They ride at anchor for some time, waiting for the tide to rise sufficiently for them to get over the Sands. They see the lights of the steamer shining in the distance, outside the broken and shallow water; but there is no hope of assistance from her: their lanterns are washed out, they cannot signalize; and if they could, the steamer could not approach them.
The sea is breaking furiously over them. Time after time the boat fills as the broken waves wash clean over her, but instantly she empties herself again, and rises to her water-line. The gale sweeps by more fiercely than ever. The men are nearly washed out of the boat, and worse still, the anchor begins to drag. The tide has made a little, and they are being driven each moment nearer to the wreck; there may be water enough to take them clear; at all events, there is no help for it, they must risk it. "Hoist the foresail; stand by to cut the cable. All clear."—"Ay, Ay!"—"Away then."
And the boat quickly heads round, and then, under the power of the gale and tide, leaps forward, flies along; but only for a few yards, when, with a tremendous jerk, she grounds upon the Sands. The crew look up, and their hearts almost fail them, as they find that they are again within reach of the brig.
Her top-gallant masts are swaying about, her yards swing within a few feet of them, her sails which have blown loose and are in ribbons, beat and flap like thunder over their heads. Their position seems worse than ever; but they are not this time kept long in suspense. A huge breaker comes foaming along; its white crest gleams out in the darkness high above them, a moment's warning, it breaks over them and swamps them, but all are clinging might and main to the boat.
Another breaker comes streaming along; it swamps them again in passing, but now the volume of the wave seizes the boat, up it seems to swing it in its mighty arms, and to bodily hurl it forward; and then the boat crashes down on the Sands as the wave breaks, and grounds them with a shock that would have torn every man out of her, if they had not been holding on.
But one great peril is passed; the mighty swing of the huge waves has carried them yards forward, and they are clear of the wreck; but at that moment they are threatened with another danger almost as terrible. The small Dreadnought life-boat has been in tow all this time; it has not been wise to have her in tow, but she belongs to the Broadstairs boatmen, and neither they nor the Ramsgate boatmen like to abandon her.
As the Ramsgate boat now grounds, the smaller boat comes bow on to her, sweeps round, and gets under her side; the two boats roll and crash together; each roll the larger one gives, each lift of the sea, she comes heavily down on the other boat; the crash and crack of timbers are heard; which boat is it that is breaking up? Both, if this continues, must be very speedily destroyed. Some of the men get out the oars and boat-hooks, and push for their very lives, thrusting and striving their utmost to free the Dreadnought, which is so dangerously thumping and crashing under the quarter of the larger boat. It is a terrible struggle in that boiling sea, with the surf breaking over them. But all their efforts seem in vain, the boats still crash and roll together; one of them is breaking up fast. "Oars in," shouts the coxswain; "over the side half-a-dozen of you—take your feet to her;" and some of the brave fellows spring over, clinging to the rail of the deck of the high air-boxes that are at the bow and stern of the Ramsgate life-boat. Again and again, all together, a fierce struggle, but without success; a big wave comes rolling on, it washes over them, but as the larger boat lifts, the men blindly thrust out with their feet, and the Dreadnought is pushed clear. The men scramble, or are dragged back into the Ramsgate boat; the tow-rope is cut, and the Dreadnought, almost a wreck, is swept away by the tide, and is lost in the darkness, while, most mercifully, the Ramsgate boat still remains uninjured.
A third time they are providentially saved from what seemed almost like certain death; and yet they have only commenced the beginning of their troubles, for is there not before them the long range of sands, with the broken fierce waves and raging surf, and many a fragment of wreck, like sunken rocks studded here and there, upon any one of which, if they strike, it must be death to them all?
The boat is still aground upon the ridge of sand. She lifts, and is swept round, and grounds again broadside to the sea, which makes a clean breach over her. The Portuguese are all clinging together under the lee of the foresail, and there is no getting them to move. The crew are holding on where they can; sometimes buried in the water, often with only their heads out. The captain is standing up in the stern, holding on by the mizen-mast; sometimes he can see nothing of the men as the surf sweeps over them. He orders the chests to be thrown overboard, but most of them are already washed away; the rest are unlashed from their fastenings, and lifted as the men can get at them, and the next wave carries them away. Heavy masses of cloud darken the sky; the rain falls in torrents; it is bitterly cold; the men can do nothing but hold on; the tide rises gradually; suddenly the boat lifts again; it is caught by the driving sea, and is flung forward. There is no keeping her straight, the water is too broken; her stern frees itself before the bow, and round she swings; her bow lifts a little; onward she goes a few yards, and grounds again by the stern; round sweeps the bow, and with another jerk she comes broadside on the Sands again, lurching over on her side, with the terrible surf making a clean sweep over the waist. It is a struggle for the men to get their breath, the spray beats over them in such clouds. This happens time after time. The captain calls the men aft, that the boat may be lightened in the bow, and thus be more likely to keep straight. Most of the boatmen come to the stern, but the Portuguese will not move, and even some of the boatmen are so exhausted with the violent exertions they have made, and by the beating of the waves, that they are almost unconscious, and only able to cling to the gunwale and thwarts of the boat with an iron, nervous grasp, and are thus just able to save themselves from being washed out of her. As the coxswain notices their exhausted state, he expects each time as the big waves wash over them to see some of them leave go their hold and be carried away; and although he makes as light of it as he can, and tries to cheer them up, he himself has very small hope of ever seeing land again.
The sands on the sea shore, if there has been any surf, appear at low tide uneven with the ridges or ripples the waves have left on them. On the Goodwins, where the force of the sea is in every way multiplied, and the waves break and the tide rushes with tenfold power, the little sand ripples of the smoother shore become ridges of two or three feet high.