Saviour! on the boisterous sea,
Bid us rest secure in Thee."
L. H. Sigourney.
It is one o'clock in the morning; the moon gleams out through the gulfs in the dark deep clouds which sweep swiftly across her path.
The men see a large ship hard and fast on the Sands and in a perfect boil of waters. The tremendous seas surge around her, and as they wildly leap against her shake her from stem to stern; the spray is flying over her in great sheets, and mingles with the dark masses of smoke, which rise in thick clouds from the flaming tar-barrels, while smoke and spray are swept swiftly to leeward by the force of the wind. The vessel is making all possible signals of distress; the fierce gale has driven her, at each lift of the sea, higher and higher upon the Sands, until she has reached the highest part, and there has grounded fast. As the tide fell the waves could no longer lift the ship, and let her crash down upon the sand, else long since she would have been utterly broken to pieces.
The boat makes in for the ship, the people on board see her, and cries and cheers of joy greet her approach. The foresail is lowered, the anchor thrown overboard, and the boat fast sheers in towards the vessel, which they find to be an emigrant ship crowded with passengers.
The cable goes out by the run, and is too soon exhausted, for with a jerk it brings the boat up within sixty feet of the vessel. As the poor emigrants see the boat stop short, their cries for help are frantic, and sound dismally in the boatmen's ears, as slowly and laboriously they haul in the cable, and with much trouble get up their anchor, before making another attempt to get alongside the ship. In the meantime they answer the cries of the people with shouts to encourage them, and the moon shining out, the emigrants see that they are not deserted. The sea is so heavy, and the boat's anchor has taken so firm a hold, that it is a long time before they can get it up; at last they succeed, and now sail within fifty fathoms of the vessel, before they heave the anchor overboard again.
It is necessary if they are to windward of a vessel to let the anchor down as far as possible from her, that they may get plenty of sea-room when they haul up to it again, so that when they set sail they may have space enough to sail clear of the vessel upon which the seas would throw the boat bodily, if they did not allow themselves room to steer a course which shall be clear of her.
They let the cable out gradually and drop alongside; they get a hawser from the bow, and another from the stern of the vessel, and by these they are enabled to keep the boat moderately well in position, the man on board hauling and veering on the ropes, and upon the boat's cable attached to the anchor, so as to keep the boat sufficiently near without letting her strike against the sides of the vessel, and this, in the broken seas and rapid tide, is a matter of no small difficulty. The ship is the Fusilier, bound from London to Australia; her captain and pilot shout out to the men on board the boat, "How many can you carry? we have more than one hundred souls on board, more than sixty women and children." And it is with no little dismay that the terrified passengers look down upon the boat half buried in spray, and wonder how she could by any possibility be the means of rescuing such a crowd of people. The men answer from the boat that they have a steamer near, and that they will take off the passengers and crew in parties to her. Two of the life-boat men, as the boat lifts on the top of a sea, make a sprint, catch hold of the man-ropes and climb on board the ship. "Who comes here?" shouts the captain, as the two boatmen, clad in their oilskin overalls, with their cork belts on, and pale and half exhausted with their long battling with wind and sea, jump from the bulwarks amid the excited passengers who crowd the deck. "Two men from the life-boat," is the reply, and the passengers throng round them, seize them by the hands, and some even cling to them with an energy of fear, that requires considerable force to overcome. The light from the ship's lamps and the faint moonlight reveal the mass of people on board, and the terrible state of exhaustion and fear that most of them are in; some are deadly pale and terror-stricken, their eyes wildly staring, and trembling in every limb; some are in a fainting condition, and are supported by friends, who half forget their own terrors in their efforts to console the sufferers who seem to need it most; the wild shrieks of some of the poor women pierce the gale, while others of the passengers are quiet and resigned, but their pale and firm looks and clasped hands suggest the depth of the emotions that they are at such pains to control. It has been a long long night of terror and most anxious suspense, and many of those who have held up bravely during its hours of danger and almost of despair, now break down at the crisis of the life-boat's arrival. But the night has not been one of unreasoning fear with all. There are those on board who, filled with a calm heroism, have by their example of holy faith exerted great influence for good among their fellow-passengers—one woman especially, who has been for some time employed by a religious society in London, visiting among the poor, proves herself well fitted for scenes of danger and distress. Gathering many around her, she read and prayed with them; and often as the wild blasts shook the vessel to the keel, there mingled with the roar of the storm the strains of hymns, and many poor creatures gathered consolation and confidence as they were led to look, from their own perfect helplessness and weakness, to the Almighty arm of a loving God; and many, who had already learnt to know and to feel those truths which take the sting from death, were encouraged to draw nearer to place their full reliance upon the sufficient atonement of Him who has declared, "I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and he that believeth in me shall never die." Thus there was light in the darkness and songs in the night, and the voice speaking mid the tempest said, "Peace, be still;" and many felt, although the warring elements still raged, a calm, which recklessness may assume, but which faith alone can give at such an hour. This is no fancy sketch, no effort to drag in a bit of attempted pathos. One hundred immortal souls were momentarily expecting the summons which should launch them into eternity; and a most terrible shade in the tragic picture it would indeed have been, had not any of that throng been prepared for the summons by the exercise of earnest humble faith—if by all of them the expected messenger, who seemed to linger minute by minute upon the threshold, was dreaded only with a despairing fear, as the King of Terrors, if not any were prepared to welcome him calmly as the messenger of Peace.