Rounding Cape Horn, and Other Sea Stories

by Walter McRoberts

A patrolman on the northern beat had suddenly ignited his Coston light—the red emblem which both tells the watchful keeper that a wreck has been sighted, and assures the crew of the unfortunate vessel that succor is at hand.

The surfmen and patrolmen passed the signal along the beats and hurried to the station, each to perform his allotted part in the work of rescue. The keeper burned a rocket to inform the Fourth Cliff crew. It was answered almost simultaneously by a distant patrolman with his handlight, and by a white rocket sent up from Fourth Cliff; the crew and apparatus from that point would soon be hurrying to the scene of the wreck.

The patrolman who gave the alarm had sighted the brig just before she went aground. She was then headed directly for the beach, bows on, her captain evidently realizing that escape was impossible, and that his only chance lay in getting the craft near the shore. The tide was high, and she had taken ground scarcely a quarter of a mile from the beach, and almost directly in front of the station. Immediately after striking, she had swung around broadside on, and now the dim outline of her canvas and rigging could be faintly distinguished through the storm.

In the station all was excitement and action, but there was no confusion. Within a few moments of the time the wreck had been sighted, the keeper issued the first order: “Open boat-room doors—man the beach-cart!”

Laden with the life-saving apparatus, and drawn by six surfmen, the cart was hauled out of the station and over the loose, yielding stones that lay between it and the ocean. The wide tires prevented the vehicle from sinking among the stones and rendered the task not difficult. The tremendous surf booming in made it impossible to launch the life-boat, and it was through the medium of the breeches buoy that the brig’s crew were to be rescued.

Bad news travels swiftly, and a rapidly increasing knot of men, boys, and even a few women was already assembled, many of whom offered assistance, while one or two did not hesitate to give advice. The keeper directed them to procure dry wood from the station and start a bonfire, which they did with alacrity, the flames soon crackling merrily.

The cart having been halted, the crew proceeded to unload it, and while Captain Litchfield placed the gun in position, the others buried the sand-anchor, prepared the shot-line box, set the crotch in the proper place, and performed other duties of importance. Everything about the stranded vessel was dark and silent. She displayed no mast-head lantern or any light whatever, her crew having probably taken to the rigging as soon as she struck to avoid being washed overboard. The fierce gale cut the faces and blinded the eyes of the life-savers when they attempted to look towards the wreck, but the keeper contrived to train the gun and raise it to the proper elevation for firing. All things being ready, he gave the lanyard a sharp pull. There was a report, a puff of smoke, and away sped the metal cylinder into the blackness, with the shot-line attached.

A few minutes passed, during which some of the crew had a chance to warm their numb fingers at the fire. The direction of the wind was favorable, and the keeper had strong hopes of getting that first line over the vessel. But there was no pull upon it—nothing to show that those on the wreck had seen it. And yet it had certainly fallen on the brig, for all attempts by those on shore to withdraw it were futile. Perhaps the unfortunate crew knew the line was on deck, but were unable to reach it without being washed away; perhaps they were too thoroughly chilled to make any exertion in their own behalf, although this seemed scarcely possible in view of the short time the vessel had been aground. But at any rate they failed to secure the line, and in trying to haul it back on shore it parted somewhere off in the darkness.

The operation had to be repeated, and a second shot was fired as quickly as the apparatus could be made ready. This was a complete failure, for it did not go over the brig at all. The third attempt promised to be crowned with success, for the line not only fell upon the vessel, but came within reach of the beleagured crew—a fact that was soon made apparent by a decided pull upon it. It was the first evidence of life upon the wreck, and sent a thrill through the breasts of the rescuers.

Number One had just bent the shot-line around the whip, and the keeper was about to signal the wreck to haul off, when the line again parted. This was a keen disappointment, for precious moments must be consumed in preparing the apparatus for another shot; and evidence was not lacking to show that the seas were making a clean breach over the wreck, sweeping her decks of everything movable. A small boat, one end in splinters, was flung upon the beach almost at the foot of the rescuers; in the edge of the surf was something that resembled a hen-coop; one of the villagers discovered a flight of steps and several planks a little to the right of the station; and other familiar objects were rapidly coming ashore.