The Battle.
 
At first the men of the lifeboat had nothing to do but hold on to the thwarts, with the exception, of course, of the coxswain, whose energies were taxed from the commencement in the matter of steering the boat, which was dragged through the waves at such a rate by the powerful tug that merely to hold on was a work of some difficulty. Their course might much more truly be said to have been under than over the waves, so constantly did these break into and fill the boat. But no sooner was she full than the discharging tubes freed her, and she rose again and again, buoyant as a cork.
 
Those who have not seen this desperate work can form but a faint conception of its true character. Written or spoken words may conjure up a pretty vivid picture of the scene, the blackness of the night, and the heaving and lashing of the waves, but words cannot adequately describe the shriek of the blast, the hiss and roar of breakers, and they cannot convey the feeling of the weight of tons of falling water, which cause the stoutest crafts of human build to reel and quiver to their centres.
 
The steam-tug had not to contend with the ordinary straightforward rush of a North Sea storm. She was surrounded and beset by great boiling whirlpools and spouting cross-seas. They struck her on the bow, on the side, on the quarter, on the stern. They opened as if to engulf her. They rushed at as if to overwhelm her. They met under her, thrusting her up, and they leaped into her, crushing her down. But she was a sturdy vessel; a steady hand was at the wheel, and her weather-beaten master stood calm and collected on the bridge.
 
It is probable that few persons who read the accounts of lifeboat service on the Goodwin sands are aware of the importance of the duties performed and the desperate risks run by the steam-tug. Without her powerful engines to tow it to windward of the wrecks the lifeboat would be much, very much, less useful than it is. In performing this service the tug has again and again to run into shallow water, and steer, in the blackest nights, amid narrow intricate channels, where a slight error of judgment on the part of her master—a few fathoms more to the right or left—would send her on the sands, and cause herself to become a wreck and an object of solicitude to the lifeboat crew. “Honour to whom honour is due” is a principle easy to state, but not always easy to carry into practice. Every time the steam-tug goes out she runs her full share of the imminent risk;—sometimes, and in some respects, as great as that of the lifeboat herself, for, whereas, a touch upon the sand, to which it is her duty to approach as near as possible, would be the death-warrant of the tug, it is, on the other hand, the glorious prerogative of the lifeboat to be almost incapable of destruction, and her peculiar privilege frequently to go “slap on and right over” the sands with slight damage, though with great danger. That the death-warrant just referred to has not been signed, over and over again, is owing almost entirely to the courage and skill of her master and mate, who possess a thorough and accurate knowledge of the intricate channels, soundings, and tides of those dangerous shoals, and have spent many years in risking their lives among them. Full credit is usually given to the lifeboat, though not too much by any means, but there is not, we think, a sufficient appreciation of the services of the steam-tug. She may be seen in the harbour any day, modestly doing the dirty work of hauling out the dredge-boats, while the gay lifeboat floats idly on the water to be pointed out and admired by summer visitors—thus unfairly, though unavoidably, are public favours often distributed!
 
Observe, reader, we are far from holding up these two as rivals. They are a loving brother and sister. Comparatively little could be done in the grand work of saving human life without the mighty strength of the “big brother;” and, on the other hand, nothing at all could be done without the buoyant activity and courage of the “little sister.” Observe, also, that although the lifeboat floats in idleness, like a saucy little duck, in time of peace, her men, like their mates in the “big brother,” are hard at work like other honest folk about the harbour. It is only when the sands “show their teeth,” and the floating lights send up their signals, and the storm-blast calls to action, that the tug and boat unite, and the men, flinging down the implements of labour, rise to the dignity of heroic work with all the pith and power and promptitude of heroes.
 
As they ploughed through the foam together, the tug was frequently obliged to ease-steam and give herself time to recover from the shock of those heavy cross seas. Suddenly a bright flaring light was observed in the vicinity of a shoal called the Break, which lies between the Goodwins and the shore. It went out in a few seconds, but not before the master of the tug had taken its bearings and altered his course. At the same time signal-guns and rockets were observed, both from the North sandhead light-vessel and the Gull, and several flaring lights were also seen burning on or near the Goodwin sands.
 
On nearing the Middle Break, which was easily distinguishable from the surrounding turmoil by the intensity of its roar as the seas rolled over it, the coxswain of the lifeboat ordered the sail to be hoisted and the tow-rope slipped. Pike, who was a thoroughly intelligent and sympathetic bowman, had all in readiness; he obeyed the order instantly, and the boat, as if endued with sudden life, sprang away on its own account into the broken water.
 
Broken water! who but a lifeboat-man can conceive what that means?—except, indeed, those few who have been saved from wreck. A chaos of white water, rendered ghostly and grey by darkness. No green or liquid water visible anywhere; all froth and fury, with force tremendous everywhere. Rushing rivers met by opposing cataracts; bursting against each other; leaping high in air from the shock; falling back and whirling away in wild eddies,—seeking rest, but finding none! Vain indeed must be our attempt to describe the awful aspect, the mad music, the fearful violence of “broken water” on the Break!
 
In such a sea the boat was tossed as if she were a chip; but the gale gave her speed, and speed gave her quick steering power. She leaped over the foam, or dashed through it, or staggered under it, but always rose again, the men, meanwhile, holding on for life. Pike was ready in the bow, with an arm tightly embracing the bollard, or strong post, round which the cable runs. The coxswain’s figure, towering high in the stern, with the steering tackles in his hands, leaned forward against a strong strap or band fixed across the boat to keep him in position.
 
They made straight for the spot where the flare light had been seen. At first darkness and thick spray combined prevented them from seeing anything, but in a few minutes a dark object was seen looming faintly against the sky, and the coxswain observed with anxious concern that it lay not to leeward, but to windward of him.
 
“Out oars! down with the sail!” he shouted.
 
His voice was very powerful, but it was swept away, and was only heard by those nearest to him. The order was instantly obeyed, however; but the gale was so heavy and the boat so large that headway could not be made. They could see that the wreck was a small vessel on her beam-ends. Being to leeward, they could hear despairing cries distinctly, and four or five human beings were seen clinging to the side. The lifeboat-men strained till their sinews well-nigh cracked; it seemed doubtful whether they had advanced or not, when suddenly an unusually large wave fell in thunder on the Break; it rushed over the shallows with a foaming head, caught the boat on its crest and carried it far away to leeward.
 
Sail was again made. A box near the coxswain a feet was opened, and a blue-light taken out. There was no difficulty in firing this. A sharp stroke on its butt lighted the percussion powder within, and in a moment the scene was illumined by a ghastly glare, which brought out the blue and white boat distinctly, and gave corpse-like colour to the faces of the men. At the same time it summoned the attendant steamer.
 
In a few minutes the tug ran down to her; the tow-rope was taken on board, and away went the brother and sister once more to windward of the wreck; but now no wreck was to be seen! They searched round the shoal in all directions without success, and finally were compelled to come to the conclusion that the same sea which had carried the boat to leeward had swept the wreck away.
 
With sad hearts they now turned towards the Goodwins, but the melancholy incident they had just witnessed was soon banished from their minds by the urgent signals for aid still seen flaring in all directions. For the nearest of these they made at full speed. On their way, a dark object was seen to sweep past them across their stern as if on the wings of the wind. It was the Broadstairs lifeboat, which had already done good service that night, and was bent on doing more. Similarly occupied were the lifeboats of Deal, Walmer, and other places along the coast. A Deal lugger was also seen. The hardy beachmen of Kent fear no storm. They run out in all weathers to succour ships in distress, and much good service do they accomplish, but their powers are limited. Like the steam-tugs, they can hover around the sands in heavy gales, and venture gingerly near to them; but thus far, and no farther, may they go. They cannot, like the noble lifeboats, dash right into the caldron of surf, and dare the sands and seas to do their worst!
 
The lifeboat men felt cheered, no doubt, to know that so many able hands were fighting around them in the same battle, but they had little time to think on such things; the work in hand claimed their exclusive attention—as it must now claim ours.
 
One vessel was seen burning three very large flare lights. Towards this the steamer hastened, and when as near as prudence would permit her to approach the Goodwin sands—something less than quarter of a mile—the hawser was again slipped, sail was made on the lifeboat, and she once more entered the broken water alone.
 
Here, of course, being more exposed, it was still more tremendous than on the Break. It was a little after midnight when they reached the sands, and made the discovery that they were on the wrong hide of them. The tide was making, however, and in a short time there was sufficient water to enable the boat to run right over; she struck many times, but, being tough, received no serious damage. Soon they drew near the wreck, and could see that she had sunk completely, and that the crew were clinging to the jibboom.
 
When about fifty yards to windward, the anchor was let go, the lifeboat veered down towards the wreck, and with much difficulty they succeeded in taking off the whole crew of seven men. Signalising the tug with another blue-light, they ran to leeward into deep water, and were again taken in tow; the saved men being with some difficulty put on board the tug. They were Dutchmen; and the poor master of the lost vessel could find no words sufficiently forcible to express his gratitude to the coxswain of the lifeboat. When he afterwards met him on shore, he wrung his hand warmly, and, with tears in his eyes, promised never to forget him. “Me never tinks of you,” said he (meaning the reverse), “so long’s I live; me tell the King of Holland!”
 
It is but just to add that the poor fellow faithfully redeemed his ill-expressed promise, and that the coxswain of the lifeboat now possesses a medal presented to him by the King of Holland in acknowledgment of his services on that occasion.
 
But the great work of that night still remained to be done. Not far from the light-vessel a flare-light was seen burning brightly. It seemed to be well tended, and was often renewed. Towards this the tug now steered with the little sister in tow. They soon came near enough to observe that she was a large ship, going to pieces on the sands.
 
Slipping the cable once more, the lifeboat gallantly dashed into the thickest of the fight, and soon got within hail of the wreck.
 
Then it was that, for the first time, a ray of hope entered the hearts of the passengers of the luckless Wellington, and then it was that Jim Welton and Stanley Hall, with several young officers, who had kept the tar-barrels burning so briskly for so many hours, despite the drenching seas, sent up a loud thrilling cheer, and announced to the terror-stricken women and children that the lifeboat was in sight!
 
What a cry for those who had been for three hours dashing on the sands, expecting every moment that the ship would break up! The horrors of their situation were enhanced by the novelty of their sensations! All of us can realise to some extent, from hearsay and from paintings, what is meant by billows bursting high over ships’ mast-heads and washing everything off the decks, but who that has not experienced it can imagine what it is to see gigantic yards being whipped to and fro as a light cane might be switched by a strong man, to see top-masts snapping like pipe-stems, to hear stout ropes cracking like pliant whipcord, and great sails flapping with thunder-claps or bursting into shreds? Above all, who can realise the sensation caused by one’s abode being lifted violently with every surge and dropped again with the crashing weight of two thousand tons, or being rolled from side to side so that the floor on which one stands alternates between the horizontal and perpendicular, while one’s frame each time receives a shock that is only too much in dread harmony with the desperate condition of the mind?
 
“The lifeboat in sight!” Who at such a time would not pray God’s best blessing on the lifeboat, on the stalwart men who man it, and on the noble Society which supports it?
 
Certain it is that many a prayer of this kind was ejaculated on board the Wellington that night, while the passengers re-echoed the good news, and hurriedly went on deck. But what an awful scene of dreary desolation presented itself when they got there! The flares gave forth just enough light to make darkness visible—ropes, masts, yards, sails, everything in indescribable confusion, and the sea breaking over all with a violence that rendered it extremely difficult to maintain a footing even in the most sheltered position.
 
Fortunately by this time the vessel had been beaten sufficiently high on the shoal to prevent the terrible rolling to which she had been at first subjected; and as the officers and seamen vied with each other in attentions to the women and children, these latter were soon placed in comparative security, and awaited with breathless anxiety the arrival of the boat.
 
In order to keep the flare-lights burning all kinds of materials had been sacrificed. Deluged as they were continually by heavy seas, nothing but the most inflammable substances would burn. Hence, when their tar-barrels were exhausted, Stanley Hall and his assistants got hold of sheets, table-cloths, bedding, and garments, and saturated these with paraffine oil, of which, fortunately, there happened to be a large quantity on board. They now applied themselves with redoubled diligence to the construction and keeping alight of these flares, knowing well that the work which remained to be done before all should be rescued, was of a nature requiring time as well as care and courage.
 
On rushed the lifeboat through the broken water. When almost within hail, the coxswain heard the roar of an unusually heavy sea rushing behind him.
 
“Let go the fore-sheet,” he shouted, “and hold on for your lives.”
 
The wave—a billow broken to atoms, yet still retaining all its weight and motive force—overwhelmed the boat and passed on. Before she had quite recovered, another sea of equal size engulfed her, and as she had been turned broadside on by the first, the second caught her in its embrace and carried her like the wind bodily to leeward. Her immense breadth of beam prevented an upset, and she was finally launched into shallower water, where the sand had only a few feet of sea above it. She had been swept away full quarter of a mile in little more than a minute! Here the surf was like a boiling caldron, but there was not depth enough to admit of heavy seas.
 
The same sea that swept away the boat carried the fore and main masts of the Wellington by the board, and extinguished all her lights.
 
The boat drove quite two miles to leeward before the tug got hold of her again. To have returned to the wreck against wind and tide alone, we need scarcely repeat, would have been impossible, but with the aid of the tug she was soon towed to her old position and again cast loose.
 
Once more she rushed into the fight and succeeded in dropping anchor a considerable distance to windward of the wreck, from which point she veered down under her lee, but so great was the mass of broken masts, spars, and wreckage—nothing being now left but parts of the mizzen and bowsprit—that the coxswain was obliged to pay out 117 fathoms of cable to keep clear of it all.
 
The difficulty and danger of getting the boat alongside now became apparent to the people on the wreck, many of whom had never dreamed of such impediments before, and their hopes sank unreasonably low, just as, before, they had been raised unduly high.
 
With great difficulty the boat got near to the port quarter of the ship, and Pike stood up ready in the bow with a line, to which was attached a loaded cane, something like a large life-preserver.
 
“Heave!” shouted the coxswain.
 
The bowman made a deliberate and splendid cast; the weighted cane fell on the deck of the ship, and was caught by Jim Welton, who attached a hawser to it. This was drawn into the boat, and in a few seconds she was alongside. But she was now in great danger! The wild waters that heaved, surged, and leaped ............