CHAPTER IV.

THE GOODWIN SANDS.

About six miles off the east coast of Kent there is a sandbank known as the Goodwin Sands, extending for a distance of ten miles, between the North Foreland and the South Foreland. No part of our coast is so much dreaded by the mariner, and from early times it has been the scene of many terrible disasters. As Shakespeare says, it is "a very dangerous flat, and fatal, where the carcasses of many a tall ship lie buried."

It is said that the site of the Goodwin Sands was at one time occupied by a low fertile island, called Lomea, and here lived the famous Earl Godwin. After the Battle of Hastings, William the Conqueror took possession of these estates, and bestowed them, as was the custom in those days, upon the Abbey of St. Augustine at Canterbury. The abbot, however, seems to have had little regard for the property, and he used the funds with which it should have been maintained in building a steeple at Tenterden, an inland town near the south-west border of Kent. The wall, which defended the island from the sea, being thus allowed to fall into a state of decay, was unable to withstand the storm that, in 1099, burst over Northern Europe, and the waves rushed in and overwhelmed the island. This gave rise to the saying, "Tenterden steeple was the cause of the Goodwin Sands."

At high tide the whole of this dangerous shoal is covered by the sea to the depth of several feet; but at low water large stretches of sand are left hard and dry. At such a time it is perfectly safe for anyone to walk along this island desert for miles, and cricket is known to have been played in some places. Here and there the surface is broken by large hollows filled with water. Should the visitor, however, attempt to wade to the opposite side, he is glad to beat a hasty retreat, as he finds himself sinking with alarming rapidity into the sand, which the action of the water has rendered soft.

Between the Goodwins and the coast of Kent is the wide and secure roadstead called the Downs. Here, when easterly or south-easterly winds are blowing, ships may ride safely at anchor; but when a storm comes from the west, vessels are no longer secure, and frequently break from their moorings and become total wrecks on the sands. To warn mariners of their danger, four lightships are anchored on different parts of the sands. Each is provided with powerful lanterns, the light of which can be seen, in clear weather, ten miles off. During foggy weather, fog sirens are sounded and gongs are beaten to tell the sailor of his whereabouts. Notwithstanding all these precautions, the number of vessels stranded on the Goodwins every year is appalling; and but for the heroic efforts of the Kentish lifeboatmen, the loss of life would be still more terrible.

The work done by the boatmen all around our coast cannot be too highly estimated, but a special word of praise is due to the Ramsgate men. They have, without doubt, saved more lives than the men of any other port in the kingdom. Being stationed so near to the deadly Goodwins has given them greater opportunities for service, and they have also a steam tug in attendance on the lifeboat to tow her to the scene of disaster. So that, no matter what is the direction of the wind, they can always go out.

Recently, I went down to this "metropolis of the lifeboat service," for the express purpose of interviewing one of those warriors of the sea. The place was crowded with holiday-makers, and the harbour presented a busy scene. Four fine large yachts were getting their passengers on board for "a two-hours' sail." A yellow-painted tug was puffing to and fro, towing coasting vessels and luggers out of the harbour, and threatening to run down several small boats which repeatedly tried to cross her bows. At some distance from where I was standing lay the lifeboat _Bradford_, motionless and neglected, and looking strangely out of place in such smooth water. How the sight of the boat recalled to my mind all that I had ever read or heard of the perils of "those who go down to the sea in ships"--the storm, the wreck, the dark winter night, the midnight summons to man the lifeboat, the struggle for a place, the sufferings from cold, the happy return with the crew all saved,--these and other similar incidents seemed to pass before my eyes like a panorama--the centre object ever being the blue-painted _Bradford_.

"Have a boat this morning, sir?" said a thick muffled voice quite close to me. Turning round I saw a little, old man with a bronzed, weather-beaten face.

"Not this morning, thank you," I replied; "unless you will let me have the lifeboat for an hour or two."

He shook his head and turned away. Then it suddenly seemed to strike him that possibly I did not know the uses of the lifeboat, and would be none the worse if I received a little information on the subject.

"The lifeboat's not a pleasure boat, sir," he said, "and never goes out unless in cases of distress. I reckon if you went out in lifeboat weather once, you'd never want to go again."

"I suppose you have heavy seas here at times?" I remarked.

"Nobody that hasn't seen it has any idea of the water here, and the wind is strong enough to blow a man off his feet. Great waves come over the end of the pier, and carry everything, that's not lashed, into the sea. One day, a few winters ago, a perfect wall of water thundered down on the pier and twisted that big iron crane you see out there as if it had been made of wire. The water often comes down the chimneys of the watch-house at the end of the pier and puts out the fires; and every time the sea comes over, the whole building shakes, as if an earthquake was going on. What's worse almost than the sea is the terrible cold. Why, sir, I've seen this pier a mass of ice from end to end, and the masts and shrouds of the vessels moored alongside also covered with ice; so that a rope, which was no thicker than your finger, would look as big as a man's arm. As you know, sir, it's a hard frost that freezes salt water, and yet the lifeboat goes out in weather like that."

"It's a wonder to me," I said, "that under such circumstances the boat is manned."

"No difficulty in that, sir; there are always more men wanting to go out than there's room for. Now suppose a gun was fired at this minute from any of the lightships to tell us that assistance was needed you would see men running from every quarter, all eager for a place. I know how they would scramble across those boats, for I've seen them, and I've done it myself. Many a time have I jumped out of my warm bed in the middle of a winter night when a gun has fired, and rushed down to the harbour with my clothes under my arm; even then I've often been too late."

"What do you consider to be the best piece of service the _Bradford_ has done?" was my next question.

"The rescue of the survivors of the _Indian Chief_ in the beginning of 1881. The men were out for over twenty-four hours in a terrible sea and dreadful cold. I was, unfortunately, away piloting when they started, but returned in time to see them come in. Though I knew all the boatmen well, I could not recognise a single one, the cold had so altered their faces, and the salt water had made their hair as white as wool. I can never forget it. Fish, the coxswain, received a gold medal from the Institution. There was a song made about the rescue, and us Ramsgate boatmen used to sing it. When the coxswain gave up his post, about three years ago, he got a gold second service clasp, the first ever given by the Institution. In twenty-six years he was out in the lifeboat on service nearly four hundred times, and helped to save about nine hundred lives. That's the third _Bradford_ we've had here. The first was presented by the town of Bradford in Yorkshire, the sum for her equipment being collected in the Exchange there in an hour. That's how she got her name, and it's been kept up ever since.

"It's no joke, I can tell you," he continued, "being out in the lifeboat. In a ship you can walk about and do something to keep yourself warm, but in the boat you've got to sit still and hold on to the thwart if you don't want to be washed overboard. Like enough you get wet to the skin before you start, and each wave that breaks over the boat seems to freeze the very blood in your veins. Then, when you reach the wreck, it is low tide, and there you've got to wait till the water rises, for in some places the sands stand as high as seven feet out of the sea when the tide is down. Then, when the lifeboat gets alongside the wreck, every man requires to have his wits about him, watching for big waves, keeping clear of the wreckage, and getting the men on board. Many a time have I gone home, after being out for six or eight hours, and taken off my waterproof, and it has stood upright on the floor as if it had been made of tin. Perfectly true, sir, it was frozen. In a day or two we forget all about the hardships we have suffered, and are as ready as ever to go out when the summons comes. We never stop to ask whether the shipwrecked men are Germans, Frenchmen, or Italians. They must be saved, and we are the men to do it. We get used to the danger in time, and think very little about it."

We talked for some time longer about the treacherous nature of the Goodwin Sands, and he told me that vessels are sometimes swallowed up in a few days after they are wrecked, but occasionally they remain visible for a longer period. One large iron vessel, laden with grain, which went ashore nearly four years ago is still standing, and in calm weather the tops of her iron masts may be seen sticking out of the water.

My informant was now wanted to take charge of a party of ladies who were going out for a row, so I said "Good-bye," and came away deeply impressed with the simple heroism of the lifeboatmen, of whom this man is but a type.