Battles with the Sea | Page 5

was dashed to pieces.
Meanwhile the crew of the Cora managed to swing themselves ashore,
their vessel being close to the pier. The crew of the Lucern, acting on
the advice of the brigade men, succeeded in scrambling on board the
Cora and were hauled ashore on the life-lines. They had not been ten
minutes out of their vessel when she turned over with her decks
towards the terrible sea, which literally tore her asunder, and pitched
her up, stem on end, as if she had been a toy. The crew of the Maghee

were in like manner hauled on to the pier, with the exception of one lad
from Canterbury. It was the poor boy's first voyage. Little did he think
probably, while dreaming of the adventures of a sailor's career, what a
terrible fate awaited him. He was apparently paralysed with fear, and
could not spring after his comrades to the pier, but took to the rigging.
He had scarcely done so when the vessel heeled over, and he was
swung two or three times backwards and forwards with the motion of
the masts.
It is impossible to imagine the feelings of the brave men on the pier,
who would so gladly have risked their lives to save him--he was so
near, and yet so hopelessly beyond the reach of human aid!
In a very brief space of time the waves did their work--ship and boy
were swallowed up together.
While these events were enacting on the pier the Mary Mac had drifted
over the sand about half a mile from where she had struck. One of her
crew threw a leadline towards a seaman on the shore. The hero plunged
into the surf and caught it. The rest of the work was easy. By means of
the line the men of the Life Brigade sent off their hawser, and
breeches-buoy or cradle (which apparatus I shall hereafter explain), and
drew the crew in safety to the land.
That same morning a Whitby brig struck on the sands. The lifeboat
Pomfret, belonging to the Royal National Lifeboat Institution, put out
and rescued her crew. In the morning the shores were strewn with
wreckage, and amongst it was found the body of the boy belonging to
the Mary Mac.
All these disasters were caused by the masters of the vessels mistaking
the south for the north pier, in consequence of having lost sight of
Tynemouth light in the blinding showers.
Of course many lifeboats were out doing good service on the night to
which I have referred, but I pass all that by at present. The next chapter
will carry you, good reader, into the midst of a pitched battle.

CHAPTER TWO.
DESCRIBES A TREMENDOUS BATTLE AND A GLORIOUS
VICTORY.
Before following our brilliant lifeboat--this gaudy, butterfly-like thing
of red, white, and blue--to the field of battle, let me observe that the
boats of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution have several
characteristic qualities, to which reference shall be made hereafter, and
that they are of various sizes. [A full and graphic account of the Royal
National Lifeboat Institution--its boats, its work, and its
achievements--may be found in an interesting volume by its late
secretary, Richard Lewis, Esquire, entitled History of the Lifeboat and
its Work--published by Macmillan and Company.]
One of the largest size is that of Ramsgate. This may be styled a
privileged boat, for it has a steam-tug to wait upon it named the Aid.
Day and night the Aid has her fires "banked up" to keep her boilers
simmering, so that when the emergency arises, a vigorous thrust of her
giant poker brings them quickly to the boiling point, and she is ready to
take her lifeboat in tow and tug her out to the famed and fatal Goodwin
Sands, which lie about four miles off the coast--opposite to Ramsgate.
I draw attention to this boat, first because she is exceptionally situated
with regard to frequency of call, the means of going promptly into
action, and success in her work. Her sister-lifeboats of Broadstairs and
Margate may, indeed, be as often called to act, but they lack the
attendant steamer, and sometimes, despite the skill and courage of their
crews, find it impossible to get out in the teeth of a tempest with only
sail and oar to aid them.
Early in December, 1863, an emigrant ship set sail for the Antipodes;
she was the Fusilier, of London. It was her last voyage, and fated to be
very short. The shores of Old England were still in sight, the eyes of
those who sought to "better their circumstances" in Australia were yet
wet, and their hearts still full with the grief of parting from loved ones
at home, when one of the most furious storms of the season