Newhaven, a little farther to the east, has a fair tidal harbour and some local commerce, but its chief feature is the very rapidly-increasing passenger traffic between it and Dieppe, for Paris or London, and the traveller who has not tried that route can be recommended to do so. The boats, some of them of steel and containing all modern improvements, are among the finest in the Channel service, making the trip to Dieppe usually in five or five-and-a-half hours. The trip through Normandy and the valley of the Seine is varied and interesting, and preferable to that from Calais or Boulogne. Near Newhaven is the once flourishing town of Seaford, though it is now little better than a picturesque fishing-village, in the bay of which mackerel are sometimes taken in prodigious quantities, and which affords shelter and anchorage for large vessels during the prevalence of strong easterly winds.
Still farther east, and at the extreme southern point of Sussex, stands the bold promontory Beachy Head, the scene of many a shipwreck in days gone by. It would be a most difficult feat to scale this great chalk cliff; and yet the slope of broken débris, mingled with scanty grass and samphire, steep though it be, does not look impracticable, nor indeed is it up to a certain point. The writer and his brother once managed to get within a very respectable distance of the top, but then the rocky stones commenced rolling down, bringing both climbers with them. After many an ineffectual attempt to secure a hold by clinging to the samphire, and intervals of momentary rest, neither was very sorry to reach the stony beach, albeit considerably bruised, battered, and torn. There they found the sea had cut off their retreat towards Eastbourne, and before they could reach the shore they had to wade through the fast-rising tide round one or two projecting corners of the cliff.
In the month of November, 1821, a dreadful storm visited Beachy Head, during which a French vessel was driven ashore and wrecked. All on board were swept into the sea, and only four escaped the general destruction, by climbing to the top of a heap of rocks which had fallen, at different times, from the overhanging cliffs. Their perilous situation can easily be conceived; the tide was encroaching upon them step by step, and it was certain destruction to attempt to gain the land. The night was extremely dark, and the thunder and lightning rendered it still more awful. The poor men, finding that they would either be swallowed up by the rising tide or dashed to pieces against the rocks, determined to deliver themselves up to the mercy of the waves, with the forlorn hope of being cast on some place of safety. At this time one of the men saw, during some flashes of lightning, a plant growing amongst the stones on which they stood, which he knew was samphire, and which he also happened to know never grew where it could be entirely covered with water. He at once acquainted his fellow-sufferers with this fact, and persuaded them to remain where they were till morning, being convinced that the height of the tide would not be quite equal to that of the place on which they stood. The [pg 232]event proved the correctness of his information and the value of his knowledge, for when daylight broke the poor fellows were seen, and rescued from their dangerous situation.
DISCOVERING THE SAMPHIRE ON THE ROCK.
No part of the south coast formerly required more vigilant guarding than that for many miles on either side of Beachy Head. The coastguardsman had his hands full then; his lot is better now. “Amongst the most agreeable objects that enliven the shores of our island,” writes the Saturday Review, “are the groups of cottages occupied by the coastguard. Picturesque one can scarcely call them, for the architecture is simple to baldness, and suggestive of Government contracts kept down by close competition, and yet they have generally the picturesqueness of comfortable contrast with surroundings that are often bleak and inhospitable. Dating from the days when our coasts were regularly picketed, and a blockade was methodically established against the enterprise of the free-traders, we come upon them in every variety of situation. Now they are arranged bastion-wise on a commanding eminence, in the suburb of some seaport or watering place, in a snug, compact, little square, with a tall flagstaff in the centre. Again we stumble on them unexpectedly, sheltered in the recess of some ‘gap’ or ‘chine’ where a little stream comes trickling down to the sands through the deep cleft that time seems to have worn [pg 233]in the chalk cliffs. Most frequently they are perched on the crest of the line of sand-hills, with a broad look-out in all directions over ‘promontory, cape, and bay.’ And often they form a conspicuous landmark on some flat stretch of grass-grown sand, where the slow-shelving shore is intersected by a labyrinth of changing channels, and where mud-banks submerged by the rising tides are a perfect paradise for the clamorous sea-fowl. But whatever the situation, the general effect is almost invariably the same. They are substantial and watertight; suggestive of cheery shelter in bright interiors when the wind is howling through the shrouds of the flagstaff, driving the sand and gravel in flying scud along the beach, and churning and grinding the pebbles in the surf with dull, monotonous roar. There are low flat roofs with projecting eaves, and small, strongly-secured casements, and the gleam of their spotless whitewash catches any sunlight that may be going. In the neatly-palisaded little gardens that stretch before the door, a hard and not-unsuccessful struggle is always going on with the unfriendly elements, while the shell-strewn walks are invariably kept in the most perfect order. As you approach them of a warm summer afternoon you are conscious of the briny breeze just tainted with a faint amphibious smell of tar. It may not be so balmy or romantic as the resinous odours that breathe from the pine-woods of Bayonne or Arcachon, under the fiercer rays of the sun of Gascony; but it is decidedly wholesome, and rather savoury than otherwise. The promiscuous use of pitch [pg 234]and tar gratifies the nautical affections of the inmates. Everything is paid, caulked, and seamed, from the keels of the white-painted boats that are hauled up bottom upwards, to the felt-covered shingles over the out-houses, and the frames of the cottage windows, and the palings of the enclosure. Everything, even to the concealed refuse-heaps, is trim and ship-shape, showing the presence of an easy discipline and the predominance of habits of tidiness and order.”
Then the Review goes on to describe the exciting and perilous post of the coastguard when import duties were excessive, and lucky smugglers made rapid fortunes. “The sympathies of the whole adjacent country were against them. Half the country people were employed from time to time in running illicit cargoes, and made a very good thing of it. Those were the days of hard drinking, and farmers almost openly encouraged a trade that dropped kegs of cheap hollands and runlets of pure French brandy at their very doors. As for the women, of course—to say nothing of their romantic sympathies with daring law-breakers—they were all in favour of the men who filled and sweetened the cheering tea-cup, that would otherwise have been altogether beyond their means. Even gentlemen holding His Majesty’s commission of the peace were said to connive at the ‘fair trade’ for a consideration, and to express no surprise at the production of mysterious casks that had been concealed in out-of-the-way corners of their premises. There were certain depôts, in dry caverns, in remote homesteads or sequestered barns, the secret of which was religiously preserved, although it was the common property of highly questionable characters. There were codes of signals which could be clearly read by all but the preventive men, and which gave notice of danger or of a favourable opportunity, as the case might be. The officer in charge of the station had his faculties preternaturally sharpened, and could scent something wrong in the most natural incidents. The wreaths of smoke rising from a heap of burning weeds might convey a warning to some expected vessel. A fishing-boat putting out to sea, engaged apparently in its lawful business, might really be bound on a similar errand. Then it was the business of the day-watch to scan carefully each craft that appeared off the coast, and his natural vigilance was stimulated by the prize-money that might fall to his share. Then the nocturnal promenade was no mere formality. The thicker the night the more likely that something might be going on under cover of the fog; and the ear of the look-out was always bent to distinguish, amidst the murmur of the waves, the sound of suppressed voices, or the plash of muffled oars. Nor was the walk by any means free from personal danger, and indeed it was seldom taken in solitude; for, even apart from the inveterate animosity existing between the smugglers and the preventive men, those were days when deeds of violence were common, and the life of a man was of little account compared to the safety of a cargo that might be worth hundreds or thousands of pounds. If he chanced to fall over the cliff by accident, everything might be satisfactorily settled before he was replaced; for when a smuggling lugger stood in for the coast there were plenty of ready hands to help to discharge her cargo; and unless the men of the nearest preventive station got assistance from elsewhere, there was little left for them but to look on helplessly. Boats from the nearest fishing hamlets swarmed in about the smuggler; strings of horses, in charge of people armed to the teeth, made their way to the coast from the inland farms. [pg 235]The contraband goods, in kegs and bags of convenient size for easy landing, were transferred from the ship to the boat, from the boat to the beach, from the beach to the pack-saddle, with incredible celerity; and when the mounted caravans set themselves in motion, those who had assisted at the landing hastened to vanish as they had come. On these occasions the smugglers scored a trick in the game, and the coastguard had nothing for it but to wait their turn of revenge with redoubled vigilance. More frequently, however, they succeeded in spoiling sport, for it paid the smuggler amply to run one cargo in three. The Government people would keep such a sharp look-out that, oftener than not, the friends of the free-traders could only help them by signalling danger, and the richly-freighted lugger had to put up her helm in despair, perhaps with one of the revenue cutters in hot pursuit; or, what was better still, the enemy was surprised in the very act of unlading, and a valuable capture was effected. Of course a successful exploit of this kind was by no means all pleasure and pride. The smugglers with their friends, disguised by blackened faces, were sure to show fight if they had any chance. As they were busy in the bay, and the unloading was going briskly forward, their sentinels would give the signal of alarm, and the long galleys of the coastguard would be seen pulling fast inshore, and stealing like wolves on their prey from round the nearest headland. The attacking force would make free play with its muskets and carbines, if it came within reach, and the attacked had to consider that their enemies on the water had probably allies on the land in the shape of excise officers backed up by soldiers. So the next act in the drama was a sauve qui peut, conducted with more or less order, and covered with a lavish use of cutlasses and firearms. Very possibly the victors had to count the dead, and pick up the wounded; and thus the romance and excitement of those days were spiced with a very sensible element of danger.”