Original Penny Readings: A Series of Short Sketches. Fenn George Manville

night was setting in, and the wind and sea getting up, you couldn’t help feeling melancholy and low. The place we were in, you see, was a dangerous one, and one where there had been no end of wrecks; while in more than one place you could see the timbers of a half broke-up ship, lying stuck in the sands. Then, as it got dark, and you stood on deck, you could almost fancy the tall white waves were the ghosts of them as had gone down and been lost there – hundreds upon hundreds of them; and that puts me in mind of one night when a full-rigged ship came on the sands.

      It was a horribly rough afternoon, with a heavy gale blowing; cold, and dark, and dismal it looked all round, and there we were watching this here ship trying hard to give the sands a wide berth, but all to no good, for there she was slowly drifting down nearer and nearer – now lost to sight almost in the fog and spray, and now when it lifted, plain again before us, till she seemed close in amongst the heavy surf.

      At times our light-ship, heavily moored and strong-built as she was, pitched and strained dreadful, so that it seemed as she must drag or break away, while every now and then a wave would come with such a shock that the heavy timbers quivered again; and of us four men there, every one would have gladly been ashore, and out of those fierce roaring breakers. But no one showed the white feather, and there we were, as I said, watching the big ship, till just as the gloomy winter’s night set in, and the gale came shouting by as though the storm meant to make a night of it, we saw the ship for a moment, lost sight of her again, and then, just as there was a bit of an opening in the fog, there she came with a regular leap starn on to the sands, and “snap, snap,” two of her masts went overboard in an instant.

      We had to hold on pretty tightly ourselves, I can tell you, and the water that came aboard at times almost choked us; but with such a scene as that before us, not a man could have gone below, and we stood straining our eyes and trying to make out what was going on.

      She was too far off for us to make out anything very plainly; but as we looked, up went a rocket, rush into the air, and, leaving its fiery train behind, broke into a shower of sparks. Then there was another and another sent up, and in the flashes of light we could make out as one mast crowded with people still stood, while a regular shudder went through one to think what it would be if that fell.

      What seemed so cruel was that though we were only a quarter of a mile off we couldn’t help the poor creatures; all the good we were was to keep our light burning brightly to warn ships off, but once they were on the sands, with a heavy sea running, the stoutest shoremen shook their heads, and when the lifeboat was run out knew well enough that the chances were ever so much against the lives being all saved.

      “Hooray!” says Bob Gunnis all at once; “here they come.”

      “Where?” I says; “and who’s coming?”

      Looking where he pointed, for the wind swept his words away, I held on my tarpaulin hat, and peered out to leeward, where every now and then I could just see the white and blue sides of the lifeboat with her sail up, and seeming to dance like a gull on the top of the water. Now she’d be quite hid in the dim misty clouds that kept flying across, half rain, half spray. Now she’d be seen plainer and nearer, coming on between us and the wreck; and then it would come over so dark again we could make nothing out. But the lightly-painted boat and her white sail soon showed again quite pale and ghost-like, now getting fast on towards the vessel; though I couldn’t help giving my head a shake as I held on and looked.

      “What water is there where she lies?” I says to Bob Gunnis – for, you see, he was a chap as knew to a foot what water there was anywhere for far enough round.

      “Let’s see,” he says, “it’s about low water now, or should be if there warn’t this gale on, but she won’t go down no lower anyhows. Let’s see, there’ll be just enough to float the lifeboat over, and that’s all; while if they give a scrape or a bump once it won’t be no wonder.”

      And now we could just make out the lifeboat lay out for a bit, and then let go her kedge and drop down towards the ship, as seemed at times to be completely buried under water. It made your eyes ache to watch, for the spray came dashing into your face, while the lanthorn looked quite dull and dripping, with the water splashing and beating against it.

      All at once we had a grand view of the lifeboat, for she lay just where the light from our lanthorn fell. All four of us saw her as we hung together by the bulwarks, and then there seemed something wrong, for she was lifted on a great wave; and then one’s heart seemed to come in one’s mouth, for she capsized.

      I remember it all so well – the white frothy water, with the strong light from our lanthorn upon it, and the pale, ghostly-looking boat capsizing, while we held our breath to see her come right again; but she didn’t, but lay tossing in the water, for there was not depth enough for the mast to pass under, or else the boat, being made self-righting, would have come up again all right.

      Just then, the light turning round, all was darkness again, and whether it was fancy, or only the wind rushing by, there came one of the wildest and most awful shrieks I ever heard in my life. Then the light worked round again, and shone down towards where the lifeboat and the ship lay; but we could see nothing but the tremendous sea beating upon the sands, boiling up and rising like mountains of foam, whilst our light-ship rolled and plunged and tugged at her moorings, so that we could not keep our feet.

      Bound come the light again, and we strained our eyes to look, but there was nothing but the tumbling sea in one great froth; and then darkness, and light once more as the lanthorn revolved; and we then fancied that in the dark part, between where the light fell and our ship, we could make out the lifeboat drifting along on one side, with here and there something dark clinging to it; but we couldn’t be sure, and even if they had floated close by us, we could have done nothing to help them, for the sea on was something fearful.

      There wasn’t a man of us that night as didn’t feel sure as the old light-ship would be dragging her anchors and going ashore somewhere, when, “Lord ha’ mussy upon us,” I says. Of course, it was watch and watch of a night; but, there, who could go and turn in with the sea thundering on deck, and washing over you – the chain cables groaning and creaking; the wind shrieking by, and the mast, atop of which stood the lanthorn, quivering and jarring and shaking, as though it would snap off by the deck? Sleep! No, not much of that; for we all stayed on deck, talking when there was a lull, and holding on so as to keep from being swept overboard.

      Ah! it’s a nice berth – tenter of a light-ship, moored at the end of the dangerous sands – a place too bad for other vessels to come; so, fair weather or foul, there you are, to keep your light bright and trimmed so that you may warn other folks off.

      We could see the lights ashore now and then, and knew how the folks would be looking out for the lifeboat, and the very thought of it all gave one a shudder, for it seemed that they were all lost – ship’s crew and lifeboat’s crew – while we four had been looking idly on.

      I’d crept along to the bows of the ship, and was trying to peer out into the thick haze ahead, when all at once I gave a start, for I seemed to hear a cry like some one hailing very faintly.

      I looked out again and again on both sides, and then settled as it was fancy, for the noise of the wind and water was deafening; but just as I’d made up my mind that it was nothing I hears the cry again, and this time it made me shiver, for I knew that any one of the ship’s crew, or the lifeboat’s crew, must have been swept away half an hour before. So, as I said, I gave quite a shiver and crept back to where my mates stood, and shouts in Bob Gunnis’s ear, “There’s some one a hailing of us!”

      “Don’t be a fool,” he says, quite crusty; but I stuck out as there was, and then he crept forward too, and stood listening. “Now then,” he says, “where’s your hailin’ now? Why, it was the – ”

      “Help!” came a faint cry from somewhere ahead, and Bob stopped short with his mouth open, and his hand over his eyes, gazing out to sea.

      “Say, mate,” he says, ketching hold of my arm, and whispering in my ear, with his mouth quite close – “say, mate, let’s get back; ’taint nat’ral.”

      Well, feeling a bit queer after hearing that wild cry from somewhere off the water,