Chapter IX: Part 9

On January 25 the next piece of work was begun--namely, the laying of a depot some hundred miles towards the south. Both ponies and dogs were used for this work, which took nearly a month--the Barrier ice was always dangerous--and both the outward and inward journeys were beset by bad weather, bad surfaces, hard work, disappointments and many dangers. Once, a party was lost, and found only after they had experienced much suffering.

It was not until April 13 that the depot laying party returned to the hut, minus some of their animals, which had succumbed to the rigours of the climate and the stiff work demanded of them. A few days later the long winter night set in, and the men had to confine themselves to winter quarters to wait until the coming of the sun before the main object of their voyage could be attempted. The ship had returned to New Zealand meanwhile.

The long winter months were filled up with scientific studies of the neighbourhood, and evenings were occasions for lantern lectures and discussions on all kinds of subjects, including those which concerned the expedition. There was plenty of work to do; things had to be prepared, as far as was possible then, for the final dash; the animals had to be looked after; and they were a source of trouble, because it was essential that they should be kept fit. A winter party was organised and sent to Cape Crozier, a journey that took them five weeks under “the hardest conditions on record.” It was well worth while, for many were the valuable observations made.

Always the scientific aspect of the expedition was kept in view; and when the sun returned a spring journey to the west was undertaken, Scott and his little party being absent thirteen days, 175 miles being covered in that time.

We now come to the great journey to the Pole--a journey of 800 miles. On October 24 the two motor-sledges were sent off, after a good deal of trouble, Evans and Day in charge of one, and Lashly of the other; they were the forerunners of the expedition to the Pole. On the 26th, Hut Point rang up to say that the motors were in trouble, and Scott and seven men went off to see what they could do. They came up with the motors about three miles from Hut Point, and found that various little things were causing trouble. Eventually, these difficulties were overcome, and the sledges started off again, and Scott and his party went back to Cape Evans to get ready for their own journey south.

“The future is in the lap of the gods; I can think of nothing left undone to deserve success.”

Thus wrote Captain Scott the night before he set out on his last great journey, and reading the remarkable journal which he left, one is forced to the conclusion that he was right; if ever man deserved success, if ever achievement with glory and safety should have been vouchsafed, it should have been to Scott; but the lap of the gods is often a sacrificial altar on which men lay down their lives for the sake of great ideals.

It was on November 1 that the Southern Party set out. It consisted of ten men, in charge of ten ponies drawing sledges, and two men leading the dogs which were to take the ponies’ places when the latter were done. Everything was favourable for the send-off, and the company arrived at Hut Point, the first stoppage place, quite safely. From there they pushed on again in three parties, the slowest starting first, and the others following at sufficient intervals for all to arrive at the end of the day’s stage at the same time. The motor party going on in front were putting up cairns for guidance, and Scott himself on the journey to One Ton Depot had placed landmarks to guide them. On the 4th Scott came across the wreck of the sledge worked by Captain Evans and Day--a cylinder had gone wrong, and the motor had had to be abandoned, the men going on with the other sledge. This was the first bit of ill-luck, but the days to come were to bring much more. The dash to One Ton Depot consisted of hard going over rough surfaces; there were blizzards, trouble with the ponies; snow walls had to be built to protect the animals at camp after a long and hard night’s toil, during which they had journeyed seldom more than ten miles. Night was chosen because it enabled them to escape the sun, which even in that latitude was sufficient to make them sweat as they forced their way over the terrible ground. They reached One Ton Depot at last, and then picked up the motor party, commanded by Evans, on November 21. The motorists had been waiting six days, unable to go any farther.

The little band now plunged forward again, meeting the same difficult surface, having the same trouble with the ponies, one of whom had to be shot on the 24th, the day on which the first supporting party, consisting of Day and Hooper, were sent back to the base. Two days later a depot was laid, Middle Barrier Depot, and on the 28th, when ninety miles from the Glacier, another pony was shot, and provided food for the dogs. Ninety miles were still to be covered, and there was only food for seven marches for the animals. It would be stiff going, for Scott was relying upon the ponies getting him to the foot of the Glacier.

Having laid another depot on December 1, thus lightening the load, and hoping to be able to make good progress, they were furiously opposed by the elements. On the 3rd, the 4th, and the 5th, blizzards blew down upon them, impeding them, making the work trebly difficult, and the last one holding them up for four days, during which food, precious food, and much-needed fuel were being consumed without any progress being made. Impatient, bitterly cold, with the animals getting worn out, Scott and his companions had to keep to their tents, eager to go on, but realising that to venture forth was to court disaster. Experienced Polar explorer though he was, Scott was at a loss to account for the character of the weather at this, the most favourable, only practicable, time of the year. It was disheartening, especially when they had to start on the rations that they had reckoned would not be needed until they reached the summit of the Glacier. But at last the blizzard blew itself out, and, stiff and cold, the party set out again, each day finding their ponies becoming weaker, until on the 9th, at Camp 31, named the Shambles, all these were shot.

Then it was a case of the dogs pulling the sledges, and on the 10th the explorers began the ascent of the Beardmore Glacier, the summit of which was thousands of feet above them. Meares and Atkinson left for the base on the 11th, and the reduced party trudged forward and upwards, now having to go down again to avoid some dangerous part, toiling manfully up the Glacier, in danger of falling into crevasses, sinking into soft snow, which made the surface so difficult that after trudging for hours and hours only four miles were covered when they had hoped to do ten or more. By the 22nd, when the next supporting party left, they had climbed 7,100 feet (the day before they had been up 8,000 feet) and then a heavy mist enshrouded them, and hung them up for some hours--when every minute was precious.

When they started on the 22nd there were but eight men, and these toiled on day after day, meeting all sorts of trouble, running all kinds of risks, but never stopping unless compelled, dropping a depot on the last day of the year, and sending back three men on the 4th. This left only Scott, Captain Oates, Petty Officer Evans, Dr. Wilson and Lieutenant Bowers to make the final dash to the Pole. They had over a month’s rations, which was considered ample to do the 150 miles that separated them from their goal.

The party now had the small ten-foot sledges, which were neat and compact, and much lighter than the twelve-foot sledges which were sent back. The dogs had now gone back, and all the pulling was done by the men. The difficulty of the surface made them leave their skis behind on the 7th, but later on that day the surface become so much easier that it was decided to go back for the skis, which delayed them nearly an hour and a half. They were now on the summit, and were held up by a blizzard which, though it delayed them, gave them the opportunity for a rest which they sadly needed, especially Evans, who had hurt his hand badly while attending to the sledges. On the 9th they were able to start again, now swinging out across the great Polar plateau. They cached more stores on the 10th, and found the lightening of the load very helpful. But even then, so hard was the pulling, that on the 11th, when only seventy-four miles from the Pole, Scott asked himself whether they could keep up the struggle for another seven days. Never had men worked so hard before at so monotonous a task; winds blew upon them, clouds worried them because they knew not what might come in their wake; snow was falling and covering the track behind them, sufficient to cause them some anxiety, for they wanted that track to lead them home again via their depots upon which safety depended.

The weather! Day by day the weather worried them; only that could baulk them in their purpose, and never men prayed so much for fine days as did these. The 16th found them still forcing their way onward, with lightened loads again, having left a depot on the previous day, consisting of four days’ food; and they knew that they were now only two good marches from the Pole. Considering they carried with them nine days’ rations, while just behind lay another four days’, they felt that all would be well if the weather would but keep clear for them.

The thing that now troubled these men who toiled so manfully against great odds was the thought that lurked in their minds that when they reached the Pole they might find that they had been forestalled. For they knew, everyone of them, that the Norwegian, Amundsen, was bent on achieving what they were hoping to do: on being first at the Pole. They knew, too, that things had been more favourable for him from the very outset; that he had been able to set out from a much better spot than they had. What if they attained the goal, only to find a foreign flag flying bravely in the breeze? The thought was maddening; but the Britishers were sportsmen. And when months before Scott had heard that Amundsen was in the South, instead of trying for the North Pole, as he had given out when he started, the gallant captain had made up his mind to act just as if he had no competitor.

Next day, the 16th, all their hopes were dashed to the ground. Away out across the white expanse there loomed a tiny black speck, and immediately Scott’s thoughts flew to Amundsen. Some of his companions said it was one thing, others another. As they pulled hard at their loads the five men debated amongst themselves, trying to cheer each other up, seeking to cast aside the horrible thought that would force its way into their minds.

And then, the black spot was reached. It was a black flag, tied to a sledge bearer. It was the sign that the Norwegians had won in the race.

All around were signs of a camp, which to the filmed eyes of the explorers were the tokens of their failure to be first.

“It is a terrible disappointment,” wrote Scott in his diary, “and I am very sorry for my loyal companions. Many thoughts come and much discussion have we had. To-morrow we must march on to the Pole, and then hasten home with the utmost speed we can compass. All the day dreams must go; it will be a wearisome return.”

And the next day the Pole was reached, and from out its solitude and austerity the great explorer cried:

“Great God! This is an awful place, and terrible enough for us to have laboured to it without the reward of priority....”

The great goal had been won; but the joy of achievement was dimmed; Amundsen’s records and tent were found there, the Norwegian flag had been hoisted and flaunted bravely in the wind. They had been forestalled by over a month.

Having fixed up their “poor slighted Union Jack,” as Scott called it, the explorers turned northwards again, and began to retrace their footsteps over the Polar plateau, which had cost them so much labour to cross, then down the great Glacier with ever worsening weather. The men themselves, who had been so fit coming out, were now beginning to show signs of their gigantic labours; perhaps now, when the day dreams were over, and hopes long deferred had been fulfilled and dashed to pieces at one moment, they were disheartened; there was not the spur of achievement before them. Evans and Oates began to show signs of weariness--those two strong men of the party. Evans had his nose and fingers frostbitten and suffered much agony. Then, while descending the Glacier, he tumbled on the Glacier, fell among rough ice which injured his head, and gave him a touch of concussion of the brain. Dr. Wilson injured his leg, and snow-blindness was causing him much trouble. All these things impeded the party, to whom time was everything; food depended on picking up the depots on the right days--perhaps hours; and when, as often happened, the track was not easily found, the anxiety of the explorers was considerably increased.

Then Evans grew worse; from being self-reliant, and the man on whom the party had been able to look for help in any circumstances, he became weak and wellnigh helpless; he lagged behind, and the party had to wait for him to catch up. On February 17 at the foot of the Glacier, after a terribly hard day’s work, Evans--poor man!--was so far behind when the party camped, that his comrades became anxious and went back for him. They found him. The limit of human endurance had been reached. “He was on his knees, with clothing disarranged, hands uncovered and frostbitten, and a wild look in his eyes.” They got him to the tent with great difficulty, and he died that night. Scott mourned his loss; and his journal is full of his praises of the petty officer who had been so indefatigable a worker and so adaptable a man, doing everything his inventive genius could think of to lighten the work for the explorers.

One day was now much like another to the four men left; they pushed on and on, picking up depots as they went, and suffering every day from the bitter cold, and feeling the effects of the hard work. On March 16, Captain Oates went out. Frostbitten hands and feet had made life burdensome for him, and he knew that he was a burden to the gallant men with him; without him, they could progress much quicker.

“Go on without me,” he had said, earlier in the day. “I’ll keep in my sleeping bag!” But they had prevailed upon him to keep on. Like a hero he forced himself to struggle on until they camped at night. When the morning came he awoke. Of him in those last moments Scott said: “He was a brave soul.... It was blowing a blizzard. He said: ‘I’m just going outside, and may be some time.’ He went out into the blizzard, and we have not seen him since.... We knew that poor Oates was walking to his death; but though we tried to dissuade him, we knew it was the act of a brave man and an English gentleman.”

He had sacrificed himself for the sake of the others. “Greater love hath no man than this.”

Reduced now to three men, the little party struggled on gamely, fighting against the weariness that was upon them, making with all haste for One Ton Depot. They had expected ere this to have met the dogs which were to come out to help them back, but misfortune had overtaken Cherry Garrard, who had been waiting at One Ton Depot for six days held up by a blizzard. He had not sufficient food for the dogs to enable him to go south, and he knew that the state of the weather might easily make him miss Scott, whereas to wait at the depot was to be on hand when Scott did turn up.

Now the dire peril of their position forced itself upon them; though they fought to drive the thoughts away, manfully cheering each other up, none of them believed that they would ever get through, and on March 18, when twenty-one miles from the depot, the wind compelled them to call a halt. Scott’s right foot was frostbitten; he suffered from indigestion; they had only a half fill of oil left and a small amount of spirit. It meant that when this was gone, they could have no more hot drink--which would bring the end.

Despite their sufferings they went on again, until on the 21st they were camped eleven miles from the depot, a blizzard raging round them, little food, no fuel, and knowing in their hearts that when the next day dawned they could not continue the journey perilous and laborious; the end was at hand.

Days before Scott and Bowers had made Dr. Wilson give them that which would enable them to put an end to their misery; but now to-night, when face to face with death, they resolved that they would die natural deaths; it should not be said of them that they shirked. Each morning until the 29th they got ready to start for the depot that was so near, with its food, its fuel, its warmth, its companions; and each day they found the blizzard howling about them, as effectual a barrier as if it had been a cast-iron wall.

“We shall stick it out to the end,” wrote Scott on the 29th, “but we are getting weaker, of course, and the end cannot be far.

“It seems a pity, but I do not think I can write more.

“For God’s sake look after our people!”

And so they died, these heroes and gentlemen; and through Scott’s last letters which were found with the dead bodies in the tent on November 10 there is but one thought running: the care of the people left behind and the praises of the men who had accompanied him. Never were such eulogiums written. “Gallant, noble gentlemen,” he called them, as death brooded over him; and throughout every line there was the spirit of cheeriness which takes life--and death--as becomes a hero who knows that failure was no fault of his own, that man can do no more than fight nobly against the forces arrayed against him.

STORIES OF THE LIFEBOAT

Noble Deeds of Brave Men

The bluff and hearty men, heroes every one, who live all around the coasts, ready to launch their lifeboats to go to the aid of shipwrecked mariners, have a bright page in the history of the sea. They are the saviours of those who go down to the sea in ships, and on every errand of mercy they literally take their lives in their hands, place themselves on the knees of the gods ready for sacrifice.

Sometimes the gods accept the sacrifice.

It happened so in the case of the Fethard lifeboat which, on February 20, 1914, pushed off to the assistance of the Norwegian schooner _Mexico_, wrecked on the rocky island of South Keeragh. The _Mexico_, losing her bearings when off the south coast of Ireland, was driven into Bannow Bay, missed stays when her crew tried to put her about, was caught by the fierce S.S.W. gale and the strong tide, and driven close to the South Keeragh Island.

On the mainland it was quickly observed that the _Mexico_ was in a dangerous position, and about 3 P.M. the lifeboat _Helen Blake_ shoved off to her assistance. The gallant lifeboatmen pulled their hardest, hoping to reach the spot in time to help the _Mexico_ before the howling wind and the strong tide had finished the work begun; but, though they tugged as they had never tugged before, they were too late. The _Mexico_ was picked up like an india-rubber ball and flung against the rock island. There was a grating sound as the hull crashed into the rocks; the ripping of her bottom seemed like a clap of thunder; and then the heavily laden ship, carrying tons of mahogany logs, bumped and bumped again upon the rocks, which held her fast.

The men in the lifeboat, now fifty yards away, held their breath for a moment as they saw the disaster; then on they went again, carried this time not of their own free will, but by the relentless elemental forces. A heavy breaker caught the boat, broke over her in a mighty volume of water, and filled her up to the thwarts.

“Let go the anchor!” was the cry; and instantly the anchor was flung overboard. But, before it could bring her up, three or four following seas, as though eager to ensure destruction, caught the boat, and with her freight of heroes, hurled her with a mighty crash against the rocks. She smashed to pieces as though she had been built of china.

Fourteen men she had carried; and in an instant fourteen men were struggling for dear life in the midst of a boiling sea. Pygmies fighting against the giant forces of Nature, children beating puny hands upon the leering face of death, striving to force the black angel back; such were these men who, seeking to save others, were in danger of losing themselves. And in the titanic struggle nine men were lost.

Five of them won. Buffeted against the rocks, clutching and loosing, they fought for handhold and foothold, and at last, scrambling over the slippery points, they managed to fight to safety.

Then, weary and half dead themselves, they thought of what they had come out to do. The _Mexico_ was still bumping dangerously upon the rocks, men clinging to rigging, or to anything near at hand, lest the waves wash them away, or the lurching of the ship pitch them overboard--to death. And those heroes, who had felt the wings of the Angel of Death brush against them as he passed by, began the task of saving the men on the _Mexico_.

How they did it they never realised; but they knew they worked hard, and one by one, by means of ropes, they brought eight men off the wrecked ship on to the island. It is but a bald statement of the fact that, but with untellable heroism, indomitable determination, and sublime indifference to death and danger behind it.

With no boats, no food or water except what the _Mexico_ men had managed to bring with them, and that all-insufficient, the thirteen men found themselves stranded on a barren island, with a raging tempest about them and no help in sight.

They passed the first night in shivering despair, huddling together to warm each other. Morning came, and brought no signs of succour, though during the night other lifeboatmen had sought to sally forth to their help, but had been beaten back by the anger of the gale.

The Wexford boat, _James Stevens_, and the Kilmore boat, _The Sisters_, had swept through the darkness towards them, their men fighting gallantly and the boats wrestling bravely with the waves and wind; but all to no avail. They had to put back, her mission unfulfilled.

Meanwhile, a message had been sent to the Chief Inspector of Lifeboats in London, Commander Thomas Holmes, R.N., who was dispatched immediately to take charge of the operations.

Presently the stranded men saw through the haze of the storm a black dot, tossing about on the bosom of the sea. It was the lifeboat _Fanny Harriet_, from Dunmore East, whose gallant crew were making an attempt to reach them. She fought bravely against the tumult, but was driven back again and again, until her crew, realising that it was hopeless to stay out any longer, reluctantly put back to harbour. Then once again, and yet again, the Kilmore boat plunged into the sea, followed by the Wexford boat, _James Stevens_. Yet all they could do was useless, and they were forced to return to shore. Father Neptune was winning.

When Commander Holmes arrived on the scene at 3 P.M. on the Sunday he found the _Fanny Harriet_ lying in harbour at Fethard, her men eating their heads off as they thought of their enforced idleness. Something about the commander brought back to these heroes the determination to succeed; and the boat was launched again, and fought her way towards the island. Once again, however, they were frustrated. The ground swell prevented them from getting anywhere near the island, and the stranded men wrung their hands as they saw her turn about. Hungry, thirsty, they looked forward to nothing but death. Already one of their number, a man from the _Mexico_, had succumbed to the exposure, and they saw in his fate the picture of their own, unless help came soon. They covered him up with some canvas and clods of earth.

To the imperilled men the night of Saturday, the 21st, had been a terrible one. The gale that swept them was the worst known on the south coast of Ireland for many years, and the lifeboatmen, who had passed through many terrors of the sea, knew that they stood little chance of being taken off. For the thirteen men there were but two small tins of preserved meat and a few limpets. On the schooner were provisions in plenty, but it was impossible to get into her to fetch them off; and, with food so near, they were face to face with hunger. Water, there was none; their drink consisted of a little brandy and half a pint of wine, which the _Mexico’s_ captain had managed to bring with him when leaving the vessel. The biting wind blew down upon them, cutting them to the bone; the spray flung up by the breaking waves drenched them, and they had no shelter from the pouring rain. Yet the Fethard men bore up bravely, encouraging the Norwegians and giving them hope, for they knew that no efforts would be spared to get them off.

As, one by one, they saw the lifeboats try to reach them, only to be beaten back, not all the cheering words of the Irishmen served to keep up the spirits of the foreigners; and in their own hearts the Fethard men realised the hopelessness of it all. They might stay there until death came; for succour, it seemed, could never come.

But in Fethard Commander Holmes was not idle. When the _Fanny Harriet_ came back on the Sunday evening, he telephoned to Wexford, informing the lifeboatmen that, on the Monday morning, another attempt would be made, and asking them to proceed to the scene on the chance that the weather would have moderated sufficiently to allow of something being done. Of course, the Wexford men said “Yes,” and, all being arranged, at six o’clock in the morning Holmes entered the _Fanny Harriet_. She carried a Dunmore East crew, and a Fethard man to pilot them, for the whole locality was strewn with hidden rocks and boulders. Fortunately, the gale had subsided somewhat, and the lifeboat was able to approach the vicinity of the wreck. Her men could see the stranded wretches, who waved at them frantically, urging them onwards.

But the ground swell breaking outside the remains of the _Mexico_ was still so heavy that it was necessary for the lifeboat to cruise round the island before a spot could be found whence it was possible to approach the shore. At last the boat was anchored in a fairly good position some hundred yards off the rocks; and the lifeboatmen immediately attempted to effect communication with the castaways. Rocket after rocket was fired, and eventually they succeeded in getting a stick-rocket ashore with a cod-line attached. By this means a strong line was hauled in by the men, and a small skiff which had been brought by the lifeboat was attached to the line, and veered successfully to within ten yards of the island. It seemed that rescue was really at hand, and the shivering, exhausted men brightened up. They would be saved!

Then their hopes were dashed to the ground. A heavy sea caught the skiff, a great wave broke upon her, filled her, and drove her with a crash against the rocks, which smashed her to pieces. But one ray of hope came to those men. A lifebuoy which was in the skiff was washed near to the shore, and a man plunged in, grasped it, and brought it ashore, and felt that all was not lost.

Commander Holmes hailed them, and sought to get them to trust themselves to the lifebuoy, which the rescuers would drag through the seas with its living burden. It was asking much, and all knew it. It meant casting oneself upon the mercy of a tumultuous sea, meant giving oneself up to the danger of being flung upon rocks and boulders, to be dashed to death. The stranded men looked at each other; no one spoke. Then one man, the desire of life surging through him, took up the buoy, to which the rope had been fastened, placed himself in it, and hurled himself into the water, to be pulled into the lifeboat--safe! Another man, seeing this, followed his example; but the others, worn out by their experiences, preferred to wait for some surer way to safety than that, and elected to stay on the island.

While this was going on, the Wexford boat arrived on the scene, having been towed out by her tug. It was now a quarter past eight in the morning, and she anchored close to the _Fanny Stevens_, but in a rather better position; and, to the rapture of the men on the island, she had brought with her a strong punt, which was more suitable for the work in hand than the skiff brought from Fethard.

Two men of the Wexford boat, heroes both of them, volunteered to work the punt. They were William Duggan and James Wickham. They got into her, veered her down, with a rope attached to her bows, from the _James Stevens_, and, after a fearful experience, seized the opportunity that a “smooth” offered, and got her close enough to the rocks to snatch two of the men. Then, with a heave-ho! they dragged them into the punt, which was at once hauled back to the lifeboat.

Then out again in the same way the two heroes went. But this time they were not fortunate enough to escape damage. A wave caught them, and, as though the punt had been a toy yacht, flung her upon the rocks, which she hit with a crash; and, when the retiring waves dragged her back, the two men found that she had a hole in her side. Resourceful, calm, they grabbed up a loaf of bread and some packing, and with this stopped up the hole that had threatened to send the boat to the bottom; and then struck out once more for the rocks. That time two more men were saved; and so the work went on, Duggan and Wickham getting to shore no less than five times, taking off two men at each attempt, until the whole party of weary and almost frozen men were brought to the lifeboat. Death had been in attendance all along; but they braved it. They stuck stubbornly to their self-appointed task, and they succeeded.

It took but little time for the tug to take the lifeboats in tow, and in due course the survivors of the tragic wreck were landed. The end had come to one of the most heroic episodes in the history of the lifeboat. Nay, not the end, for there was still the work of caring for those whom the death of the gallant men had left behind; and the Royal National Lifeboat Institution did all in its power to assist, while Their Majesties of Norway contributed to the fund opened, as also did the Storthing. And, later, the men who had worked so heroically, and had done so well, had their efforts recognised, though to them the greatest satisfaction was in knowing that they had wrought well, and had snatched precious lives from the greedy maw of the sea.

* * * * *

A still more recent instance of heroic endeavour on the part of the lifeboatmen was on the occasion of the wreck of the hospital ship _Rohilla_. She had been taken over by the Government for use as a hospital ship, and on Friday, October 30, 1914, when on her way to Dunkirk, she ran into a terrific E.S.E. gale. She had 229 people on board, including a medical staff and five nurses, bent on doing their best for the maimed heroes who had fought for country and honour on the battlefields of Belgium and France.

The official report of the Royal Lifeboat Institution, on which this story is founded, is a vivid and graphic description of a tremendous calamity.

It was soon after four o’clock in the morning that the _Rohilla_ encountered the storm, and, though her captain and crew did their very utmost, she ran on to a dangerous reef of rocks and lay at the mercy of a furious sea. Captain Neilson, who commanded, tried to get all the men to go forward, but those on the poop and aft could not cross the after part, over which giant seas were breaking. Pounded by mountainous waves, the _Rohilla_ quickly broke in halves, and many of those on the after part of the ship were washed away at once, and perished. As soon as she struck, signals of distress were made, and Coxswain Thomas Langlands was promptly called. The sea was far too heavy to do anything until daybreak, when the No. 2 Lifeboat, _John Fielden_, was hauled on skids under the Spa Ladder--a gangway from the East Pier at Whitby to the cliff--and along the rocky scaur to the scene of the wreck. This necessitated getting the boat over a sea-wall eight feet in height--a most formidable task.

In transporting the boat she was stove in in two places. She was, nevertheless, launched, and succeeded in reaching the wreck, which lay surrounded by a mass of rocks. Twelve men and five women were saved and brought ashore. The boat was then again launched, and, after a fearful struggle with terrific seas, got to the vessel and saved eighteen more, the heavy waves which swept through the ship or broke over her deck filling the lifeboat time after time. Unfortunately, the boat soon became unfit for further service, owing to repeated bumping on the rocks. Captain John Mil-burn, a member of the local committee, then sent for the Upgang lifeboat, which was, with great difficulty, transported to the vicinity of the wreck.

By means of ropes the boat was lowered down the almost precipitous cliffs, and preparations were made for her launch, but nothing could be done in the tremendous seas running. In the meantime the Teesmouth motor lifeboat and the lifeboat stationed at Scarborough had been called by telephone to the assistance of those still on the wreck.

Meanwhile, the Whitby coastguards were firing rockets in rapid succession, in the hope of getting lines to the ship; but only one was secured--and this was of no use to the shivering people who were on the bridge, which at any moment might give way.

The Scarborough lifeboat, _Queensbury_, in tow of the steam trawler _Morning Star_, started as soon as possible. It was quite dark when they arrived, and in the gale it was hopeless to establish communication with the wreck. Both craft, however, remained at hand through the night, and the endurance of the lifeboatmen was severely tested during their long vigil. At daybreak, finding that it was still impossible to get near the wreck, they returned to Scarborough.

In view of the tremendous seas making up the river at Teesmouth, it was decided not to dispatch the boat until daybreak next morning. This decision was conveyed to Whitby by telephone, and at 5 A.M. next morning the crew left Redcar for Teesmouth, accompanied by the Tees Commissioners’ tug. In crossing the bar the lifeboat encountered tremendous seas, and, as a result of falling into the trough of a mountainous wave, she sprang such a serious leak that she became disabled, and it became necessary for the tug to take the crew on board and tow the lifeboat back to Middlesbrough.

On Saturday morning the Upgang crew made a further attempt to rescue the survivors who were huddled together on one small portion of the wreck. For over an hour the crew struggled manfully to reach the wreck; but the sea and the strong current running between the “Nab” and the wreck was too strong for them, and eventually the men became totally exhausted, and had to give up their hopeless task.

When the unfortunate men on the wreck, who had held on so bravely throughout the night, saw the hope of being rescued diminishing, some of them jumped overboard and attempted to swim ashore, and a number of the onlookers, with heroic disregard for their own safety, rushed into the boiling surf and succeeded in dragging many to the shore.

The Whitby No. 1 Lifeboat, in tow of a steam trawler, also got within half a mile of the wreck, but the sea was too heavy for them to approach any nearer, and the boat reluctantly returned to harbour.

It now became apparent that only a motor lifeboat would be able to render effective help, and the Tynemouth motor lifeboat was summoned by telegram. On Saturday afternoon the gallant crew, under the command of Coxswain Robert Smith, and accompanied by Captain H. E. Burton, R.E., hon. superintendent of the motor lifeboat, started on their perilous journey. To reach Whitby they were obliged to travel a distance of forty-four miles through the night and storm, unaided by any coast lights, which were all extinguished on account of the war. Thanks, however, to Captain Burton’s intimate knowledge of the Yorkshire coast, their gallant exertions met with the success which they deserved, and at 1 A.M. on Sunday morning, November 1, the boat was skilfully brought into Whitby Harbour.

Four hours later, this boat, with Lieutenant Basil Hall, R.N., Inspector of Lifeboats for the Southern District, on board, and the Whitby second coxswain as pilot, left harbour for the wreck, a supply of oil being taken to subdue the waves.

The rescue of those who had survived the terrible ordeal for fifty hours is well described by the representative of the _Yorkshire Post_, who witnessed the scene, and from whose report we give the following extracts:

“The light was just rising over the sea at half-past six o’clock when the boat crept out of the harbour again, and breasted the breakers like a seabird as she headed straight out into calmer water. The lifeboat, looking fearfully small and frail, throbbed her way towards the wreck. Nearer and nearer she got; and then, when within 200 yards of the _Rohilla_, she turned seawards.”

She was burning flares, and from the shore a searchlight was playing upon the group of huddling people who had spent so many hours in darkness and the stress of storm.

“Presently, when she had passed a few fathoms beyond and away from the wreck, she stopped dead, and discharged over the boiling sea gallons and gallons of oil. It seemed that the ocean must laugh at these puny drops, yet the effect was remarkable; within a few seconds the oil spread over the surface of the water, and the waves appeared suddenly to be flattened down as by a miracle. In the meantime the lifeboat turned about, raced at full speed past the stern of the wreck, and then turned directly towards the shore. The most dangerous moment came when she was inside the surf and broadside on to the waves; but, guided with splendid skill and courage, she moved forward steadily, and a cheer of relief went out from the shore when she reached the lee of the wreck, immediately beneath the crowded bridge.

“But there was not a moment to be lost, for already the effects of the oil were beginning to pass off, and the waves were noticeably higher. Quicker than thought a rope was let down to the lifeboat, and immediately figures could be discerned scrambling down into the boat. In less than a quarter of an hour more than forty men had been rescued. While the rest were preparing to leave the wreck, two enormous waves swept over the wreck and enveloped the lifeboat. Each time the tough little craft disappeared for a moment, reappeared, tottered, and righted herself gamely. Indeed, not a man was lost, not a splinter broken. Closer still she hugged the vessel’s side, till every man aboard--fifty of them in all--had been hauled into the rescuing boat.

“The last man to leave his lost ship was the captain, and as he slipped into the lifeboat the crew of the latter gave a rousing cheer that was echoed again and again by the people ashore.”

Even now the lifeboat had not finished its work; there was danger ahead. Great heads reared at her; a tremendous sea swamped down upon her, and she nearly capsized; but, shaking herself free, she laboured away, making fair progress. Then another huge wave rose at her, threatened her with destruction, was met boldly. Struck broadside on, the lifeboat was almost on her beam-ends. Watchers on the shore held their breath. Would she withstand the shock? She did, and swept gallantly forward, and at last reached the harbour mouth.

What cheers went up then! Men on shore cheered the gallant rescuers, who cheered back, while the rescued men in the boat joined their voices with the others. Then the boat came to the quay, and men ran down the steps to help the saved ashore, where they were soon taken to shelter, after having passed through a terrible experience.

TALES OF THE SMUGGLERS

Stories of Smugglers’ Ways and Smuggling Days have always had a Fascination

Anything more adventurous than the lives of the old smugglers would be hard to find. Nowadays a man seeks to get prohibited goods into the country by using false bottoms to his trunks, or swathing his legs in bandages of rich lace; and maybe a woman smuggler cuddles to her bosom a “baby” of most wonderful make-up--laces, tobacco, scent! But there is little of the adventurous about that smuggling to-day, and we have to hark back to the days when men literally took their lives in their hands in the effort to outwit the Government and to avoid paying the taxes.

The strangest thing about smuggling is that all classes of people were engaged in it--sailors, soldiers, fishermen, justices of the peace, and even clergymen! When a village depended almost entirely for its trade upon the illicit running of goods, perhaps it is not to be wondered at that the parson had his sympathies with his parishioners.

A good instance of this is to be found in the story of the smugglers of Morwenstowe, Cornwall. A visitor from an inland town, strolling along the beach, stumbled upon the scene of a “landing” one evening. The ship lying in the offing, the boats hurrying to the beach laden with kegs of brandy, the people lining the shore, waiting to roll the kegs away to safety, soon made him realise what was afoot; and, being honest, he was staggered. And being also very temperate, he was shocked to see men knocking in the heads of kegs and taking their fill of brandy, and becoming so far intoxicated as to quarrel amongst themselves.

“What a horrible sight! Have you no shame?” he cried, addressing the crowd in general. “Is there no magistrate at hand? Cannot any justice of the peace be found in this fearful country?”

“No, thanks be to God!” came the answer from somewhere amongst the busy crowd. “None within eight miles.”

“Well, then,” exclaimed the visitor, “is there no clergyman hereabout? Does no minister of the parish live among you?”

“Aye, to be sure there is,” was the reply.

“Well, how far off does he live? Where is he?” asked the virtuous gentleman, who next moment received another shock.

“There! That’s he, sir--yonder with the lanthorn,” was the answer that came to him; and looking in the direction indicated, he saw a venerable-looking man, in his parson’s clothes, holding the light while his parishioners worked at robbing the State!

When smuggling began it would be hard to say, except that one would be safe in supposing that as soon as a thing was taxed attempts were made to slip it into the country untaxed. As, however, it is not intended here to try to outline the history of smuggling, we need not worry about that, but content ourselves with picking out here and there some of the choice passages from the history.

Something historical, however, must be allowed to intrude, because it had a great bearing upon smuggling; and that is, that prior to 1816 there were no systematic attempts made to prevent the illicit importation of taxed goods. True, the Government had excise men and revenue cutters on guard; but they were all too few, owing chiefly to the fact that the great wars of the eighteenth century took up most of the men, while the general slackness tended to make it fairly easy for the “free trader,” as he was called, to slip into some cove and unload his illegal cargo. Sometimes, indeed, the revenue men themselves had lapses and “ran” goods in on their own account! In 1816, however, following the conclusion of the great peace, the Government instituted a regular system of smuggling prevention. Kent and Sussex having been the favourite playground of the smugglers, the coasts of these two counties were blockaded. A man-o’-war, the _Hyperion_, was stationed at Newhaven, in Sussex, and the _Ramilles_ in the Downs, off Kent; and the martello towers which had been erected along the coasts against the coming of Napoleon’s armies were used to house their crews. To all intents and purposes these sailors were the first coastguards, and in due course the system of blockading was carried out all round the coasts of Britain, chiefly by means of the revenue men and cutters. On these the Government drew, and duly formed the “Preventive Water Guard,” whose crews were stationed at certain spots along the coasts to keep watch and ward day and night.

It is true that at the end of the seventeenth century there were Riding Officers, whose work was to patrol the south-east coast on the look-out against wood smugglers. But as there were only about three hundred of them, and these all civilians, they were by no means an effective check to the smugglers. Later on they were permitted the assistance of the dragoons, who naturally resented being placed under the direction of civilians, with the result that there was much friction, and the service, instead of being improved, suffered a great deal, the soldiery incidentally finding it a paying game to keep in with the smugglers.

In 1822 changes were made, and the civilian riding officers disappeared and their places were taken by men from the cavalry regiments, and at the same time the Board of Customs was given sole control of the preventive services, which then consisted, as we have seen, of the revenue cutters, Preventive Water Guard, and Riding Officers. Seven years later something more was done--the coastguard proper was born. No man was eligible for the service unless he was between twenty and thirty years of age and had served six years at sea or seven years’ apprenticeship in fishing-boats. The new force justified its creation, and in a few years took charge of the work that had been done by the revenue men who had been detailed for the blockade system along the east and south coasts; and then, later, the revenue men were made liable to service on board the men-o’-war; so that to-day the coastguard force is a part of the Royal Navy, and has even had its taste of active service, having been found of immense use, for instance, in the Crimean War.

So much for the dry bones of history as seen in the development of the coastguard force, which is bound up with the story of smuggling, from which we will now cull some instances.

The smuggler was honest--in some ways. For instance, away back in the latter half of the eighteenth century there lived a man who, named John Carter, received the sobriquet “The King of Prussia.” Carter’s home was at Porth Leah, in Mount’s Bay, that wonderful place in Cornwall. To Porth Leah was later given the name of Prussia Cove, in honour of the “honest smuggler,” who did things so thoroughly that he erected a battery with which to keep the revenue cutters at bay, cut a road by which he could transport his cargoes from the harbour--which he also built; and out of the many caves along the coast fashioned cellars in which to store his goods. In fact, Porth Leah was what one might call a smugglers’ community.

The “King of Prussia” had a regular trade with regular customers, to whom he would, like any other trader, make definite promises of delivery; and, being a stickler for good business, he never let anything stand in the way of his carrying out his contracts. One day, while he was away, the excise officers found a cargo just arrived at Porth Leah from France. They promptly seized the cargo and carried it off to Penzance, and put it in the Custom House store under guard. Thus it was that Carter, coming back, found his cargo gone--and he had promised to deliver it to his customers on a certain day.

“See here!” he exclaimed to his men. “Whaat be I to do? I be an honest maan, and must keeap me woord. I tell ’ee, men, we be gwine to d’liver they goods ’cordin’ to pledge!”

His men knew that when Carter felt that his reputation as an honest man was at stake he would take strong measures, and got themselves ready against the coming of night. In due course they embarked on their ship, and, armed to the teeth, as becomes men going on a perilous errand, sailed across to Penzance. Arrived here, they fell upon the few Customs officers left in charge, and before they knew what had happened the latter were prisoners and the smugglers were rifling the stores, seeking their confiscated cargo. Not a thing did Carter or his men take away that wasn’t their own. They weren’t out thieving! Away they went with their cargo to Porth Leah, where they quickly stowed it in their cave-cellars, ready to ship again when the time came for Carter to deliver his goods as per contract!

Thus, while saving his reputation the King of Prussia added to it, for when, the next morning, the revenue officers came to the Custom House and found what had happened, they soon made up their minds who had been at work:

“It was Jack Carter,” they said. “He always was honest, and took nothing that wasn’t his own.”

The romantic stories of smugglers abound in incidents connected with the caves they used for hiding their illicit cargoes. All along the coasts may be seen these galleried caves, and if you can get hold of the oldest inhabitant, he will tell you tales of wonder and danger. One oldest inhabitant of a Dorset village told me such a story once.