Kitabı oku: «The Lifeboat», sayfa 16
Chapter Twenty One.
Mysterious Doings
We return, now, to the coast of Kent, and beg the reader to follow us into the Smuggler’s Cave at Saint Margaret’s Bay.
Here, in a dark corner, sat old Jeph. It was a stormy Sunday afternoon. The old man had gone to the Bay to visit Coleman, and accompany him to his place of worship. Jeph had wandered alone in the direction of the cave after church. He found that some one had recently cleared its mouth of the rubbish that usually filled it, and that, by bending low, he could gain an entrance.
Being of an adventurous disposition, the old man went in, and, seating himself on a projecting rock in a dark corner, fell into a profound reverie. He was startled out of this by the sound of approaching footsteps.
“Come in, come in,” said a deep hoarse voice, which Jeph at once recognised as that of Long Orrick, his old enemy. “Come in, Nick; you seem to have got a’feer’d o’ the dark of late. We’ll be out o’ sight here, and I’ll amuse ye till this squall blows over with an account o’ what I heer’d the old man say.”
“This squall, as ye call it, won’t blow over so soon as ye think,” replied Rodney Nick in a sulky tone. “Hows’ever, we may as well wait here as anywhere else; or die here for all that I care!”
“Hallo! messmate, wot’s ado that ye should go into the blues when we’re on the pint o’ making our fortins?” said Orrick.
“Ado!” cried Rodney angrily, “is it not bad enough to be called messmate by you, and not be able to deny it?”
“You’re civil, anyhow,” said Orrick, with an oath.
“I mean to be,” retorted Nick, fiercely.
“Come, come, it’s no use quarrelling,” said Orrick, with an affectation of good-humour. “Never say die! Nick; them’s the words o’ the immortial Nelson, w’en he gave the signal to blaze away at Trafalgar. But sit ye down here on this rock, and I’ll tell ye all about wot I see’d last night. Ye’d like to know, I dessay.”
“I’d like to have know’d sooner, if you had seen fit to tell me,” said Rodney Nick, in a gruff tone.
“Well, then, keep yer mind easy, and here goes. You know as how I chanced to hear old Jeph make an appointment with that young puppy, Guy Foster, to meet him at the darkest hour o’ night at the tomb o’ Mary Bax. Thinks I, it won’t be for nothin’ you’re goin’ to meet at sich an hour in sich a place, my hearties, so I’ll go an’ keep ye company in a private way!
“You may be sure I was up to time. Two hours did I wait in the ditch behind the tomb, and I can tell ye, Nick, it’s desprit eerie work a-sittin’ there all alone of a dark night, a-countin’ of the beatins of yer ’art, an’ thinkin’ every shadow of the clouds is a ghost. Hows’ever, the old man came at last, and lies down flat on the grave, and begins to groan a bit. Arter that he takes to prayin’, an’, d’ye know, the way that old feller prays is a caution. The parsons couldn’t hold a candle to him. Not that I ever heer’d ony of ’em, but I s’pose they couldn’t!
“Well, he was cut short in the middle by the arrival of the puppy—.”
“Wot puppy?” inquired Rodney.
“Guy, to be sure; ain’t he the biggest puppy in Deal?” said Orrick.
“Mayhap, but he ain’t the longest,” retorted Rodney; “go on.”
“Humph!—well, down sits Guy on the head o’ the tombstone, and pats old Jeph on the shoulder.
“‘Here I am, Jeph; come now, what is it you are so anxious to tell me?’
“The old man sat up: ‘I’m goin’ to die,’ says he.
“‘Nonsense,’ cried the young ’un, in a cheerie tone, by way of “don’t say that.” ‘You’re as tough as an old bo’sn. Come, that wasn’t what you wanted to tell me, I’m sure.’
“‘Ay, but it was,’ says the old man in sich an earnest voice that the young ’un was forced to become serious. ‘Listen, Guy,’ he goes on, ‘I’m goin’ to die, an’ there’s no one in this world as I’ve got to look after me.’
“Guy was goin’ to interrupt him at this point, but he laid his hand on his shoulder and bade him be silent.
“‘I’ve got no relations, Guy, except two,’ says he, ‘an’ I’ve no childer. I never married. The only girl I ever loved lies under the cold, cold sod. You know that I’m a poor man, an’ the two relations I spoke of are rich—rich—ay, and they’re fond o’ money. Mayhap that’s the reason they are rich! Moreover, they know I’ve got the matter o’ forty pounds or thereabouts, and I know that when I die they’ll fight for it—small though it is, and rich though they be—and my poor fortune will either go to them or to the lawyers. Now, Guy, this must not be; so I want you to do me a kindness. I’m too old and frail to go about matters o’ business, an’ I never was good at wot they call business in my best days, so I want you to pay all my debts for me, and bring me the receipts.’
“‘I’ll do it, Jeph,’ said Guy, ‘and much more than that, if you’ll only tell me how I can serve you; but you mustn’t speak in that sorrowful way about dying.’
“‘Sorrowful!’ cries the old man, quite surprised like; ‘bless your heart, I’m not sorrowful. Don’t the Book say, “It’s better to be absent from the body and present with the Lord?”’ (ah, you may grin as you please, Nick, but I give ye the ’xact words o’ the old hypocrite.) ‘No, no, Guy,’ continued Jeph, ‘I’ll be right glad to go; many a sad yet pleasant hour have I spent here, but I’m weary now, and would fain go, if the Lord will. Now, it’s my opinion that I’ve just two weeks to live—’
“‘Jeph!’ exclaimed Guy.
“‘Don’t interrupt me, lad. I’ve got two weeks to live, so I want you to go and arrange about my funeral. Get a coffin made—I used to be six feet when I was young, but I dessay I’m shorter now—and get the undertaker to cast up beforehand wot it’ll all come to, and pay him, and bring me the receipts. Will ye do this, lad?’
“‘I will, if you wish it, but—’
“‘If I didn’t wish it I wouldn’t ask it.’
“‘Well, Jeph,’ said Guy, earnestly, ‘I will do it.’
“‘Thank’ee, lad, thank ’ee. I know’d ye would, so I brought the money with me. Here it is—forty pounds all told; you’ll pay for the things, and bring me the receipts, and keep the rest and use it in the service of God. I know I can trust you, lad, so that’s enough. All I want is to prevent my small savin’s goin’ to the winds, or to those as don’t need ’em; you understand how to give it to those as do.’”
“Is that all?” said Rodney Nick, impatiently.
“No that’s not all,” replied his companion, “though if it was all, it’s a rather coorious fact, for which ye might thank me for takin’ the trouble to tell you. But you’re thankless by nature. It seems to me that nother you nor me’s likely to trouble Guy Foster to look arter our spare cash in that way! But that ain’t the end o’ my story yet.”
“What! you didn’t rob ’em? eh! you didn’t pitch into the ‘Puppy,’ and ease him o’ the shiners?”
Rodney Nick said this with a sneer, for he was well aware that his boastful companion would not have risked a single-handed encounter with Guy on any consideration.
“No, I didn’t; it warn’t worth the trouble,” said Orrick, “but—you shall hear. Arter the old man had said his say, Guy asked him if that was all, for if it was, he didn’t see no occasion to make no secret about it.”
“‘No,’ said the old man, ‘that’s not all. I want you to take charge of a packet, and give it to Bax after I’m gone. No one must break the seal but Bax. Poor Bax, I’d thought to have seen him once again before I went. I’ll leave the old house to him; it ain’t worth much, but you can look arter it for him, or for Tommy Bogey, if Bax don’t want it. Many a happy evening we’ve spent in it together. I wanted to give you the parcel here—here out on the dark Sandhills, where no one but God hears us. It’s wonderful what a place the town is for eavesdroppin’! so I made you come out here. You must promise me never to open the packet unless you find that Bax is dead; then you may open it, and do as you think fit. You promise me this?’
“‘I do,’ said Guy, as the old man pulled a small packet, wrapped in brown paper, from his breast pocket, and put it into his hands. Then, they rose and went away together.”
“Well?” said Rodney Nick.
“Well!” echoed Long Orrick, “wot then?”
“What next? what d’ye want to do?” inquired Rodney.
“Do,” cried Orrick, “I mean to get hold o’ that packet if I can, by fair means or by foul, that’s wot I mean to do, and I mean that you shall help me!”
The reader may imagine what were the feelings of the poor old man as he sat in the dark corner of the cave listening to this circumstantial relation of his most secret affairs. When he heard Long Orrick’s last words, and felt how utterly powerless he was in his weakness to counteract him in his designs, he could not prevent the escape of a deep groan.
The effect on the two men was electrical. They sprang up, filled with superstitious horror, and fled precipitately from the cave.
Old Jeph staggered out after them, and made for the cottage of his friend Coleman. The latter met him near the threshold.
“Why, Jeph, is this you? I’ve bin searchin’ for ye more than an hour, and come to the conclusion ye must ha’ gone home; but why, you’re ill, Jeph!”
“Ay, I’m ill, come, help me home.”
“Nay, not this night, you shall stop with me; the missus’ll give you a cup o’ tea as will do yer old heart good.”
“No, I must go home now,” said Jeph, in a tone so decided that his friend was staggered.
“You can’t walk it, you know, in a stormy night like this.”
“I will walk it,” said Jeph.
“Come, then, if you’re bent on it, you’d better go in your own lugger; it’s here just now, agoin’ to put off in ten minutes or so. Nothin’ ever stops Bluenose, blow high, blow low. W’en he wants to go off to sea, he goes off, right or wrong. But you’ll take a glass o’ grog first.”
Old Jeph would not do this, so he was led down to the beach by Coleman, where they found the boat being launched.
“Good-bye, old man,” said Coleman, helping him over the side.
“Good-bye,—farewell,” said Jeph earnestly. “I came here to-day a-purpose to say farewell; shake hands, God bless you.”
The coast-guard-man was surprised by the warmth of his friend’s manner, as well as by his words; but before he could ask him what he meant, the boat was run down the beach and out to sea. An hour later old Jeph was carefully put to bed in his own cottage, by his friend Captain Bluenose.
Chapter Twenty Two.
The Storm and the Wreck
Guy Foster, clad in a sou’-wester hat and oilskin coat, stood at the end of the pier of Ramsgate Harbour, with his sweet wife, Lucy, clinging to his arm, and a sturdy boy of about four years old, holding on with one hand to the skirts of his coat, and with the other grasping the sleeve of his silver-haired grandsire, Mr Burton.
It was night, and a bitter gale was blowing from the north-east, accompanied by occasional showers, of sleet. Crowds of seamen and others stood on the pier eagerly watching the lifeboat, which was being got ready to put off to sea.
“It is too cold for you, darling,” said Guy, as he felt Lucy’s arm tremble.
“Oh no! I should like to stay,” said Lucy, anxiously. Just then a tremendous wave burst on the massive stone pier, and a shower of spray fell upon the crowd. Lucy and her companions received a copious share of it.
“You are wet through, dear, and so is Charlie,” said Guy, remonstratively.
“Well, I will go home, but you must come with us, papa. Guy wants to remain, I know.”
The missionary gave his daughter his arm, and led her away, while Guy, pushing through the crowd, soon stood beside the lifeboat, the crew of which, already encased in their cork life-belts, were hastily taking their places.
“There goes another rocket,” cried one of those on the look-out; “it’s from the North-s’n’-Head light.”
“Look alive, lads,” cried the coxswain of the boat, more to relieve his feelings than to hurry the men, who were already doing their best.
The shrill note of a steam-whistle was heard at this moment, its piercing sound rising high above the shriek of the gale and the roaring of the sea. It was a signal from the steam-tug appointed to attend on the lifeboat, and told that steam was up and all ready to put to sea.
Put to sea on such a night! with the waves bursting in thunder on the shore, the foam seething like milk beneath, the wind shrieking like ten thousand fiends above, and the great billows lifting up their heads, as they came rolling in from the darkness of Erebus that lay incumbent on the raging sea beyond.
Ay, a landsman might have said “madness” with reason. Even a seaman might have said that without much apparent impropriety. But the boatmen of Ramsgate held a different opinion! The signal gun had been fired, the rocket had gone up, a wreck was known to be on the fatal Goodwin Sands, and they were as eager to face the storm as if encountering danger and facing death were pleasant pastime.
As the oars were about to be shipped, one of the crew stumbled, and struck his head so violently against the bollard, that he fell stunned into the bottom of the boat. Guy saw the accident as he stood on the edge of the pier. A sudden impulse seized him. At one bound he passed from the pier to the boat, which was already some half-dozen feet away, and took the seat and oar of the injured man. In the confusion and darkness, the others thought he was one of the supernumerary boatmen, and took no further notice of him. The boat was shoved back, the life-jacket was transferred to Guy, and the boatman was put ashore.
A few strokes brought the boat alongside the steam-tug.
“Heave the warp! make fast! all right, steam a-head!”
The whistle shrieked again, the warp tautened, and tug and lifeboat made for the mouth of the harbour. As they passed out an inspiring cheer was given by the crowd, and a rocket streamed up from the pier-head to signal the lightship that assistance was on the way.
The lifeboat which thus gallantly put off to the rescue in a storm so wild that no ordinary boat could have faced it for a moment without being swamped, was a celebrated one which had recently been invented and placed at this station—where it still lies, and may be recognised by its white sides and peculiar build.
Its history is interesting. In the year 1851 the Duke of Northumberland, then president of the Lifeboat Institution, offered a prize of 100 pounds for the best model of a lifeboat. The result was that 280 models and plans were sent to Somerset House for examination. The prize was awarded to Mr James Beeching, boat-builder at Great Yarmouth, who was ordered to construct a boat, after the pattern of his model, 36 feet long, with 12 oars.
The boat was built, and was found to be the most perfect of its kind that had ever been launched. It was the first self-righting boat ever constructed.
The three great points to be attained in the construction of a lifeboat are: buoyancy, the power of righting itself if upset, and the power of emptying itself if filled with water. Up to this date the lifeboats of the kingdom were possessed of only the first quality. They could not be sunk; that was all. Of course that was a great deal, but it was far from sufficient. Mr Beeching’s boat united all three qualities.
Its self-righting principle was effected by means of two raised air-cases, one at the stem, the other at the stern, and a heavy metal keel. When overturned, the boat attempted, as it were, to rest on its two elevated cases, but these, being buoyant, resisted this effort, and turned the boat over on its side; the action being further assisted by the heavy keel, which had a tendency to drag the bottom downwards. Thus the upper part of the boat was raised by one action, and the bottom part depressed by the other, the result being that the boat righted itself immediately. In fact, its remaining in an inverted position was an impossibility.
The self-emptying principle was accomplished by the introduction of six self-acting valves into the bottom of the boat, through which the water, when shipped, ran back into the sea! When we first heard of this we were puzzled, reader, as doubtless you are, for it occurred to us that any hole made in a boat’s bottom would inevitably let water in instead of out! The difficulty was cleared up when we saw the model. Beeching’s boat had a double floor, the upper one raised to a little above the level of the sea. The escapes were short metal pipes, the upper openings of which were fitted into holes in the upper floor. The lower ends passed through the bottom of the boat. The valves of the top opened downward, but could not be opened upwards, so that the rushing of the sea into the pipes from below was checked, but the rushing in of the sea from above pressed the valves open, and allowed the water to run out, in accordance with the well-known law that water must find its level. Thus, the upper floor being above the level of the sea, all the water ran out.
Boats on this principle, modified in some of the details by Mr Peake, of Her Majesty’s dockyard at Woolwich, are now adopted by the Lifeboat Institution. They right themselves in less than a minute, and free themselves of water in about the same time.
Besides the above advantages, Mr Beeching’s boat was fitted with the usual air-cases round the sides, and with a thick stripe of cork outside the gunwale; also with lines hanging over the sides in festoons, so that any one in the water, using them as stirrups, might get into the boat with ease. She was further provided with an anchor and cable; with strong but light lines attached to grappling irons at the bow and stern, which, when thrown into the rigging or upon a wreck, might fasten themselves to the ship and retain the boat without any other aid; also with a life-buoy, and a lantern for night work, besides numerous small articles.
This boat was purchased by the Harbour Commissioners of Ramsgate, and anchored close to the pier, in connexion with a powerful steam-tug (the fires of which were never allowed to die down), ready at any moment to fly to the rescue, on the signal of distress being given. This is the boat whose splendid deeds have so frequently of late drawn the attention and compelled the admiration of the whole country; and it was this boat that issued from Ramsgate harbour on the wild night referred to at the beginning of this chapter.
Both tide and wind were dead against them as they issued from the shelter of the pier and met the storm, but the steamer was very powerful; it buffeted the billows bravely, and gradually gained the neighbourhood of the Sands, where the breakers and cross seas beat so furiously that their noise, mingled with the blast, created a din which can only be described as a prolonged and hideous roar.
The night was extremely dark, and bitterly cold. Heavy seas continually burst over the steamer’s bulwarks, and swept her deck from stem to stern. The little lifeboat, far astern, was dragged by the strong hawser through a wild turmoil of water and spray. The men nestling under the gunwales clung to the thwarts and maintained their position, although sea after sea broke over them and well nigh washed them out.
At length they reached the light-ship; hailed her and were told that the wreck was on a high part of the shingles, bearing north-west from the light. Away they went in that direction, but, being unable to find her, made their way to the Prince’s light-ship, where they were told there was a large ship on the Girdler. Once more they steamed in the direction indicated, and soon discovered the wreck by the tar-barrels which she was burning. Just as they sighted her an enormous sea broke over the steamer with such violence as to stop her way for a moment, and cause her strong frame to quiver.
“Look out, lads!” cried the coxswain of the lifeboat, as the black water loomed up between them and the tug.
The men grasped the thwarts more firmly as a tremendous sea filled the boat to the gunwale. At this moment the checked steamer again leaped on her way; the stout hawser parted like a piece of twine, and the lifeboat was left behind. Hoisting the corner of its small sail they made for the wreck. No time was lost in bailing, as would have been the case with the boats of former years; a few seconds sufficed to empty her.
The wind was now blowing a complete hurricane with a terrific sea on, the horrors of which were increased by the darkness of the night, so that it was with the utmost difficulty they succeeded in getting alongside. The wreck was a coasting vessel with a crew of eighteen men. There were no women or children, so they were got into the boat without much loss of time, and safely conveyed to the tug which lay to for her little consort, about three-quarters of a mile off.
The lifeboat was again taken in tow, and they proceeded together towards Ramsgate, when another gun and signal-rocket recalled them to continue their arduous duties.
The sleet of a winter’s night beat furiously in the faces of these boatmen, as already much exhausted, they once again faced the storm. But the streaming rocket and the signal-gun seemed to infuse new life and vigour into their hardy frames. Out to sea they went again, and, having approached as near as they dared to the breakers, worked their way along the edge of the Sands, keeping a bright look-out for the vessel in distress. Up and down they cruised, but nothing could be seen of her.
At last, on the eastern side of the Sands, they descried a large ship looming against the dark sky.
“There she is!” shouted the coxswain.
The hawser was slipt, and the boat, detached from her bulky companion, pushed into the very vortex of the breakers.
To say that no other boat could have lived in such a sea, would convey but a faint notion of the powers of this boat. Any one of the deluging billows that again and again overwhelmed her would have swamped the best and largest boat that was ever launched, and, although the old lifeboats might have floated, they certainly could not have made much progress in such a sea, owing to the difficulty of getting rid of the water. But the Ramsgate boat was empty a few seconds after being filled. The men had to take no thought as to this, except to see to it that they should not be washed out of her.
On getting alongside, they found the wreck to be a very large ship. Its black hull towered high above them, and the great yards swayed with fearful violence over their heads. A single glance showed that she was crowded with men and women.
The grapnels were thrown, and Guy starting up, seized the immense boat-hook, used by lifeboats, and stood ready to hook on to the rigging. He succeeded in fixing the hook, but a violent lurch of the ship tore the handle out of his grasp and cast him into the bottom of the boat. Just then a man was seen to run out on the main-yard, and slip down by a rope close to the sea. The boat sheered up towards him, and several arms were stretched out to save; but the boat glided away and the succeeding wave engulfed him. Only for a second however. When it passed the man was still seen clinging to the rope; the boat once again sheered up so close that he was induced to let go his hold. He dropped into the sea close alongside, caught one of the life-lines, and next instant was in the boat.
“All right! Give me the boat-hook,” he cried, seizing the handle as he spoke, and affixing it with the strength of a giant to the chains of the ship.
The tone of this man’s voice thrilled to Guy’s heart. He sprang forward and seized him by the arm. One glance was sufficient.
“Bax!”
“Guy!”
There was no time for more. The astonishment of both was extreme, as may well be supposed, and that of Guy was much increased when he heard another familiar voice shout—
“All right, Bax?”
“All right, Tommy; let them look alive with the women and children; get up a light if you can.” There were others in the lifeboat who recognised these voices, but life and death were trembling in the balance at that moment; they dared not unbend their attention from the one main object for an instant.
Some one in the “Trident” (for it was indeed that ill-fated ship) seemed to have anticipated Bax’s wish. Just as he spoke, a torch made of tar and oakum was lighted, and revealed the crowded decks, the raging sea that sought to swallow them up, and the lifeboat surging violently alongside. It was an appalling scene: the shrieks of the women and children, mingled with the howling wind, the rush of the waves on the ship’s side, and the shouting of men, created a din so horrible that many a stout heart quailed. Fortunately the men who were the most active in the work of saving others were so taken up with what they were about, that there was no room for thought of personal danger.
The first human being placed in the boat was a little child. Its mother, despairing of being saved herself, pressed through the crowd, held her little one over the side, and cried out “Save my child!” Bax leaped on the air-chamber at the bow of the boat, and grasping the shoulder of a boatman with one hand, stretched out the other towards the child; but the boat swooped forward and brought him close under the chains, where a sailor held a woman suspended in his arm, ready to drop her into the boat when it should come close alongside. It did not, however, approach sufficiently near. The next wave carried them back, and enabled Bax to seize the child and lay it in a place of safety. The mother was soon beside it, and in a short time the boat was quite filled.
Bax then leaped into the mizzen-chains, the lifeboat pushed off, and conveyed her cargo to the steam-tug. They took off 25 women and children the first trip. The steamer then towed the boat into position, to enable her again to make straight for the wreck. By this means much valuable time was saved, and more trips were made than could have been accomplished in the time by any lifeboat without the aid of a steamer.
All the women and children, and some of the male passengers, had been safely conveyed to the tug, when an accident happened which well-nigh destroyed the boat. This was the sudden falling of the mainmast of the “Trident.” With a rending crash it fell on the boat, overturned it, and held it down, so that its self-righting principle was neutralised. The crew being secured against sinking by their life-jackets, succeeded in clambering into the ship—many of them more or less bruised and cut. The coxswain, however, did not appear; he seemed to have been lost.
“He’s under the boat!” gasped Guy, who having been entangled in the wreck of the mast was the last to get on board.
“Axes, men!” shouted the Captain of the “Trident.”
“A hundred pounds to the man who saves him!” cried a voice from the quarter-deck.
Who is this that is so liberal of his gold at a time when a hundred thousand pounds could not avail to save one hair of his own head? He clings to the mizzen-shrouds with a face so ashy pale that Guy Foster scarce recognises his own uncle! Ah! Denham, you have seen a storm and a wreck at last, in circumstances you little dreamed of when, years ago, Guy predicted that you would “change your mind” in regard to these matters; and it would seem that your experience has done you no little good!
But, although Mr Denham shouted his best, no one heard him. Not the less on that account, however, did the strong men wield their axes and hew asunder the tough ropes and spars. Bax, as usual, was prominent in action. He toiled as if for life; and so it was for life, though not his own. Small was the hope, yet it was enough to justify the toil. The curvature of the lifeboat was so great that it was possible a portion of air sufficient to maintain life might be confined within it. And so it turned out. For twenty minutes they toiled; the boat was finally cleared; Bax struck the blow that set it free, and dragged the coxswain out as it turned over. He was found to be alive though almost exhausted!
Once more they pushed off with a full load of human beings. Among them were Mr Denham, Bax, and Tommy Bogey. The greater part of the crew, and some of the male passengers, still remained in the wreck awaiting their turn.
When the boat had advanced about a hundred yards a cry of distress was heard, but the noise of wind and waves was so great that they thought it might have been mere imagination. Nevertheless, so much were they impressed, that the coxswain put about and returned towards the wreck. Too soon they discovered that it had been the death-cry of those who were left behind, for not a vestige of the “Trident” remained! The ill-fated vessel had been suddenly broken up and utterly swept away!
In their anxiety to save any who might yet survive, and be clinging to portions of the wreck, the boat cruised about for some time, and her captain was tempted to advance too far over the dangerous shoals. She struck suddenly with great violence, and remained fast on the sands. The utmost efforts were made to haul off, but in vain. The boat was hurled again and again on the ridges of sand;—passed over several of them, and became hopelessly entangled.
Those well-known ripples that one sees on the shore, are, on the Goodwin Sands, magnified from an inch to nearly three feet. Over these the boat now began to surge.
“Hoist the sail! up with it!” cried the coxswain as they suddenly passed into deeper water. Some of the men began to hope that they had crossed the shoals, but they were mistaken.
The order was obeyed, and the boat rushed forward wildly, with its lee gunwale buried deep in the sea; another moment and it struck again with tremendous violence. Those on board would have been torn out of her had they not clung to the seats with the energy of despair. It now became clear to all who knew the locality, that there was no alternative for them but to beat right across the Sands. The violence of the gale had increased. The night was pitchy dark, and the fearful shocks with which they struck the gigantic ripples on the banks, sent despair to the hearts of all, except the crew of the boat. These, knowing her capabilities, retained a vestige of hope.
Bax, being ignorant on this point, had given up all hope. He clung to the bollard, close beside the coxswain.
