A RACE TO SUCCOUR
An Incident of the United States Revenue Service
THE records of the revenue men of the United States teem with heroic deeds done in the execution of their duty. The present story is typical of the thrilling determination of men who will not be beaten, and incidentally shows a healthy rivalry between the revenue men and the lifeboatmen.
On January 11, 1891, the three-masted schooner Ada Barker encountered a terrific storm which played shuttlecock with her, and after a fierce conflict pitched her on to the Junk of Pork, the euphonious name of a large rock near outer Green Island, off the coast of Maine. The Junk of Pork rises a sheer fifty feet out of the water, and all round it are reefs and boulders, a literal death-trap to any unfortunate vessel that should get caught there. The Ada Barker, after having her sails torn to shreds and her rigging hopelessly entangled, began to ship water, and though her men worked hard and long at the pumps, they could not save her; then she was bowled on to the outer reef at night; the bottom dropped out of her, and she heeled over. To the men on board it seemed that the end of all things had come, and they gave themselves up for lost.
“Though her men worked hard and long at the pumps, they could not save her”
As the ship heeled they heard the sound of something striking against a rock; then again, as the ship rebounded and fell forward once more. Eager to take the most slender chance of life, they scrambled to the side, and saw that the mast was hitting against the Junk of Pork.
“Boys!” cried the captain. “That’s our one chance!”
The sailors knew what he meant. They had looked about them. To jump into that boiling surf was to leap into the jaws of death; they would be smashed to pulp, or drowned like rats. They saw now, however, that the rock before them could be reached by scrambling up the mast, which was crashing against it. But they must hurry; and hurry they did. Like monkeys they swarmed up the mast, caring nothing for torn hands nor the flapping canvas, which slashed them like whipcords and threatened to knock them off into the cauldron below. They fought their elemental fight, and one by one six men dropped on to the Junk of Pork; and for hours and hours they clung to their precarious perch, buffeted by strong winds, swamped by heavy seas and crouching in terror as a mountain wave reared its head and, as if angry that the men had escaped, broke upon them with a thunderous roar. At other times they were flung headlong on the rock by a gust of wind which howled at them as if seeking to drown their voices as they yelled for help, in the hope that some ship might be near and hear them through the noise of the gale.
All through the long, dreadful night they remained thus, glad to have found even so bleak a haven, but wondering whether, after all, they would be rescued. Then their eyes were gladdened by the sight of a ship away out on the horizon. Rising and falling as the still boisterous seas kept up their see-saw motion, she was coming in their direction. Would she see them? They knew that at the distance the ship was away they could not be visible yet; yet, cold, drenched to the skin, almost exhausted by exposure, they stripped themselves of their shirts and waved—waved like madmen, fearing they would be passed by. Had they but known it, the officer of the watch of the coming boat—the United States revenue cutter, of Woodbury—thought he could see dark forms on the flat top of the storm-wracked Junk of Pork in a state of frantic activity. Levelling his glasses, he soon saw the forms of the six men waving the torn and tattered shirts; and he knew that some ship had been wrecked during the storm which the Woodbury herself had encountered and fought sternly against for hours on end since she left Portland.
It took but a few moments for everyone on the cutter to be made aware of the position of things.
“We’ll make her, boys” said Captain Fengar, who was in command. “We’ll have those chaps off the Junk of Pork!”
“Aye, aye, sir!” was the chorus; and, with engines pounding out every ounce of steam, the cutter pushed her nose through the water, fighting hard against the storm, which was raging as fiercely as ever. Nearer and nearer they drove, whistling anon to encourage the stranded mariners, who, weary and exhausted, cried for very joy as they realised that they had been seen and that help was coming. Help was coming! Their madness of anxiety gave way to a delirium of joy. Then their hearts sank into an abyss of despair.
The cutter was very near to them now, but the sea was too rough for her to venture close to the rocks; the reefs were one cauldron of boiling surf, and the stranded men knew that no boat from the cutter could hope to live in such a sea, or hope to escape destruction on the reefs if she ventured near.
Help had come—and had proved helpless!
They threw themselves down upon the rock and clutched at the bare surface. They were frenzied. They wondered how much longer they could withstand the gnawings of hunger, the agonies of thirst; how much longer, too, they could retain enough strength to keep their footing on the rock-top. They even thought of leaving their precious haven and trying to reach the wreck of their once proud little ship, where there was indeed food and water. But second thoughts showed them that certain death lay that way, while there was hope that the cutter might be able to get to them. They saw that she was hovering about, cruising here and there to keep headway with the storm, her whistle shrieking out encouragement, and letting them know that she was standing by, in the hope that the storm would abate and enable them to launch their boats.
Night came, but the gale still raged, and Captain Fengar decided that there was only one way to bring about the rescue he was determined to effect, and that was to put back to Portland and bring dories with which to land on the rock at dawn next day. He could not hope to do much good during the night, even if the storm eased off somewhat; the danger of the breakers was too great. So, whistling across to the wretched men on the rock, he let them know that he was going away, but would come back, and then save them.
The first shock of realising that they were to be left alone again wellnigh crazed the men; they felt that they would prefer to wait there for death with company than wait alone for salvation. But away went the cutter, whistling as she went in answer to the wavings of the sailors; and as the final scream died away the men sank down upon the rock in desolation of despair, with nothing but the howling of the wind and the roar of the breakers to keep them company.
The cutter sped through the night, passing Cape Elizabeth on her way, and giving the bearings of the wreck to the lifeboat station there. Reaching Portland, she took her dories and raced back to the Junk of Pork, arriving there an hour after daybreak. The feelings of the now almost dead mariners may be better imagined than described when they heard the siren of the cutter calling to them, telling them of the coming of hope and help. They forgot the raging storm, for they knew that these men who had come back had brought the wherewithal to save them.
On the cutter the revenue men were busy preparing to launch the boats and the small white cutter, when the lifeboat from Cape Elizabeth hove in sight. The very sight of her acted as an additional spur to them, for they regarded this little matter as particularly their own, and although they themselves had warned the lifeboatman of the wreck they felt that it was their duty to effect the rescue. They vowed to themselves that they would get the men off the rock.
“Now, boys,” cried Captain Fengar, “we want to get those men off ourselves! Hustle!”
And they hustled. In the twinkling of an eye as it seemed a couple of boats were lowered and the men were in their places.
“You must not fail,” said Fengar as they pushed off. “God bless you!” And away they went towards the boiling surf, beneath which they knew lurked hideous, treacherous rocks. Lieutenant Howland, an old whaler, had charge of the first boat, and with him went Third Lieutenant Scott and Cadet Van Cott, who had entreated the captain to allow him to go. Seamen Haskell and Gross manned the second boat. Like madmen the Woodbury men pulled, straining every effort to win in the race they had set themselves, knowing that the Cape Elizabeth lifeboat was sweeping through the seas towards the rock. As for the lifeboat, its crew were tired, weary with much fighting of the storm. But they were game; they realised what the Woodbury men were intent on doing, and they themselves determined to do their best to beat them in this race for the lives of six unfortunate men. It was surely one of the queerest contests ever engaged in, and at the back of it was but one idea—to win through to the rock and get the stranded mariners to safety.
The first honours went to the Woodbury men; the dory manned by Haskell and Gross got there ahead of all; they swept through a narrow channel between the reefs, were wellnigh battered to pieces against the foot of the Junk of Pork, hailed the men on top—as though they needed hailing!—and the next instant a man leaped clear of the rock and tumbled into the dory, which pitched and rolled dangerously at the impact. Then, realising that they could not stay there any longer, Haskell and Gross turned their dory about and made for the channel again; careful steering took her safely through, and then, buffeted by the waves, they pulled feverishly towards the cutter, where they eventually got their man safely aboard.
Meanwhile, Howland was keeping his men at it; the race now lay between him and the lifeboat, and he meant to win. With shouts and heave-ho’s, Howland urged his men on; and on they went, while across the waters came the shouts of the lifeboatmen as they bent lustily to their task.
The revenue boat won by a neck! With a thud she hit the breakers just ahead of the lifeboat, shivered, and then, lifted up by a giant comber, cleared a submerged reef, delved on the other side, and came up almost filled with water. Shaking herself as a dog shakes the water from his coat, she righted, and Lieutenant Scott leaped boldly into the surf; but as he did so the undertow took the boat and, as he still had hold of her, dragged him under water. For a moment his comrades thought him gone, but presently he came up, almost frozen, but still hanging on to the boat. And the next moment a roller caught the boat and pitched her on to a slice of rock.
Almost simultaneously the lifeboat plunged at the breakers. For a second she hesitated. Her men were debating whether they should shoot clear or land. They saw the revenue men land. Where they could go, there could the men of Cape Elizabeth; and they put the nose of their boat at it, heading straight for the rocks. Less fortunate than the others, the lifeboat banged into a mighty rock, which stove in her bow and rendered her unmanageable.
Instantly the winners of the strange race saw that the lifeboat was helpless and in danger; the men on the Junk of Pork could wait; they were safe! The revenue men plunged into the surf, waded and swam to the lifeboat, seized hold of her, and dragged her on to the strip of rock. It was all done as in a flash; hesitation would have meant disaster. But it was done, and the rivals stood together at the foot of the Junk of Pork. Then, resting awhile from their herculean labours, they set about the rescue of the stranded mariners, who were very soon in the revenue boat, and being rowed across to the Woodbury cutter, which, when all was done, steamed back to Portland, after forty hours of hard fighting for the rescue of half a dozen men; forty hours well spent, too.