CHAPTER X.
THE PERILS OF THE OCEAN.
"Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell;
Then shrieked the timid, and stood still the brave;
Then some leaped overboard with dreadful yell,
As eager to anticipate their grave;
And the sea yawned around her like a hell,
And down she sucked with her the whirling wave,
Like one who grapples with his enemy,
And tries to strangle him before he die.
"And first one universal shriek there rushed,
Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash
Of echoing thunder; and then all was hushed,
Save the wild wind, and the remorseless dash
Of billows; but at intervals there gushed,
Accompanied by a convulsive splash,
A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry
Of some strong swimmer in his agony."—Byron.
It seems a sudden transition to turn from summer pic-nics to shipwrecks; but every reader knows how often, even in the midst of the world's pleasures and gaieties, mankind is startled by thrilling stories of the tragic experiences of some of the great human family.
It has already been said that Grace Darling, in her lonely life upon the Longstone rocks, surrounded only by the changeful elements, must often have found in them her unconscious tutors. Who has not felt his soul expand under the influence of a boundless ocean-prospect! But it is the sea in storms, when it tosses about the ships which have dared to invade it, as an angry child throws away its toys, that it is most grand and awful. And this object is the one that is often present to those who live by it. It may be that the best lessons which the sea taught the lighthouse girl were those connected with its angry hours; and that the repetition of startling casualties which she witnessed, or of which she heard, may have played an important part in schooling her to that degree of coolness and intrepidity which were necessary for the sublime act which made her famous.
It is only natural that, in our island, great interest should be manifested with regard to those who "go down to the sea in ships," and it may not therefore be deemed out of place to make in this book a reference to some of the most remarkable, and saddest, of the marine disasters which have occurred to make the people of our nation mourn. Every one who is at all acquainted with wreck returns will know how impossible it would be to notice, in the space available, more than a hundredth part of such occurrences. But two or three examples will suffice.
The name of the "Royal George" will at once suggest itself to the reader's memory. On August 29th, 1782, this ship, with many hundred souls aboard, sunk, at anchor, in the broad glare of day and in full sight of all on land, in the roadstead at Spithead. The British sailors were exceedingly proud of this vessel, and amongst her commanders had been such men as Admirals Anson, Boscawen, Rodney, and Howe, and although she was not considered equal in appearance to many others, she was believed to outrival them in her powers of sailing. The "Royal George" had seen very active service, and there had been some thought of putting her out of commission, and the officers of the Admiralty decided upon keeping her in dock for the winter, but during the August of 1782 she underwent repairs, with a view to sending her out once more. Accordingly, on Thursday morning, the 29th of the same month, the ship moored slowly out of harbour, bearing a freight of eight hundred men, with wives, mothers, sisters, and sweethearts, besides those who had been permitted to remain on board for a part of the day. It was a pleasant scene on deck, and the happiness and gaiety of the company seemed in harmony with the beauty of the morning. The mid-day meal was made ready and begun, when a quick movement was felt, and a flood of salt water came pouring through a port-hole that had been most carelessly left unclosed. A stiff breeze caught her broadside, and the "Royal George" turned slowly over and sank. As soon as the disaster was perceived, an officer ran to the ship's captain to inform him that it was capsizing. Kempenfelt, the admiral, was at his desk below deck; his coxswain, notwithstanding the danger, attempted to reach him, but unsuccessfully, for the waters had already engulphed him. His loss was deplored in all the land; he was generally esteemed, and his great abilities were acknowledged by the State. And now the dauntless sea-warrior, who had met and repulsed many a foe, and had looked upon death in a variety of forms, found his own end, not in the force of the enemy's bullet, nor in the violence of the storm, but in a calm sea, on a bright August morning. A reward of one hundred pounds was offered for the body, but it was never recovered. An old journal, which appeared a few days after, in this way concludes the announcement of it—"Thus perished one of the most brave and amiable characters that ever filled either a private or public situation."
A few minutes after the "Royal George" sank, only her topmasts were visible. The greater part of the (one thousand two hundred) people, and chiefly the women and children, were in the cabins, and therefore immediately perished; but of over two hundred on deck, the majority were rescued. The efforts put forth to save the drowning were marked by another calamity. A victualling sloop, which had gone with other vessels to the rescue, was drawn into the vortex of a whirlpool caused by the sudden submersion of the "Royal George."