sea in a moment! Hold on all, hold on! Now it comes! No, thank God, it breaks ahead of us, and we have escaped. Now, men, be ready, be ready!" Thus shouts the coxswain. Every man is at his station, some with the ropes in hand ready to lower the sails; others by the anchor prepared to throw it overboard at the right moment; round, past the stern of the vessel the boat flies, round in the blast of the gale and the swell of the sea; down helm, round she comes; down foresail; the ship's lee gunwale is under water, the boat shoots forward straight for the wreck, and hits the lee rail with a shock that almost throws all the men from their posts, and then, still forward, she literally leaps on board the wreck. Over! over with the anchor; it falls on the vessel's deck; all the crew of the vessel are in the mizen shrouds, but they cannot get to the boat, a fearful rush of sea is chasing over the vessel, and between them and it. Again and again the boat thumps on the wreck as on a rock, with a shock that almost shakes the men from their hold.
The waves soon lift the boat off the deck, and carry her away from the vessel. "Is even this attempt to be a failure? No, thank God! the anchor holds; veer out the cable; steadily, my men, steadily; do not disturb the anchor more than you can help; we shall have them now! we shall have them, all will be well; ease her a bit, ease her, see how she plunges, a little more cable; now for the grappling-iron; quick, throw it over that line; there you have it;" and they haul on board a line which had been made fast to a cork-fender, and thrown overboard from the wreck early in the day, but which the boatmen had never before been able to reach.
They get the boat straight, haul in slowly upon both ropes; cheer to the crew: "Hurrah! mates, hurrah!" All is joy and excitement, but at the same time steady attention to orders; now the boat is abreast the mizen rigging, opposite to where the men are clinging. "Down helm, the boat sheers in; haul in upon the ropes, men, handsomely, handsomely;" the boat jumps forward, hits the ship heavily with her stern, crashes off a large piece of her fore-foot. The men are for a moment thrown down with the shock; two of the boatmen spring on to the raised bow gunwale, and seize hold of the captain of the vessel, who seems nearly dead, drag him in over the bows; two of the sailors jump on board; "Hold on all, hold on!"
A fearful sea rolls over them, the boat is washed away from the vessel; the anchor still holds; they sheer the boat in again; they make the ropes fast, and lash the boat to the shrouds of the wreck, thus verily nailing their colours to the mast. No! they will not be washed away again until they have all the crew on board.
A sailor jumps from the rigging, the boat sinks in the trough of the sea, the man falls between the boat and the wreck; a second more and the boat will be on the top of him, crushing him against the rail of the vessel, upon which the keel of the boat strikes and grinds cruelly; two boatmen seize him, leaning right over the gunwale to do so, they are almost dragged into the water; they are seized in turn by the men in the boat, and all are with difficulty got on board.
Up the boat flies and crashes against the spar lashed to the rigging. "Jump in, men, jump in all of you. Now! Now!" In they spring, and tumble, falling upon the men, and all rolling over into the bottom of the boat. All are now on board—all on board! "Hurrah! cut the lashings, there, she falls away from the wreck; cut the cable, quick with the hatchet; all gone! all gone! up foresail." The seas catch the boat and bear her away from the wreck; away she goes with a bound, flying through the broken water; the heavy wind fills the sail; they are fairly under weigh, and with the precious freight for which they had fought so long and so gallantly, safely on board. Thank God! thank God! all are saved at last—saved at last.
Now the boat is through the broken seas away from the terrible Sands, out in the deep water; the men have time to look at each other; and how gladly, and yes, how fondly, they do so. Strangers though they be, yet at that moment their hearts are warm to each other with more than a brother's love—all is gladness and thankfulness; they shake hands, the rescuers and the rescued, time after time.
The saved crew are ten in number. They are Danes, and the wreck the Danish barque Aurora Borealis.
Some of the sailors can speak a little broken English, and in such terms as they are able the poor fellows express the depth of their gratitude, and their wonder at being saved.
The boat makes for the steamer, which is coming down rapidly to meet her; the crew of the steamer greet the life-boatmen with cheers! Who can describe the joy they all feel at the successful ending of their long battle with terrible danger and threatened death! and great indeed is their sympathy with the saved from death, for whom they and the boatmen have so willingly, and to the very utmost, risked their own lives.
They lift the captain on board the steamer; he is thoroughly exhausted; they carry him into the engine-room, and in the warmth there, do their best to revive him, and he soon recovers. The Danish seamen will not leave the boat; the life-boat crew tell the mate that his men would be much more comfortable on board the steamer, that the seas will be washing over the boat all the way in; but no, as so frequently happens on such occasions, and as has been before noticed, the rescued men feel so grateful to the life-boatmen, that they are not content to leave the boat until they get to land. And the mate replies, "No! you saved us, you saved us; we thought you never, never do it; you had plenty trouble; we stop with you." And they would not desert their friends, their brothers indeed, who had done so much to save them.
In Ramsgate the anxiety is very great.
The steamer and life-boat have been out many hours, nothing can be seen of them in the mist that hangs over the Goodwin Sands.
"Can anything have happened?" is the question that is restlessly put from one to another.
It might well be so, in the terrific sea that must have been raging on the Goodwin in so fearful a storm.
At about half-past two, hundreds of people are collected on the pier; for the news that the life-boat is out always spreads like wildfire through the town; and if there is any cause for anxiety on her account, the whole town soon shares the apprehension, and throngs of anxious men crowd the pier and harbour. Now the men who are anxiously on the watch make out something looming in the mist; and speedily the steamer and life-boat are seen, their flags are flying, glad sign of successful effort, of rescue effected; and great is the joy of all the lookers-on; steamer and life-boat speed between the massive granite heads of the two piers, and the crowd that looks down upon them as they come pitching and rolling along, greet them with cheer after cheer.
The saved crew land, they are many of them very weak, and worn, and exhausted; but all around is welcome, and sympathy, and active service.
They are taken to the Sailors' Home, where warm clothing, and beds, and goodly fare are ready for them, and the poor fellows soon recover; some of them before they attempt to take any rest insist upon writing to the loved ones at home, to tell of their safety, and of their rescue from apparently almost certain death.
Doubtless these letters contain simple expressions of gratitude to God, and of deep love for the dear wife, of many many kisses for the sturdy little boy, or the laughing girl, for the children whose bright eyes seemed so often staring at them so wistfully out of the storm, and whom they never thought to see again; and doubtless contain also expressions of great admiration and thankfulness for the untiring courage of the English life-boatmen; and their full belief in the expression of one of their number who told them in the height of their danger, and in the very depth of their despair, "to take courage, for the life-boatmen will never leave us while they can see us."
The Board of Trade, in recognition of the gallant services of the men, presented them with one pound each. The King of Denmark forwarded two hundred rix-dollars to be divided among them.
The boatmen are all poor men, and these presents proved very acceptable; but the joy with all was, and will be while life lasts, that God had in His providence and mercy so crowned their perseverance with success, and enabled them to save their drowning brother sailors. While all who heard of the circumstances, declared that never by land or by sea was more gallant service rendered than was accomplished by these brave boatmen, who in the face of all danger, and of all hardship, determined to persevere to the death—determined that while the shipwrecked crew still remained alive, "They would not go home without them."