Rounding Cape Horn, and Other Sea Stories

by Walter McRoberts

The fourth shot proved successful, and after the brig’s crew secured the line, the whip was attached to it and those on the wreck hauled off until the whip was within their reach. The two surfmen tending the shore ends soon felt several pulls, which they interpreted as a signal that the tail-block had been made fast on the brig. Now the lee part of the whip was bent on to the hawser close to the tally-board, [17a] and while one man saw that it did not foul the hawser, others manned the weather whip and thus hauled the hawser off to the wreck. The breeches buoy block [17b] was next attached, after which operations were suspended until a signal should be received from the stranded vessel that the hawser had been made fast to one of the masts. The length of time that the brig’s crew required to perform this ordinarily simple act told the life-savers, as plainly as words could have done, how greatly they were exhausted by their two hours’ exposure to the bitter wind and icy spray. Their stiffened fingers at length gave the signal, and the station crew quickly hauled in the slack of the hawser. The crotch was now raised, which had the effect of elevating the hawser above the surface of the ocean sufficiently for the breeches buoy to travel upon it without touching the water. All was ready, and the keeper ordered: “Man lee whip—haul off!”

As the buoy slid easily along the hawser and vanished in the darkness towards the wreck, the pent-up feelings of the villagers burst forth. The boys yelled, shouted hurrahs, and danced like sprites about the fire, upon which they flung more drift-wood. Men and women pressed closer about the keeper and his assistants, shading their eyes with their hands, as they strove to follow the course of the buoy. Lips moved and limbs trembled, but as much from excitement as from cold.

At this juncture the Fourth Cliff crew arrived, having toiled for two hours through snow-drifts, and over loose stones, with their heavy apparatus. It had been found impossible to obtain horses in the neighborhood without great delay, and the men were thus compelled to set out without them. The major part of the work of rescue was already done, allowing the half-frozen crew time to warm themselves at the fire, where they held themselves in readiness to render instant service.

The signal from the brig having been given, Captain Litchfield commanded: “Man weather whip—haul ashore!” The men hauled in the whip with a will, while the villagers, eager to get a glimpse of the approaching buoy and its human freight, crowded about until the keeper was compelled to order them back.

Now the poor fellow was visible! Just as he neared the edge of the surf, a huge comber about to break reared its foaming crest and buried hawser, buoy and man in a cloud of spray, as though making a last attempt to seize its intended victim. When the buoy emerged and was drawn up to the crotch, the keeper and Number Seven stepped forward and helped the rescued seaman out. The buoy was then hurried back to the wreck, while its drenched occupant was turned over to the Fourth Cliff crew, who took him to the station.

He was a large man, and evidently a Scandinavian, but seemed exhausted or stunned to such an extent that little information could be obtained from him, except that there were seven men still on the wreck. His wet clothes were removed, and after a good rubbing, he was placed in one of the snowy beds in the upper story of the station. Here in a large, pleasant room, stood a number of single iron bedsteads with heads to the wall—one for each of the crew, besides a few extra in case of emergency. In this haven of rest the sailor fell into a deep sleep, heedless of the storm and cold without.

The next man landed proved to be the mate—a small, wiry fellow, who bore his sufferings well. He thanked the keeper and surfman who helped him out of the buoy and stamped upon the wet sand as though enjoying the sensation of having something firm beneath his feet. His hands were stiff from clinging to the rigging, and were almost useless from the action of the bitter wind and freezing water. But he picked up fast, and after borrowing a dry suit of clothes and an overcoat, insisted on returning to the beach.

He reported the vessel to be the Huron, a 400-ton brig, bound from Porto Rico to Boston, with molasses. The weather had been thick, and though for two days they had had no observation, the captain believed himself a good distance from the coast. When land was sighted on the port bow, they shook out more sail and tried to drive past; but all efforts to keep the brig off shore were futile, and seeing that she must soon strike, the captain headed her for the beach at full speed. The mate reported the wreck to be breaking up rapidly, but thought she might hold together until all had been saved.

The cook and three more seamen had been landed meanwhile, leaving only the captain and a Spanish sailor on the stranded vessel. The buoy had just started on its seventh trip to the brig, when those tending the whip noticed something wrong. The hawser suddenly slackened to such an extent as to allow the buoy to touch the water. A second more, and the great rope which had bridged the chasm between the brig and the shore became perfectly limp, and fell into the ocean! A groan broke from the throng upon the beach as they realized the extent of this misfortune. The mast which upheld the two remaining castaways—the mast to which the hawser was secured, had fallen! All communication between the wreck and the shore was effectually cut off. Even at that moment the two unfortunates were being buffeted about in the freezing water, unless they had been killed or rendered unconscious by the falling spars.