A Night of Wreck and Disaster—The Gull “Comes to Grief.”  
When the storm began to brew that night, George Welton, the mate of the floating light, walked the deck of his boiled-lobster-like vessel, and examined the sky and sea with that critical expression peculiar to seafaring men, which conveys to landsmen the reassuring impression that they know exactly what is coming, precisely what ought to be done, and certainly what will be the result of whatever happens!
 
After some minutes spent in profound meditation, during which Mr Welton frowned inquiringly at the dark driving clouds above him, he said, “It’ll be pretty stiff.”
 
This remark was made to himself, or to the clouds, but, happening to be overheard by Jerry MacGowl, who was at his elbow, it was answered by that excellent man.
 
“True for ye; it’ll blow great guns before midnight. The sands is showin’ their teeth already.”
 
The latter part of this remark had reference to brilliant white lines and dots on the seaward horizon, which indicated breakers on the Goodwin sands.
 
“Luk at that now,” said Jerry, pointing to one of those huge clumsy vessels that are so frequently met with at sea, even in the present day, as to lead one to imagine that some of the shipbuilders in the time of Noah must have come alive again and gone to work at their old trade on the old plans and drawings. “Luk at that, now. Did iver ye see sitch a tub—straight up and down the side, and as big at the bow as the stern.”
 
“She’s not clipper built,” answered the mate; “they make that sort o’ ship by the mile and sell her by the fathom,—cuttin’ off from the piece just what is required. It don’t take long to plaster up the ends and stick a mast or two into ’em.”
 
“It’s in luck she is to git into the Downs before the gale breaks, and it’s to be hoped she has good ground-tackle,” said Jerry.
 
The mate hoped so too in a careless way, and, remarking that he would go and see that all was made snug, went forward.
 
At that moment there came up the fore-hatch a yell, as if from the throat of a North American savage. It terminated in the couplet, tunefully sung—
 
                    “Oh my! oh my!
 
    O mammy, don’t you let the baby cry!”
 
Jack Shales, following his voice, immediately after came on deck.
 
“Have ’ee got that work-box done?” asked Jerry as his mate joined him.
 
“Not quite done yet, boy, but I’ll get it finished after the lights are up. Duty first, pleasure afterwards, you know.”
 
“Come now, Jack, confess that you’re makin’ it for a pretty girl.”
 
“Well, so I am, but it ain’t for my own pretty girl. It’s for that sweet little Nora Jones, who came lately to live in Ramsgate. You see I know she’s goin’ to be spliced to Jim Welton, and as Jim is a good sort of fellow, I want to make this little gift to his future bride.”
 
The gift referred to was a well-made work-box, such as the men of the floating light were at that time, and doubtless still are, in the habit of constructing in leisure hours. It was beautifully inlaid with wood of various kinds and colours, and possessed a mark peculiarly characteristic of floating-light boxes and desks, namely, two flags inlaid on the lid—one of these being the union Jack. Most of the men on board displayed much skill and taste in the making of those boxes and desks, although they were all self-taught, and wrought with very simple tools in a not very commodious workshop.
 
“A great change from yesterday in the look o’ things, Jerry,” observed Shales, surveying the Downs, where, despite the stiff and ever increasing breeze amounting almost to a gale, numerous little pilot-boats were seen dancing on the waves, showing a mere shred of canvas, and looking out for a job. “Yesterday was all sunshine and calm, with pleasure-boats round us, and visitors heaving noospapers aboard. To-day it’s all gloom, with gales brewin’ and pilots bobbin’ about like Mother Cary’s chickens.”
 
“That’s true, Jack,” replied Jerry, whose poetic soul was fired by the thought:—
 
    “‘Timpest an’ turmoil to-day,
 
        With lots a’ salt-wather an’ sorrow.
 
    Blue little waves on the say,
 
        An’ sunny contintment to-morrow.’
 
“That’s how it is, Jack, me boy, all the world over—even in owld Ireland hersilf; an’ sure if there’s pace to be found on earth it’s there it’s to be diskivered.”
 
“Right, Jerry, peace is to be discovered there, but I’m afraid it’s in a very distant future as yet,” said Jack with a laugh.
 
“All in good time,” retorted Jerry.
 
“Up lights!” called the mate down the hatchway.
 
“Ay, ay, sir,” came in chorus from below.
 
Desks and boxes were thrust aside, the winch was manned, and the weighty lantern mounted slowly to its nocturnal watch-tower.
 
Its red eye flashed upon a dark scene. The gloom of approaching night was deepened by the inky clouds that obscured the sky. Thick fog banks came sweeping past at intervals; a cold north-easterly gale conveyed a wintry feeling to the air. Small thick rain fell in abundance, and everything attested the appropriateness of Jerry MacGowl’s observation, that it was “dirty weather intirely.”
 
The floating light was made snug—in other words, prepared for action—by having a good many more fathoms of her chain veered out, in order that she might strain less and swing more freely. Loose articles were secured or stowed away. Hatches were battened down, and many other little nautical arrangements made which it would require a seaman to understand as well as to describe in detail.
 
As the evening advanced the gale increased in violence tenfold, and darkness settled down like an impenetrable pall over land and sea. The roar of breakers on the Goodwin Sands became so loud that it was sometimes heard on board the Gull-light above the howling of the tempest. The sea rose so much and ran so violently among the conflicting currents caused by wind, tide, and sand-banks, that the Gull plunged, swooped, and tore at her cable so that the holding of it might have appeared to a landsman little short of miraculous. Hissing and seething at the opposition she offered, the larger waves burst over her bows, and swept the deck from stem to stern; but her ample scuppers discharged it quickly, and up she rose again, dripping from the flood, to face and fight and foil each succeeding billow.
 
High on the mast, swaying wildly to and fro, yet always hanging perpendicular by reason of a simple mechanism, the lantern threw out its bright beams, involving the vessel and the foam-clad boiling sea in a circle of light which ended in darkness profound, forming, as it were, a bright but ghostly chamber shut in with walls of ebony, and revealing, in all its appalling reality, the fury of the sea. What horrors lay concealed in the darkness beyond no one could certainly know; but the watch on board the Gull could form from past experience a pretty good conception of them, as they cowered under the lee of the bulwarks and looked anxiously out to windward.
 
Anxiously! Ay, there was cause for anxiety that night. The risk of parting from their cable was something, though not very great; but the risk of being run down by passing or driving ships during intervals of fog was much greater, and the necessity of looking out for signals of distress was urgent.
 
It was a night of warfare, and the battle had begun early. Mr Welton’s record of the earlier part of that day in the log ran thus:—
 
“At 4 a.m. calm, with misty rain; at 8, wind south-east, light breeze. At noon, west-south-west, fresh breeze and rain. At 4 p.m., wind south-west, fresh gale and heavy rain. A large fleet anchored in the Downs. A schooner was seen to anchor in a bad place about this time. At 7, wind still increasing. The watch observed several vessels part from their 7 anchors and proceed to Margate Roads. At 7:30 the wind flew into the nor’-nor’-west, and blew a hurricane.”
 
These were the first mutterings of the fight that had begun.
 
It was now about a quarter to eight p.m. Jerry and his friend Shales were cowering behind the bulwark on the starboard bow, gazing to windward, but scarce able to keep their eyes open owing to wind and spray. Suddenly a large object was seen looming into the circle of light.
 
“Stand by!” roared Jerry and Jack, with startling vigour, as the one leaped towards the tiller, the other to the companion-hatch; “a vessel bearing down on our hawse!”
 
The mate and men rushed on deck in time to see a large ship pass close to the bow of the Gull. Jack had cast loose the tiller, because, although in ordinary circumstances the helm of a light-vessel is of no use, this was one of the few occasions in which it could be of service. The rush of the tide past a ship at anchor confers upon it at all times, except during “slack water” (i.e., when the tide is on the turn), the power of steering, so that she can be made to sheer swiftly to port or starboard, as may be required. But for this power, floating lights would undoubtedly be run into more frequently than they are.
 
The danger being over, the helm was again made fast amidships, but as several vessels were soon after seen sweeping past—two or three of them burning tar-barrels and “flare-lights” for assistance, it became evident that there would be little or no rest for any one on board that night. The mate put on his oiled coat, trousers, boots, and sou’wester, and remained on deck.
 
Between eight and nine o’clock a schooner was seen approaching. She came out of surrounding darkness like a dim phantom, and was apparently making the attempt to go to windward of the floating light. She failed, and in a moment was bearing down with terrible speed right upon them.
 
“Starboard your helm!” shouted the mate, at the same moment springing to the tiller of his own vessel.
 
The steersman of the driving vessel fortunately heard and obeyed the order, and she passed—but shaved the bow of the Gull so closely that one of the men declared he could easily have jumped aboard of her.
 
Again, at nine o’clock, there was a stir on board the floating light, for another vessel was seen driving towards her. This one was a brig. The foremast was gone, and the remains of a tar-barrel were still burning on her deck, but as none of the crew could be seen, it was conjectured that some other ship must have run foul of her, and they had escaped on board of it. All hands were again called, the tiller was cast loose, a wide sheer given to the Gull, and the brig went past them at about the distance of a ship-length. She went slowly by, owing, it was afterwards ascertained, to the fact that she had ninety fathoms of cable trailing from her bows. She was laden with coal, and when the Deal boatmen picked her up next day, they found the leg of a man on her deck, terribly mutilated, as if it had got jambed somehow, and been wrenched off! But no one ever appeared to tell the fate of that vessel’s crew.
 
Shortly before ten, two tar-barrels were observed burning in a north-easterly direction. These proved to be the signals of distress from a ship and a barque, which were dragging their anchors. They gradually drove down on the north part of the sands; the barque struck on a part named the Goodwin Knoll, the ship went on the North sandhea............