CHAPTER XXI.

SKETCHES OF OUR SOUTH COASTS.

Southampton: its Antiquity—Extensive Commerce—Great Port for Leading Steamship Lines—Vagaries of a Runaway Steamer—The Isle of Wight—Terrible Loss of the _Eurydice_—Finding of the Court‐ martial—Raising Her from the Bottom—“London by the Seaside”—Newhaven and Seaford—Beachy Head—An Attempt to Scale it—A Wreck there—Knowledge Useful on an Emergency—Saved by Samphire—The Coast‐guard: Past and Present—Their Comparatively Pleasant Lot To‐ day—The Coast‐guard in the Smuggler Days—Sympathies of the Country against them.

Southampton, one of the most important towns in the South of England, is a place of great antiquity, having been in existence prior to the Conquest, while many Roman remains are to be found in its neighbourhood. What schoolboy is not familiar with the story of King Canute and his courtiers, who flattered their royal master that even the winds and waves would do his bidding? The Danish monarch was made of too stern material to believe such nonsense; and to convince his fawning courtiers that he did not possess attributes which belong to the Creator alone, he is said to have seated himself by the seaside, and in a loud voice commanded the waves to stay. But the fleecy billows obeyed him not, and in due course reached the feet of the king and his obsequious court. The spot upon which this memorable circumstance occurred is still pointed out in the neighbourhood of Southampton.

Nearly surrounding the town remains of the ancient buttresses and towers of the wall which once environed it are still to be seen; while on the western shore the old Water‐gate, from which the merchants embarked, still exists. In the old Domesday Book it is described as an important burgh. Southampton grew in importance at the time of the Crusades, when thousands of troops and crusaders and mailed knights embarked thence, or, weather‐ bound, remained encamped in the place. It soon became a great port of call for Flemish and other merchant‐traders.

Southampton has great natural advantages for communication with the sea. The town is situated on a swelling point of land, bounded by the confluences of the rivers Test and Itchen, and communicating with the Solent and English Channel by the fine arm of the sea known as Southampton Water, surrounded by charming scenery, and navigable for the largest steamers. At its mouth is Calshot Castle, a coastguard station at the water’s edge, while half‐way between that point and the town are the picturesque ruins of Netley Abbey. It has a tidal dock covering sixteen acres, and several graving and other docks. Consequently, it is the point of departure for the fine vessels of the Peninsular and Oriental line, the Royal Mail (West Indies and Central America), the North German Lloyds’, Hamburgh, and Havre steamships for New York, and the Union Line for African ports, besides an infinity of smaller steamships and steamboats for Havre, the Channel Islands, and the Isle of Wight. Its inhabitants consider it the Liverpool of the South; and even if this is rather an exaggerated view of the case, it has undoubtedly grown to be one of the principal ports of the kingdom. It ranks fifth in the list.(56)

And now for the story of a steamboat which attempted to run away from Southampton on her own account. This strange circumstance occurred some few years ago, and might well have been attended with disastrous results. The steam‐tug _Belmont_ was towing out to sea the _Walton Hood_, a passenger vessel bound for Australia, and after taking her down to the Channel, the sails were set on the ship, and the _Belmont_ proceeded to cast her off, previous to returning to Southampton. In doing so, by some unexplained cause the ship collided with the tug, striking her with a violent crash, which knocked over her mast and funnel, and threw her upon her side. The shock also had the effect of increasing the activity of the crew, who, one and all, leaped on board the _Walton Hood_, leaving their steamer in charge of a dog and two cats. The steam of the _Belmont_ was up, and after a succession of plunges and croakings she righted, and cleared the ship. Tearing away her bulwarks, she took a sweep round and made a bolt for the land. Her fate now appeared inevitable, whilst her strange manœuvres made her look like an insane vessel, rushing wildly from some pursuer. Her mast and funnel hung over the side, her bulwarks were smashed, and the long tiller was dashing wildly to and fro; the dog on board was barking, howling, and yelling fiercely, rendering the scene both ludicrous and serious. Something evidently had to be done to save her. The captain and crew, having recovered their composure, obtained a boat from the ship and started in pursuit. “Pull away, my boys; give it her!” was the quick command. “Aye, aye, sir!” was the ready response, and the tough oars bent to the stalwart efforts of the oarsmen. The boat sped onward in the chase, but ere this the steam‐tug had on her own account altered her coarse, and by some cause or other came round, and made again for the point whence she had started. Having described a complete circle, she again started off on a voyage _en zigzag_, and then made direct for Calshot lighthouse. Here the men on the look‐out descried her position, and having launched and manned their own boat, also started in pursuit. The race now became truly exciting, the course of the steam‐tug being utterly uncertain and irresponsible, according as her helm shifted to and fro at the sport of the waters of the Channel. By this time, however, she had run some distance, and at length her speed gradually diminished, her steam giving out, when her paddles stopped from sheer exhaustion. The crew from the lighthouse were the first to board her, and her own crew coming up about twenty minutes after, she was at length got into working order, and brought safely into dock. It appears that the crew had some justification for leaving her, the vessel leaking seriously, and being in imminent peril of going down.

From Southampton Water to the beautiful Isle of Wight is a natural transition. To fully describe its coasts and fishing‐villages and watering‐places, and other points of interest, would occupy a large volume. Cowes and Ryde, with their regattas and generally festive look; Osborne, with its royal residence; Shanklin and Blackgang “Chines”; Ventnor and Niton; Alum Bay and “the Needles,” will be familiar to the larger number of our readers. Inseparably connected with the gay little island must ever be remembered an event which cast a gloom not merely over the households of hundreds of direct sufferers, but over the length and breadth of the entire land. Need it be said that we refer to the terrible loss of that fine training‐ship the _Eurydice_, with its living freight of three hundred young and promising sailor lads, in sight of land and home, and just as they were nearing, after long foreign service, the haven of their hopes.

“For there came down a squall, and the snow swept the wave Like a white winding‐sheet for the brave man’s lone grave; And with scarce time to glance a farewell at the sky, The three hundred went down without e’en a cry.”

On the morning of March 25th, 1878, the country awoke to one of the most painful and unlooked‐for catastrophes that have befallen the navy during the present century—that of the _Captain_ hardly excepted, for certain doubts had always been felt as to how the bulky ironclad would behave in a heavy gale. “One of the finest corvettes of her class that ever floated,” said a competent authority, “commanded by a captain and officered by men of the highest professional experience, and with a crew young, but sufficiently trained, and numerous enough in nautical parlance to have ‘torn her to pieces’, capsizes, with the loss of every soul on board her but two. Such a calamity, taken in all its bearings and with such a loss of life, is unparalleled in the modern history of the navy. It is true that about forty years ago a man‐of‐war schooner (the _Pincher_), very much over‐masted, was, off the ‘Owers,’ not very far from the same spot, capsized in a heavy squall, and all her hands were lost, although she was in company with a corvette at the time. But the _Eurydice_ was not over‐ masted, and she went down in broad daylight and in smooth water. Yet where is the officer or the man—let him be the best seaman in the world—who can say, ‘Such would not have been the _Eurydice’s_ fate had I commanded her?’ The fact is, the disaster, truly lamentable as it is, might have happened to any seaman. With a fair wind, smooth water, and within a short distance of her anchorage, running along too close under the high land of the Isle of Wight to notice the hurricane‐like squall rushing down upon her in time to prepare for it, the ship was literally forced under water, the accumulating weight of which eventually capsized her beyond recovery. Adverse comments have been made on the ports being open; but with a fair wind, smooth water, and Spithead close by, what danger could possibly be apparent, to cause them to be closed after a sea‐voyage so nearly ended? Had the _Eurydice_ met with the same squall at sea she would have weathered it.”(57)

The court‐martial which assembled on the 27th of August, 1878, on board the _Duke of Wellington_ flagship, under the presidency of Admiral Fanshawe, C.B., Commander‐in‐Chief at Portsmouth, reported that the ship had foundered from pressure of wind upon her sails during a sudden and exceptionally dense snowstorm, which overtook her when its approach was partially hidden by the proximity of the ship to high land. “Some of the upper half‐ports on the main‐deck were open at the time, which materially conduced to the catastrophe; but the court considers that the upper half‐ ports having been open was justifiable and usual under the state of the wind and weather up to the time of the actual occurrence of the storm.” The finding of the court‐martial mentioned the fact that the captain was frequently on deck during the afternoon; and attributed blame to no one on board. It considered the ship, which had had ten years’ sea service, to have been thoroughly stable. A large number of other authorities, however, thought very differently—that she was top‐heavy, and that she was undoubtedly carrying too much sail.

After exactly twenty‐three weeks from the day of her foundering the _Eurydice_ was, on Sunday, the 1st of September, safely towed into Portsmouth harbour. “As an example of perseverance and determination to succeed, the recovery of the ship is unique. The elements, which throughout the operations may truly be said to have fought against the efforts to float her being successful, made a final attempt to render those endeavours abortive on the Thursday night and Friday morning, with such effect that the Admiralty deemed it inexpedient that further attempts should be made, and had even gone to the extent of ordering her to be taken to pieces where she lay. Rear‐Admiral Foley, and those who had so ably and perseveringly worked with him, were, however, reluctant to abandon the attempt to recover the ship, and he pledged himself that he would undertake to bring her into harbour. This pledge was redeemed.”(58) The divers throughout the operations could work only at slack tides and in very fine weather, the under‐currents on the Isle of Wight coast being exceptionally strong.

The _Eurydice_ lay at first in seven fathoms and a half (forty‐five feet) of water, and to this must be added eight or nine feet of mud into which the wreck was embedded. Strong wire ropes were attached to the inner sides of the ports; the other ends of the ropes were made fast to the four floating hulls placed over and across the _Eurydice_, and when everything was ready and the tide at its lowest ebb, the process of pinning down was commenced—that is, the ropes were hauled “taut,” and made fast to the lifting vessels, so that as the tide gradually rose to its highest point the whole mass of lighters with the sunken vessel lifted as well. Then it was that the steam‐tugs took up their positions, and towed the ill‐fated craft towards shallower water, till she was left on a bank under the Culver cliff, with one side and her upper deck above the water at low tide. Even yet the efforts to float her were interfered with. Frequently all would be ready for lifting, when the sea would roughen, and everything have to be abandoned, the lighters returning to Portsmouth. It was raised partially in August, 1878, after four months’ continuous labour. After lying for a few days under the Culver cliff, the _Eurydice_ was again sufficiently lifted to clear the bottom, and towed together with the lifting vessels to St. Helen’s Sands. When lifted finally, and towed to Portsmouth by the _Grinder_, she had two tugs on her port side and one on her starboard, with their steam‐pumps working, and constantly pumping her hold.

Brighton—“London by the Sea‐side” as it is often styled—is to many one of the most fascinating of the English watering‐places. It is both popular and fashionable, the resort alike of the masses and of the “upper ten.” Its position on the sea is charming, while at an easy distance are any number of pleasant sea‐coast and inland resorts. It has sprung up from a little fishing‐village to a town of at least 120,000 souls. One feature of the place is the solidity and elegance of its public and private buildings, while its streets are the best kept in the whole kingdom. It extends, with its suburbs Kemp Town and Cliftonville, for _four miles_ along the coast, and is in great part defended by a sea‐wall. The celebrated chain‐pier is 1,130 feet in length; while its Aquarium, already described in the proper place, is the finest in the world.

The climate of Brighton is temperate and mild both summer and winter, in the latter season resembling that of Naples; and to these facts is doubtless due its great success as a resort for the invalid, debilitated, or fagged‐out business man. Capital bathing, boating, and yachting, are all at the command of the visitor; there are no finer promenades anywhere; while riding or driving on the Downs, or to the neighbouring rural retreats (among them that most beautiful of England’s ancestral homes, Arundel), is a treat open to all whose circumstances are moderately easy. In the whirl and din of fashionable life there one is apt to forget its practical connection with the sea, but it possesses a perfect fleet of mackerel and herring boats, and several lifeboats, belonging to the Lifeboat Institution, the Humane Society, and the town.

In the year 1833, at New Stoke, near Arundel, the remains of an ancient boat were discovered in the bed of what was formerly a creek running into the river Arun. It had been constructed of half the trunk of an oak tree, hollowed out as the Indians of North‐west America do to‐day. It was thirty‐five feet four inches in length, by four feet six inches. In 1822, a still larger oak boat was found in the bed of the river Rother, near Maltham, Kent, which was sixty‐three feet by fifteen feet, half decked, caulked with moss, and had carried at least one mast.

These discoveries sink into insignificance with that made in 1880 on the farm of Gokstad, not far from Sandefjord, a favourite watering‐place of the Norwegians. A hill or mound, which tradition pointed out as the burial‐place of some mighty king or chief, was found to contain the entire hull of an old ship of the Viking days. It is of course a very venerable relic, being probably more than 1,000 years old. The Gokstad vessel, built entirely of oak, is seventy‐five feet long between stem and stern, and sixteen feet broad amidships; and appears to be of a low build, drawing only five feet. The deals were riveted together by iron nails; and the ribs, of which there are twenty, are connected with the deals at the top by rivets, but at the bottom with ties. Amidships, in the bottom of the ship, is a heavy beam, both ends of which are fashioned in the shape of a fish’s tail. This beam served as a support for the mast, of which there is still a piece standing in its place; while the upper part, which had been cut off, was found in the vessel. The mast appears to have been about twenty‐two feet long. Remains of two or three small boats were found; some pieces inside the ship, and some pieces close to it. In the fore part of the vessel a large copper kettle and water‐cask were also found, with remains of sails and ropes, and some large oars. She had been built for sixteen oars. A hundred wooden shields had been once placed in a row under the gunwale of the ship, corresponding to the number of the crew, the centre pieces of iron, or bosses, still remaining. The arrangement of the shields is the same as that in the famous Bayeux tapestry, on which are represented (among other things) the ships of William the Conqueror. The old vessel had been used as the last resting‐place of a great Viking. It was their custom so to bury their chiefs. The ship was usually placed with its stem towards the sea, so that when Odin, the Jove of the northern mythology, should call the gallant chief, he could set sail straight off land for Valhalla, the heaven of his hopes.

Newhaven, a little farther to the east, has a fair tidal harbour and some local commerce, but its chief feature is the very rapidly‐increasing passenger traffic between it and Dieppe, for Paris or London, and the traveller who has not tried that route can be recommended to do so. The boats, some of them of steel and containing all modern improvements, are among the finest in the Channel service, making the trip to Dieppe usually in five or five‐and‐a‐half hours. The trip through Normandy and the valley of the Seine is varied and interesting, and preferable to that from Calais or Boulogne. Near Newhaven is the once flourishing town of Seaford, though it is now little better than a picturesque fishing‐village, in the bay of which mackerel are sometimes taken in prodigious quantities, and which affords shelter and anchorage for large vessels during the prevalence of strong easterly winds.

Still farther east, and at the extreme southern point of Sussex, stands the bold promontory Beachy Head, the scene of many a shipwreck in days gone by. It would be a most difficult feat to scale this great chalk cliff; and yet the slope of broken _débris_, mingled with scanty grass and samphire, steep though it be, does not look impracticable, nor indeed is it up to a certain point. The writer and his brother once managed to get within a very respectable distance of the top, but then the rocky stones commenced rolling down, bringing both climbers with them. After many an ineffectual attempt to secure a hold by clinging to the samphire, and intervals of momentary rest, neither was very sorry to reach the stony beach, albeit considerably bruised, battered, and torn. There they found the sea had cut off their retreat towards Eastbourne, and before they could reach the shore they had to wade through the fast‐rising tide round one or two projecting corners of the cliff.

In the month of November, 1821, a dreadful storm visited Beachy Head, during which a French vessel was driven ashore and wrecked. All on board were swept into the sea, and only four escaped the general destruction, by climbing to the top of a heap of rocks which had fallen, at different times, from the overhanging cliffs. Their perilous situation can easily be conceived; the tide was encroaching upon them step by step, and it was certain destruction to attempt to gain the land. The night was extremely dark, and the thunder and lightning rendered it still more awful. The poor men, finding that they would either be swallowed up by the rising tide or dashed to pieces against the rocks, determined to deliver themselves up to the mercy of the waves, with the forlorn hope of being cast on some place of safety. At this time one of the men saw, during some flashes of lightning, a plant growing amongst the stones on which they stood, which he knew was samphire, and which he also happened to know never grew where it could be entirely covered with water. He at once acquainted his fellow‐ sufferers with this fact, and persuaded them to remain where they were till morning, being convinced that the height of the tide would not be quite equal to that of the place on which they stood. The event proved the correctness of his information and the value of his knowledge, for when daylight broke the poor fellows were seen, and rescued from their dangerous situation.

No part of the south coast formerly required more vigilant guarding than that for many miles on either side of Beachy Head. The coastguardsman had his hands full then; his lot is better now. “Amongst the most agreeable objects that enliven the shores of our island,” writes the _Saturday Review_, “are the groups of cottages occupied by the coastguard. Picturesque one can scarcely call them, for the architecture is simple to baldness, and suggestive of Government contracts kept down by close competition, and yet they have generally the picturesqueness of comfortable contrast with surroundings that are often bleak and inhospitable. Dating from the days when our coasts were regularly picketed, and a blockade was methodically established against the enterprise of the free‐traders, we come upon them in every variety of situation. Now they are arranged bastion‐wise on a commanding eminence, in the suburb of some seaport or watering place, in a snug, compact, little square, with a tall flagstaff in the centre. Again we stumble on them unexpectedly, sheltered in the recess of some ‘gap’ or ‘chine’ where a little stream comes trickling down to the sands through the deep cleft that time seems to have worn in the chalk cliffs. Most frequently they are perched on the crest of the line of sand‐hills, with a broad look‐out in all directions over ‘promontory, cape, and bay.’ And often they form a conspicuous landmark on some flat stretch of grass‐grown sand, where the slow‐shelving shore is intersected by a labyrinth of changing channels, and where mud‐banks submerged by the rising tides are a perfect paradise for the clamorous sea‐fowl. But whatever the situation, the general effect is almost invariably the same. They are substantial and watertight; suggestive of cheery shelter in bright interiors when the wind is howling through the shrouds of the flagstaff, driving the sand and gravel in flying scud along the beach, and churning and grinding the pebbles in the surf with dull, monotonous roar. There are low flat roofs with projecting eaves, and small, strongly‐secured casements, and the gleam of their spotless whitewash catches any sunlight that may be going. In the neatly‐ palisaded little gardens that stretch before the door, a hard and not‐ unsuccessful struggle is always going on with the unfriendly elements, while the shell‐strewn walks are invariably kept in the most perfect order. As you approach them of a warm summer afternoon you are conscious of the briny breeze just tainted with a faint amphibious smell of tar. It may not be so balmy or romantic as the resinous odours that breathe from the pine‐woods of Bayonne or Arcachon, under the fiercer rays of the sun of Gascony; but it is decidedly wholesome, and rather savoury than otherwise. The promiscuous use of pitch and tar gratifies the nautical affections of the inmates. Everything is paid, caulked, and seamed, from the keels of the white‐painted boats that are hauled up bottom upwards, to the felt‐covered shingles over the out‐houses, and the frames of the cottage windows, and the palings of the enclosure. Everything, even to the concealed refuse‐heaps, is trim and ship‐shape, showing the presence of an easy discipline and the predominance of habits of tidiness and order.”

Then the _Review_ goes on to describe the exciting and perilous post of the coastguard when import duties were excessive, and lucky smugglers made rapid fortunes. “The sympathies of the whole adjacent country were against them. Half the country people were employed from time to time in running illicit cargoes, and made a very good thing of it. Those were the days of hard drinking, and farmers almost openly encouraged a trade that dropped kegs of cheap hollands and runlets of pure French brandy at their very doors. As for the women, of course—to say nothing of their romantic sympathies with daring law‐breakers—they were all in favour of the men who filled and sweetened the cheering tea‐cup, that would otherwise have been altogether beyond their means. Even gentlemen holding His Majesty’s commission of the peace were said to connive at the ‘fair trade’ for a consideration, and to express no surprise at the production of mysterious casks that had been concealed in out‐of‐the‐way corners of their premises. There were certain depôts, in dry caverns, in remote homesteads or sequestered barns, the secret of which was religiously preserved, although it was the common property of highly questionable characters. There were codes of signals which could be clearly read by all but the preventive men, and which gave notice of danger or of a favourable opportunity, as the case might be. The officer in charge of the station had his faculties preternaturally sharpened, and could scent something wrong in the most natural incidents. The wreaths of smoke rising from a heap of burning weeds might convey a warning to some expected vessel. A fishing‐boat putting out to sea, engaged apparently in its lawful business, might really be bound on a similar errand. Then it was the business of the day‐ watch to scan carefully each craft that appeared off the coast, and his natural vigilance was stimulated by the prize‐money that might fall to his share. Then the nocturnal promenade was no mere formality. The thicker the night the more likely that something might be going on under cover of the fog; and the ear of the look‐out was always bent to distinguish, amidst the murmur of the waves, the sound of suppressed voices, or the plash of muffled oars. Nor was the walk by any means free from personal danger, and indeed it was seldom taken in solitude; for, even apart from the inveterate animosity existing between the smugglers and the preventive men, those were days when deeds of violence were common, and the life of a man was of little account compared to the safety of a cargo that might be worth hundreds or thousands of pounds. If he chanced to fall over the cliff by accident, everything might be satisfactorily settled before he was replaced; for when a smuggling lugger stood in for the coast there were plenty of ready hands to help to discharge her cargo; and unless the men of the nearest preventive station got assistance from elsewhere, there was little left for them but to look on helplessly. Boats from the nearest fishing hamlets swarmed in about the smuggler; strings of horses, in charge of people armed to the teeth, made their way to the coast from the inland farms. The contraband goods, in kegs and bags of convenient size for easy landing, were transferred from the ship to the boat, from the boat to the beach, from the beach to the pack‐saddle, with incredible celerity; and when the mounted caravans set themselves in motion, those who had assisted at the landing hastened to vanish as they had come. On these occasions the smugglers scored a trick in the game, and the coastguard had nothing for it but to wait their turn of revenge with redoubled vigilance. More frequently, however, they succeeded in spoiling sport, for it paid the smuggler amply to run one cargo in three. The Government people would keep such a sharp look‐out that, oftener than not, the friends of the free‐traders could only help them by signalling danger, and the richly‐freighted lugger had to put up her helm in despair, perhaps with one of the revenue cutters in hot pursuit; or, what was better still, the enemy was surprised in the very act of unlading, and a valuable capture was effected. Of course a successful exploit of this kind was by no means all pleasure and pride. The smugglers with their friends, disguised by blackened faces, were sure to show fight if they had any chance. As they were busy in the bay, and the unloading was going briskly forward, their sentinels would give the signal of alarm, and the long galleys of the coastguard would be seen pulling fast inshore, and stealing like wolves on their prey from round the nearest headland. The attacking force would make free play with its muskets and carbines, if it came within reach, and the attacked had to consider that their enemies on the water had probably allies on the land in the shape of excise officers backed up by soldiers. So the next act in the drama was a _sauve qui peut_, conducted with more or less order, and covered with a lavish use of cutlasses and firearms. Very possibly the victors had to count the dead, and pick up the wounded; and thus the romance and excitement of those days were spiced with a very sensible element of danger.”