"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.