The Floating Light of the Goodwin Sands by R. M. Ballantyne (the reading list .txt) 📖

Soon the boat was as full as it could hold. All the women and children had been got into her, and many of the male passengers, so that there was no room to move; still there remained from twenty to thirty people to be rescued. Seeing this, Jim seized Neptune by the neck and flung him back into the wreck. Catching a rope that hung over the side, he also swung himself on board, saying,—“You and I must sink or swim together, Nep! Shove off, lads, and come back as soon as you can.”

The hawser was slipped as he spoke; the lifeboat was hauled slowly but steadily to windward up to her anchor. Tons of water poured over her every moment, but ran through her discharging tubes, and, deeply loaded though she was, she rose buoyant from each immersion like an invincible sea-monster.

When the anchor was reached, a small portion of the foresail was set, and then, cutting the cable with one blow of a hatchet, away they went like the scudding foam right over the boiling shallows on the spit of sand.

“Hand out a blue-light there,” cried the coxswain. A sharp blow caused the blue-fire to flare up and shed a light that fell strong as that of the full moon on the mingled grave, pale, stern, and terrified faces in the lifeboat.

“Safe!” muttered one of the crew.

“Safe?” was echoed in surprise, no doubt, from several fluttering hearts.

As well might that have been said to the hapless canoe-man rushing over the Falls of Niagara as to the inexperienced ones there, while they gazed, horror-struck, on the tumult of mad waters in that sudden blaze of unearthly light. Their faith in a trustworthy and intelligent boatman was not equal to their faith in their own eyes, backed by ignorance! But who will blame them for lack of faith in the circumstances? Nevertheless, they were safe. The watchful master of the tug,—laying-to off the deadly banks, now noting the compass, now casting the lead, anon peering into the wild storm,—saw the light, ran down to it, took the rescued ones on board, and, having received from the coxswain the information that there were “more coming,” sent them down into his little cabin, there to be refreshed and comforted, while the lifeboat sheered off again, and once more sprang into the “broken water.” So might some mighty warrior spur from the battle-field charged with despatches of the highest import bearing on the fight, and, having delivered his message, turn on his heel and rush back into the whirling tide of war to complete the victory which had been so well begun!

Once more they made for the wreck, which was by that time fast breaking up. Running right before the wind in such an awful gale, it was necessary to make the men crowd aft in order to keep the boat’s head well out of the water. On this occasion one or two of the seamen of the Wellington, who had been allowed inadvertently to remain in the boat, became alarmed, for the seas were rolling high over the gunwale on each side, and rushing into her with such force as to make it a difficult matter to avoid being washed out. It was a new sensation to these men to rush thus madly between two walls of foam eight or ten feet high! They glanced backward, where another wall of foaming water seemed to be curling over the stern, as if about to drop inboard. The coxswain observed their looks, and knew their feelings. He knew there was no lack of courage in them, and that a little experience would change their minds on this point.

“Never look behind, lads,” he cried; “look ahead; always look right ahead.”

“Ay, Geordy,” remarked one of the men,—a Scotchman,—to his mate, “it’s rum sailin’ this is. I thocht we was a’ gaun to the bottom; but nae doot the cox’n kens best. It’s a wonderfu’ boat!”

Having so said, the sedate Scot dismissed his anxieties, and thereafter appeared to regard the surrounding chaos of water with no other feelings than philosophic interest and curiosity.

On nearing the wreck the second time, it was found that the tide had fallen so low that they could scarcely get alongside. Three times they struck on the shoal; on the third occasion the mizzen-mast and sail were blown out of the boat. They managed to drop anchor, however, and to veer down under the port bow of the Wellington, whence the anxious survivors threw ropes to them, and, one after another, leaped or swung themselves into the boat. But they were so long about it that before all had been got out the coxswain was obliged to drop to leeward to prevent being left aground. In spite of this, the boat got fast, and now they could neither advance to the wreck for the nine men who still remained in her, nor push off to rejoin the tug.

The space between the boat and vessel was crossed by such a continuous rush of broken water that for a time it was impossible to attempt anything, but as the tide fell the coxswain consulted with his bowman, and both agreed to venture to wade to the wreck, those on board having become so exhausted as to be unable or unwilling to make further effort to save themselves.

Acting on this resolve they with one of their men sprang into the raging surf and staggered to the wreck, where they induced two of the crew to leap overboard and brought them safely to the boat. Others of the lifeboat crew then joined them and four more were rescued. (See note 1.)

The tide had been at its lowest when this desperate work was begun,—before it was finished it had turned. This, coupled with the fact that they had all been nearly swept away during the last effort; and that there was a fresh burst of violence in the gale, induced them to wait until the tide should rise. When it did so sufficiently, they hauled and shoved the boat alongside, and the captain, who was one of the three remaining men, made a desperate spring, but missed the boat and was whirled away. Pike made a grasp at him but missed. The coxswain seized a life-buoy and hurled it towards him. It fell within his reach, and it was supposed that he had caught it, but they could not be certain. The boat was now afloat and bumping violently. If they had cut the cable in order to rescue the captain, which they could by no means make sure of doing, the improbability of being able to return in time to save the two remaining men would have been very great. It seemed to be life or death in either case, so they stuck by the wreck.

It was grey dawn now, and the wreckage was knocking against and around them to such an extent that the coxswain began to fear for the safety of his boat. Yet he was loath to leave the men to perish.

“Jump now, lads!” he cried, sheering up alongside, “it’s your last chance. It’s death to all of us if we stop longer here!”

The men sprang together. One gained the side of the boat and was saved, the other was swept away. He made frantic efforts to gain the boat, but before his companion had been got inboard he was out of sight, and although the cable was promptly cut and the sail set he could not be found. The boat was then run down along the sands in search of the captain. The coxswain knew well from experience that he must certainly have been swept by the current in the same direction as the wreckage. He therefore followed this, and in a short time had the inexpressible satisfaction and good fortune to find the captain. He had caught the life-buoy, and having managed to get it under his arms had floated about for the greater part of an hour. Though nearly dead he was still sensible, and, after being well chafed and refreshed with a little rum from the coxswain’s case-bottle—provided for occasions of this sort—he recovered.

The great work of the lifeboat had now been accomplished, but they could not feel that it had been thoroughly completed without one more effort being made to save the lost man. They therefore ran still farther down the sand in the direction where he had been last seen. They followed the drift of wreckage as before. Presently the bowman uttered a thrilling shout, for, through the turmoil of dashing spray, he saw the man clinging to a spar!

So unexpected was this happy event that the whole crew involuntarily gave vent to a ringing cheer, although, in the circumstances, and considering the nature of their exhausting work and the time they had been exposed to it, one might have supposed them incapable of such a burst of enthusiasm.

In a few moments he was rescued, and now, with light hearts, they ran for the tug, which was clearly visible in the rapidly increasing daylight. They did not put off time in transferring the saved men to the steamer. The big hawser,—their familiar bond of attachment,—was made fast to them, and away went that noble big brother and splendid little sister straight for Ramsgate harbour. (See note 2.)

But the work of that wild night was not yet finished. On their way home they fell in with a schooner, the foretopmast and bowsprit of which were gone. As she was drifting towards the sands they hailed her. No reply being made, the lifeboat was towed alongside, and, on being boarded, it was found that she was a derelict. Probably she had got upon the sands during the night, been forsaken by her crew in their own boat—in which event there was small chance of any being saved—and had drifted off again at the change of the tide.

Be that as it might, six lifeboat men were put on board. Finding no water in her, they slipt her two cables, which were hanging from the bow, a rope was made fast to the steamer, and she was taken in tow.

It was drawing towards noon when they neared the harbour. Very different indeed was the aspect of things there then from what it had been when they went out on their errand of mercy thirteen hours before. Although the gale was still blowing fresh it had moderated greatly. The black clouds no longer held possession of the sky, but were pierced, scattered, and gilded, as they were rolled away, by the victorious sun. The sea still raged and showed its white “teeth” fiercely, as if its spirit had been too much roused to be easily appeased; but blue sky appeared in patches everywhere; the rain had ceased, and the people of the town and visitors swarmed out to enjoy the returning sunshine, inhale the fresh sea-breeze, and await, anxiously, the return of the lifeboat—for, of course, every one in the town was aware by that time that she had been out all night.

When, at length, the smoke of the “big brother” was observed drawing near, the people flocked in hundreds to the piers and cliffs.—Wherever a point of vantage was to be had, dozens of spectators crowned it. Wherever a point of danger was to be gained, daring spirits—chiefly in the shape of small boys—took it by storm, in absolute contempt of the police. “Jacob’s Ladder”—the cliff staircase—was crowded from top to bottom. The west pier was rendered invisible to its outer extremity by human beings. The east pier, as far as it was dry, was covered by the fashion and beauty—as well as by the fishy and tarry—of the town. Beyond the point of dryness it was more or less besieged by those who were reckless, riotous, and ridiculously fond of salt-water spray. The yards and shrouds of the crowded and much damaged