Saved by the Lifeboat by the Lifeboat by R. M. Ballantyne (top ten ebook reader TXT) 📕
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- Author: the Lifeboat by R. M. Ballantyne
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A few days before the Swordfish was ready for sea, a new captain was sent down to her. This captain was not a “bad man” in the worst sense of that term—neither was he a “good” one. Vigour, courage, resolution when acting in accordance with his inclinations—these were among his characteristics. But he was a reckless man, in want of money, out of employment, and without an appreciable conscience. In the circumstances, he was glad to get anything to do, and had been so long ashore and “in trouble,” that he would probably have agreed to take command of and go to sea in a washing-tub if part paid beforehand for doing so.
Nevertheless, even this man (Captain Phelps by name) felt some degree of nervous anxiety on getting on board and examining the state of the ship. On further acquaintance with her, he was so dissatisfied that he also resolved to throw up his appointment. But he had obtained the berth through the influence of a friend who happened to be acquainted with Mr Webster. This “friend” wrote him a stern letter, saying, if he ventured to do as he proposed, he should never have a ship out of Liverpool again, as long as he (the friend?) could prevent it!
Captain Phelps was one of those angry men of iron mould, who appear to take pleasure in daring Fate to do her worst. On receipt of the letter, he swore with an awful oath that he would now go to sea in the Swordfish, even if he knew she would go to the bottom in twenty-four hours after weighing anchor. Accordingly, having intrenched himself behind a wall of moral adamant, he went about with quiet indifference, and let things take their course. He made no objection whatever when, in addition to the loading already in the ship, the agents added a deck cargo of some massive pieces of machinery, weighing thirty tons, and a supply of coals, the proper receptacle for which below had been filled with iron goods. Neither did he utter a word when—after the vessel had been taken out into the stream by the riggers—he and the owner, agents, pilot, and crew (only six of which last were A.B.’s), were taken off to her in a tug and put on board with orders to sail immediately.
Only a few passengers were going. These were already on board, but some of their friends went off in the tug to bid them a last farewell.
This was a sad scene, but the captain regarded it with stoical indifference. There was a stout, hale old Indian officer going out on a pleasure trip to his beloved East, and a daughter of the same whom he hoped to get married “offhand, comfortably there.” There was a sick nephew of the old officer, going the voyage for the benefit of his health, on whose wan countenance consumption, if not death, had evidently set a deep mark. There were, also, a nurse and a lady’s-maid, and two girls of ten or thirteen years of age—sisters—who were going to join their father and mother, besides one or two others. Earnest loving words passed kindly between these and their relatives and friends as the moment of parting drew near.
“Don’t forget to remember me to Coleman and the rest of ‘ours,’” cried a stout elderly man, waving his hand as the tug moved off.
“That I won’t, and I shall expect to shake you by the hand again, old fellow, in a year or two.”
“You’ll never see him again,” thought Captain Phelps, as he stood with compressed lip and frowning eye on the quarter-deck.
“Good-bye, darling Nelly,” cried a lady to one of the sobbing girls from whom she was parting; “remember the message to mamma.”
“Oh! yes,” exclaimed the child, trying to look bright, “and we won’t be very long of coming back again.”
“You’ll never come back again,” thought the captain, and he sighed very slightly as the thought passed through his brain.
“Look alive there, lads,” exclaimed the pilot, as the tug sheared away.
Soon the anchor was at the bows, the sails were shaken out, and the Swordfish began her voyage.
“There’s not a piece of spare rope aboard, sir,” said the first mate, coming up to the captain with a blank look; “we can’t even get enough to cat and fish the anchor.”
“You can unreeve the tops’l halyards,” replied the captain, quietly.
This was done, and the anchor was secured therewith.
“How much water in the hold?” asked the captain.
“Three feet, sir; the carpenter has just sounded. It seems that the riggers were at work on the pumps when we came out in the tug, but were stopped by the agents before we got alongside. I fear she is very leaky, sir,” said the mate.
“I know she is,” replied the captain; “keep the men at the pumps.”
That night the weather became what sailors call “dirty,” and next morning it was found that the water had mounted to 4 feet 10 inches. The pumps had become almost unworkable, being choked with sand, and it became evident that the voyage thus inauspiciously begun would very soon be ended. During the day the “dirty” weather became gale, so that, although the wind was fair, Captain Phelps determined to run to the nearest port for shelter. With a “good ship” this might have been done easily enough—many a vessel does it during every gale that visits our stormy shores—but the Swordfish was by this time getting water-logged and unmanageable. She drifted helplessly before the gale, and the heavy seas broke over her continually, sweeping away everything moveable. Another night passed, and next morning—Sunday—it became plain that she was settling down so the captain gave orders to get out the long-boat, and told the passengers to get ready. Day had broken some time before this, but the weather was still so thick that nothing could be seen.
“Take a cast of the lead,” said the captain.
“Ay, ay, sir,” was the prompt reply, but before the order could be obeyed, the roar of breakers was heard above the howling of the storm, and the shout, “Land on the port bow!” was instantly followed by “Down with the helm!” and other orders hurriedly given by the captain and hastily obeyed by the men. All too late! The ship was embayed. As if to make their position more painful, the mists cleared partially away, and revealed the green fields and cottages on shore, with the angry sea—an impassable caldron of boiling foam—between.
Another instant and the ship struck with a convulsive quiver from stem to stern. The billows flew madly over her, the main-mast went by the board—carrying two of the men to their doom along with it—and the Swordfish, “bound for Bombay,” was cast, a total wreck, upon the coast of Cornwall.
Fortunate is it for this land that those who war for evil and those who fight for good do so side by side; and well is it for poor humanity that the bane and the antidote grow together. The misanthrope sends his poisonous streams throughout the land, but the philanthropist erects his dams everywhere to stem the foul torrents and turn them aside. The Infidel plants unbelief with reckless hand far and wide, but the Christian scatters the “Word” broadcast over the land. The sordid shipowner strews the coast with wreck and murdered fellow-creatures; but, thank God, the righteous shipowner—along with other like-minded men—sends forth a fleet of lifeboats from almost every bay and cove along the shore to rob the deep of its prey, and rescue the perishing.
In the bay where the Swordfish was stranded there chanced to be a lifeboat. Most of her noble crew were, at the time the vessel struck, in chapel, probably engaged in singing the hymns of the great John Wesley, or listening to the preaching of the “old, old story” of the salvation of souls through faith in Jesus Christ. But there were bodies to be saved that day as well as souls, and the stout arms of the lifeboat crew were needed.
The cry was quickly raised, “A wreck in the bay!” The shout that naturally followed was, “The lifeboat!” A stalwart Cornish gentleman sprang from his pew to serve his Master in another field. He was the Honorary Local Secretary of the Lifeboat Institution—a man brimful of physical energy, and with courage and heart for every good work. No time was lost. Six powerful horses were procured so quickly that it seemed as if they had started ready harnessed into being. Willing hands dragged the lifeboat, mounted on its carriage, from its shed, the horses were attached, and a loud cheer arose as the huge craft was whirled along the road towards the bay. The scene of the wreck was a mile distant, and a large town had to be traversed on the way thither. Hundreds of worshippers were on the streets, returning home, with chastened thoughts and feelings perchance, from church and chapel. There was excitement, however, in their looks, for the echo of that cry, “The lifeboat!” had reached the ears of many, and eager inquiries were being made. Presently the lifeboat itself, with all its peculiar gear, came thundering through the town, rudely dispelling, for a few moments, the solemnity of the Sabbath day. Hundreds of men, women, and children followed in its train, and hundreds more joined at every turn of the main thoroughfare.
“A wreck in the bay!” “Crew in the rigging!” “Mainmast gone!” “She can’t hold long together in such a sea!” “We’ll be in time yet!” “Hurrah!”
Such were some of the exclamations heard on all sides as the rescuers dashed along, and the excited multitude irresistibly followed. Even females ventured to join the throng, and, holding shawls tightly round their heads and shoulders, went down on the exposed sands and faced the pelting storm.
In less than half an hour after the alarm was given, the lifeboat swept down to the beach, the horses, obedient to the rein, flew round, the boat’s bow was presented to the sea, and the carriage thrust as far into the surf as was possible. Then hundreds of willing hands seized the launching ropes, and the boat, with her crew already seated, and the oars out, sprang from her carriage into the hissing flood.
A tremendous billow met her. “Steady lads, give way!” cried the coxswain, on whose steering everything depended at the first plunge. The short oars cracked as the men strained every muscle, and shot the boat, not over, but right through the falling deluge. Of course it was filled, but the discharging tubes freed it in a few seconds, and the cheers of the spectators had scarce burst forth when she rushed out to meet the succeeding breaker. There was another breathless moment, when hundreds of men, eager to vent their surcharged breast in another cheer, could only gaze and gasp—then a roar, a world of falling foam, and the lifeboat was submerged. But the gallant coxswain met the shock straight as an arrow, cleft the billow, and leaped onward—irresistibly onward—over, through, and in the teeth of raging wind and waves, until they were fairly out and dancing on the chaotic ocean.
But, just before this took place, the captain of the Swordfish, ignorant of the fact that the lifeboat was hastening to the rescue, unfortunately took a fatal step. Believing that no boat would venture to put off in such a gale, he ordered the ship’s launch to be lowered. This was done, but it was immediately upset and stove against the side. Then the jollyboat was lowered, and nine men and the captain got into it. The old Indian officer, with his daughter and all the women and children, were also, with great difficulty, put on board of it.
Captain Phelps was cool and self-possessed in that hour of
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