On the wings of the northern howling blast,—
"God help the poor fellows at sea!"
C. T.
"God have mercy upon the poor fellows at sea!" Household words these, in English homes, however far inland the homes may be; and although near these homes the sea may have no better representative than a sedge choked river, or canal, along which slow barges urge a lazy way.
For when the storm-wrack darkens the sky, and gales are abroad, seaward fly the sympathies of English hearts, and the prayer is uttered, and in many cases, in this sea-loving island of ours, with very special reference to some loved and absent sailor. It is those, however, who live near the sea-shore, and watch the warfare going on in all its terrible reality, that learn the more truly to realize the fearful nature of the struggles for life that go on round our coasts; and who learn as the wild gales rave to find an answer to the murmurings of the fierce blast, in the prayer, "God have mercy upon the poor fellows at sea;" and this especially as they welcome ashore, as wrested from death, some rescued sailor, or mourn over those who have found a sudden grave almost within call of land.
It is a pretty picture enough from Ramsgate Pier, when fifty or a hundred sail are in sight within two or three miles of land, and the day is sunny, and the sea bright, and a good wholesome breeze is bowling along; but anxious withal, when the clouds are gathering, and the fleet of vessels are seeking to make the best of their way to find shelter in the Downs: and a south-westerly gale moans up, and the last of the fleet are caught by it, and have to anchor in exposed places, and you watch them riding heavily, making bad weather, the seas every now and then flying over them. It is winter time, and the weather stormy; day after day brings into the harbour fresh evidences of the deadly contest that rages out at sea—vessels towed in disabled, with bulwarks washed away, masts over the side, bows stove in, or leaky, having been in collision, touched the ground or been struck by a sea; who at such times can withhold their interest or sympathy? the veriest landsmen grow excited, and make daily pilgrimages to the pier, to see how the vessels under repairs are getting on, or what new disasters have occurred.
But it is at night-time especially that your thoughts take a more solemn and anxious turn. As you settle down by the fireside for a quiet evening, you remember the ugly appearance the sky had some two or three hours before, when you stood watching the scene from the end of the pier. You felt that mischief was brewing, as the gusts of wind swept by with increasing force, and you looked out upon a troubled sea that every minute seemed to grow more white and raging.
The Downs anchorage was full of shipping; a few vessels had parted their cables, and had to run for it, while the luggers, heavily laden with chains and anchors, staggered out of the harbour to supply them: other ships made for the harbour; you almost shuddered as you looked down upon them from the pier, and saw them in the grasp of the sea, rolling and plunging, with the waves surging over their bows. Another minute's battle with the tide, you heard the orders shouted out, you saw the men rushing to obey them—the pilot steady at the wheel, and you could scarce forbear a cheer as ship after ship shot by the pier-head and found refuge in the harbour.
Altogether it was a wild exciting scene, and you cannot shake off the effect—the wind rushes and moans by, a minute before it was raging over the sea.