During the night they sang the modern warriors’ song, “Tipperary,” till they grew tired even of that; and the daylight brought them no relief from the monotony, till, about nine o’clock, their hearts gave a great leap. A liner appeared on the horizon. Shouting lustily, they hoisted a blanket on an oar and waved it madly, seeking to attract attention; but the liner changed her course and dipped over the horizon, leaving them to the waste of waters.
This hope of being taken up by a passing ship was renewed no less than eleven times during the day, each time to be dashed to the ground; and one survivor later said that he didn’t think much of the look-out on those ships.
As the day progressed the gale became stronger, and the boat was pitching and rolling, swinging high upon the crest of a wave, now racing down into the trough, the men becoming drenched through again and again, those who were nearly naked suffering extreme agony. No less than nine of them died of exposure.
At about one o’clock land was sighted; but when the crew, pulling sixteen oars, tried to make it, they found that they could not cope with the strong tide that was running. Darkness came, and found them still adrift. Then their eyes were gladdened by the sight of two red lights gleaming in the distance, and Leading Seaman Carroll, who had been the life and soul of the party, wielded his oar, with which he had all along been steering, and kept the boat headed for the lights of hope. Fortunately for them, the wind and tide were now with them; otherwise, so exhausted were they, never would they have made the haven—for haven it was. They heard the sound of breakers, saw in the shimmering moonlight the white foam of the water, pulled like mad to the “Pull, boys, pull!” of Petty Officer Bing, and after seven miles of stiff rowing were caught in a mighty wave that carried them straight to the beach at Lyme Regis, where very soon crowds of people gathered to give them help and drag them ashore, for they were too exhausted to help themselves. They had been adrift twenty-two hours.
It is time now to return to the second boat, which, after having picked up as many swimming men as possible, had to get away from the Formidable, lest she be dashed into her side by the raging sea. The story of the sufferings of the men in her is much the same as the others; but in this case nearly all the oars were smashed and the boat had a hole stove in her side. One of the men, whipping off his pants, stuffed them into the gap, and then sat there to keep them from being washed away. The little craft filled with water time and time again, and they bailed her out as fast as they could.
About nine o’clock in the morning someone noticed a large fishing smack to windward, and an oar was hoisted, with a black scarf on it as a signal of distress. It was seen by John Clark, third hand on the smack Providence (Captain Pillar, Brixham), and he immediately told the captain and his comrades, the second hand, Dan Taylor, the cook, and Pillar, the boy. Instantly they fell to work, set the storm jib, shook out a reef in the mainsail, and stood after the boat, which by this time had drifted far away, and was continually hidden by the heavy seas. Through the now blinding rain the smack pushed, and, coming near, found that it was impossible to get close enough on the present tack to do any good. Captain Pillar therefore decided to take a desperate chance; he would gybe the boat—that is, swing all her sails over violently—and get upon the other tack, which would put him in a much better position to effect the rescue of the men.
This was done successfully; and then the fishermen tried to get a rope to the boat. Three times they failed, but at the fourth attempt the rope pitched into the boat, where it was made fast, the other end being round the capstan of the smack. Then, working his vessel in a manner that won the praise of every sailor there, Pillar hauled the boat to a berth at the stern, and eventually got her to leeward.
Once alongside, Pillar gave the word, and the sailors began to jump aboard the smack. It took half an hour to get that bunch of men off, so difficult was the work as a result of the gale; over thirty feet the waves mounted sometimes, and many a man wellnigh tumbled into the sea, from which his chance of rescue would have been small.
When all were safe on board the Providence, Captain Pillar turned her about and made for Brixham, his men meanwhile attending to the comforts of the sailors, who were exhausted and frozen to the bone. Hot coffee and food were served out, and never did men enjoy a meal as they did on board the Providence on that January afternoon. Near Brixham the Providence fell in with the Dencade, which took her in tow and brought her into Brixham, where the people on the wharves heard the lusty voices of men singing “Auld Lang Syne,” as though for hours they had not been adrift, helpless, hopeless, as though they had never felt the shock as the Formidable received her fatal wound, as though they had never stood face to face with death.
It is the cheery fortitude of the British Jack Tar that has helped old England to the command of the sea; and it is such men as Captain Pillar and his gallant crew who reveal the courage that lives in the hearts of men whose work keeps them in the field of peace—where as great victories are won as on the field of battle.