RONAYNE’S BRAVERY.
Some twelve miles westward from Tramore—a favourite watering-place and summer resort for the citizens of Waterford, and nearly half a mile from the coast—a farm is situated which has been long occupied by John Ronayne, a hardy and typical Irish farmer. The farm-house has few of the necessaries and none of the luxuries of civilised life, it is a true type of the poor class of farm-houses in many parts of Ireland, consisting of but two rooms—one the sleeping apartment, where Ronayne’s family of twelve children have been born, and the other the living-room, where it is to be suspected sundry four-footed friends occasionally find their way, and bask or grunt before the fire. Rather less than half a mile from the farm is the rugged shore, approached by a rough “boreen,” or narrow lane, emerging on the cliff near the course of a stream, which is a roaring foaming torrent in winter and spring-time. On winter days and nights, brown and turbulent, this stream rushes foaming into the ocean over crags and rocks and pebbly shore; but before it joins its fresh water with the salt sea foam, it plunges into a crevice, narrow and deep and deadly. Every coastman along the rock-bound shore knows this deep, treacherous hole, and warns the traveller to beware of it—for, once in it, there is no return. But this source of peril is little enough to that which is beyond.
A hundred yards or so from the cove into which this impetuous torrent pours frown two massive ridges of rock, offering to any venturesome ships attempting to run between their threatening sides destruction on either hand, while only some dozen yards of foaming breakers separate the one from the other. Skilful must be the steersman, and bold the skipper, who would dare the narrow channel, even though the only one by which they might hope to beach their sinking ship. And yet, on one fearful night in January, 1875, a large vessel, the Gwenissa, bound from Falmouth to Glasgow, and new but a few weeks before, successfully accomplished the dangerous passage. Not that any skill was shown, for none on the doomed ship knew of their proximity to rocks or shore, but, driving blindly on before the full fury of the gale, by chance were brought safely through. But in another instant the ship struck the rocky shore, and in a moment was shattered to pieces, timbers and tackle, cargo and living freight, being thrown, scattered and helpless, into the angry surf. Escaping, as by a miracle, the rocky dangers of Charybdis, the good ship Gwenissa had been hurled upon Scylla, and her doom sealed.
The family at Killeton Farm little suspected, as they went to their humble beds, the tragedy which was being enacted on the shore; and even when some of the boys thought they heard cries of distress, little wonder—when the wind was blowing in great fitful gusts, sweeping round the homely cottage, shaking windows and doors, and moaning down the chimneys—that, after listening a while and hearing nothing further, they thought no more of the cries, and went to bed. Ronayne had, however, not been long in bed when a loud knocking awoke him, and he jumped up, and on opening the door was accosted by three men in sailor’s garb.
The first surprise over, the instincts of hospitality asserted themselves, and he heaped up the turf fire, and, as they warmed themselves, learned that they alone of the crew of the Gwenissa, nine in number, were certainly saved. But there was a possibility that one or two might yet survive; and though the wintry blast roared loud without, Ronayne lingered not a moment. Hurrying on his clothes, and taking a large sod of flaming turf by way of lantern, he rushed down the “boreen,” and soon reached the cove. Cautiously he made his way, and approached the edge of the stream, whence he now heard the shouts of several men. He followed up the cries of distress, and soon came upon a man in a most dangerous position.
Ronayne blew the turf until it glowed brightly, and, holding it down, saw a man waist-deep in the water, but so jammed between the crags that it was impossible for him to move, far less climb the overhanging rocks. He was bruised, stunned, and nearly insensible. Ronayne saw at a glance that the only way to help him was himself to go down, extricate his bruised legs from the rocks and wreck that held him like a vice, and then assist him to climb from his perilous position. This, by means of much pulling and hauling, he at length accomplished, and ultimately had the satisfaction of leading the poor fellow to a place of safety, where, for a time, he left him, sorely bruised, faint, and well-nigh frozen, for the others, who had never ceased calling for assistance from the moment of his arrival. They were four in number, and, as far as could be judged through the increasing darkness, lay in the very gorge down which rushed the swollen stream; and so it proved, for one was hanging to a spar which had become fixed in the rocks, while another was grasping a projecting crag, by which he contrived to keep afloat. The others, more fortunate, had been thrown on a ledge, which left them in comparative safety, though they were waist-deep in water. But though secure upon this ledge, they were quite as helpless as their companions, for the beetling face of the rocks defied their utmost efforts to scale them unaided. Here Ronayne’s knowledge stood him in good stead, and after much active assistance in the shape of climbing, swimming, pulling, and scrambling, he succeeded in rescuing one after the other, each assisting afterwards to make the task easier. Five men stood beside him, cold and hurt, but saved by his perseverance and bravery from a watery grave.
“But,” says the narrator—and here especially he should tell his own tale—“not without great labour had this been effected, for one of the men had his leg broken, and all were more or less bruised, and perishing of cold and exposure. Three men were at his house and five here; but where was the other? for nine men were on board the luckless vessel, and here were but eight. Leaving the rescued men in the [pg 260]lane, Ronayne ran again to the cove, and the dim spark expiring in the turf showed him where he had left it. He scraped off the ash, and, the wind fanning it, again it burned up brightly—too brightly, for now it burned down to his frozen fingers; but he only grasped it the tighter, for did it not light him on his errand of mercy? and if another life might be saved at the expense of a few burns, would it not be great gain? So on sped he along the shore, searching into every cranny and cleft and crevice lighted by the turf, and, burning and shouting between his labours, at length was rewarded by a faint cry as of a man in distress—more a moan than a cry, and at a distance. Rapidly but carefully he had scanned the beach, and partially searched every gully and cleft, and now and again receiving to his cries a faint response, but always from far away. No doubt the man was out on the rocks, to which he had been carried by a receding wave after the ship struck, and Ronayne knew that some further help must be procured before he could be reached. So he hastened back to the five men he had left in the lane. They then all proceeded to the farm-house—a melancholy cortége—carrying as best they could the helpless between them. He then started off, wet and weary as he was, to the coastguard station at Bonmahon, where he gave information of the wreck, and demanded assistance for the poor fellow out on the rocks.” The coastguard men lost no time in turning out with the rocket apparatus; but just as they were fixing it in position, Ronayne, who had been [pg 261]hunting about, came upon the very last and ninth man of the crew, lying, half in the water and half out, upon the beach among a quantity of wreck. His supposition had been correct in regard to his position on the rocks, but while assistance was being procured he had been washed ashore, with shattered limbs—bruised, helpless, unconscious, but alive! The poor fellow, who remained unconscious, was carried to the farm, where some old whisky-jars were filled with hot water and placed to his feet. The little whisky in the house was divided among the benumbed men, and more solid provision set before them.
And now Ronayne’s house contained over twenty inmates, most of them standing round the turf fire wringing the water from their clothes and warming their frozen limbs; the few beds, too, had their occupants. For Ronayne the work had but barely commenced. Saddling his young mare, he started to lay information of the wreck before Lloyd’s Deputy Receiver at Tramore, some twelve miles distant, for eight shillings were to be earned, and for this trifling reward he was prepared to ride some twenty-four miles on a cold winter night.
On his road he passed the doctor’s house, and sent him to attend the injured men, arriving at Tramore a few minutes before the telegram from the coastguard station. Two of the sailors were afterwards removed to the hospital, and recovered, and they and the remainder cared for by the Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society’s agents. Ronayne was indemnified for any expense he had incurred by the same Society, and the Life-boat Institution shortly after rewarded him.