A further cruise round the Sands, to see if their services are required by any distressed vessel, and they make again for Ramsgate, which they reach about half-past six. The steamer and life-boat are moored, ready for any fresh call which may be made for their services, the probability of which seems very great, and all the men remain on the alert.
In such a storm anxious watchers are on the look-out at all the stations round the coast. Boatmen under the protection of boat-houses, or boats, or grouped together at friendly corners, are keeping a steadfast watch upon the seas. One or two every now and then take a few strides into the open for a wider range of view, and then back again to cover. The coastguard-men, sheltered in nooks of the cliff, or behind rocks, or breasting the storm on the drear Sands as they walk their solitary beat, peer out into the darkness watching for those signals from the sea—the gun flash, or the gleam of the rocket, which while they speak hope to the imperilled, tell to those on shore of lives in danger—of those who must speedily be rescued, or must die.
Or the watchers listen for the dull throb of the signal gun, the sign of wild warfare, and struggles for life mid the charges and conflicts of breaking waves and dashing seas, a signal that the waiting Storm Warriors instantly accept, and rush into the contest to snatch their dying brethren from the arms of the enemy that is too strong for them.
Sometimes the telegraph wires speed the message of distress along the coast, as happened one stormy New Year's Eve, when a ship was seen off Deal beach in almost a blaze of light, burning tar-barrels, and firing rockets to tell of her distress; an intervening fog seemed to prevent the look-out on board the light-vessel seeing her, and some boatmen on Deal beach, who could not possibly get their boats off the sands in the face of the strong gale blowing straight on shore, put their halfpence together to pay for a telegraph message—the messages were dearer then than they are now—and sent their swiftest runner to telegraph to Ramsgate; and after all, there was some unfortunate mistake, and fatal delay, and a telegram at last sent for further particulars, which was answered with a demand for urgent speed, and away then flew steamer and life-boat, and they neared the wreck, and rounded to, to send the life-boat in, when some of the boatmen thought they heard an agonising shriek, and others thought it was only the wail of the storm; but they looked, and the great green seas swept over the wreck, turned her right over, and she was seen no more, and twenty-eight lives went to their account. A piteous New Year's tale it was that was told next morning; a boat's crew got away from the ship soon after she struck, and battling through the broken seas, made way before the wind to Dover, and they told the story, that the lost vessel had picked up a shipwrecked crew, who were thus a second time wrecked, and at the second time lost; and that more of the crew would have come away in the boat, and in other boats, but it was a great risk, and there was a Deal pilot on board who pointed out the danger; and said that the Ramsgate life-boat was certain to be out to their rescue, they might be sure of her; and so they stayed and lighted tar-barrel after tar-barrel, and fired rocket after rocket; and when the sea washed their signal fires out, and swept the decks, they took to the rigging, and waited for the life-boat; and as they waited the poor Deal pilot could watch the light on the beach, by the house where slept his wife and eight children, who were to call him husband—father—no more.
The life-boat men scarcely liked to speak of the agony and disappointment it was to them to be thus just too late; no fault of theirs, poor fellows; they would, if they could, have sooner swum to the wreck, if that were of any use, than have been too late to save the poor perishing lives.
There was an official inquiry into the matter made by the authorities in London, and it was decided that no one was to blame; that it was one of those unfortunate occurrences which never would have happened, like many others, if people could only be as wise before an event as they are after, and which no one could regret more than those who were in any way the unfortunate, and of course most unintentional, agents of bringing it about.
And now to proceed with the adventures of the life-boat on the night in question.
About a quarter past eight in the evening, the harbour-master of Ramsgate receives a telegram. It tells its tale in its own short way, and the harbour-master learns that round the stormy North Foreland, some miles to westward of Margate, the Prince's light-ship is firing guns and rockets, and that the Tongue light-ship is repeating the signals.
The vigilant coastguard-man who had first noticed the signals hurried to Margate with the tidings; but there the fine life-boats are powerless to help. The wind is blowing a hurricane from west-north-west, and drives such a tremendous sea upon the shore that no boat whatever could possibly get off and work its way out to sea; it would merely be rolled back upon the beach in the attempt.
The coastguard at Margate at once saw how impossible it would be to render the required aid from Margate, and hastened to send a telegram to Ramsgate calling for help. The harbour-master there receives it, and now hurried action at once takes the place of wistful anxious waiting.