Kitobni o'qish: «Man on the Ocean: A Book about Boats and Ships», sahifa 5

So much for the nature and capabilities of our lifeboats. We cannot afford space to say more in regard to them than that they are the means, under God, of saving many hundreds of human lives every year on the coasts of the United Kingdom, besides a large amount of shipping and property, which, but for them, would inevitably be lost. The noble Institution which manages them was founded in 1824, and is supported entirely by voluntary contributions.

Along with the lifeboat we may appropriately describe here another species of vessel, which, if it does not directly rescue lives, at all events prevents disaster by giving timely warning of danger. We refer to:—

Lightships

These floating beacons are anchored in the immediate vicinity of the numerous sand-banks which lie off the mouths of some of the principal ports of the kingdom, especially in England, and on other parts of our shores. There are numerous floating lights around our coasts, marking shoals on which lighthouses could not easily be erected. Their importance to shipping is inconceivably great. The accompanying illustration shows a vessel passing the lightship at the Nore. The impossibility of shipping getting safely into or out of the port of London without the guiding aid of lightships, as well as of buoys and beacons, may be made clear by a simple statement of the names of some of the obstructions which lie in the mouth of the Thames. There are the Knock Shoals, the East and West Barrows, the John, the Sunk, the Girdler, and the Long Sands, all lying like so many ground sharks waiting to arrest and swallow up passing vessels, which, unfortunately, they too often accomplish despite the numerous precautions taken to rob them of their prey. Most people know the appearance of buoys, but we dare say few have seen a buoy or beacon resembling the one in our engraving, which is a sort of cage, fastened to a buoy, with a bell inside that rings by the action of the waves. It must have been something of this sort that was used at the famous “Bell Rock” in days of yore.

Lightships are usually clumsy-looking, red-painted vessels, having one strong mast amidships, with a ball at the top, about six feet in diameter, made of light laths. This ball is a very conspicuous object, and clearly indicates a lightship to the passing vessel during the day. At night a huge lantern traverses on, and is hoisted to nearly the top of, the same mast. It is lighted by a number of argand lamps with powerful reflectors. Some lightships have two masts, and some three, with a ball and a lantern on each. Some of these lanterns contain fixed, others revolving lights—these differences being for the purpose of indicating to seamen the particular light which they happen to be passing.

Thus, the Goodwin Sands, which are upwards of ten miles in length, are marked by three lightships. The one on the north has three masts and three fixed lights. The one on the south has two masts and two fixed lights. The one that lies between the two—off Ramsgate, and named the Gull—has one mast and one revolving light.

The crew of a lightship consists of about nine or ten men, each of whom does duty for two months on board, and one month on shore, taking their turn by rotation; so that the number of men always on board is about seven. While on shore, they attend to the buoys, anchors, chain-cables, and other stores of the Trinity House, which has charge of all the lights, buoys, and beacons in England. They also assist in laying down new buoys and sinkers, and removing old ones, etcetera.

Lightships run considerable risk, for besides being exposed at all times to all the storms that rage on our shores, they are sometimes run into by ships in foggy weather.

The Gull lightship, above referred to, occupies a peculiar and interesting position. Being in the very centre of all the shipping which passes through the Downs, she has frequent narrow escapes, and has several times been damaged by collisions. The marvel is that, considering her position, she does not oftener “come to grief.” She also signals for the Ramsgate lifeboat, by means of guns and rockets, when a ship is observed by her crew to have got upon the dreaded Goodwin Sands.

We had the pleasure of spending a week on board of the Gull lightship not long ago, and one night witnessed a very stirring scene of calling out the lifeboat. We shall conclude this subject by quoting the following letter, which we wrote at the time, giving a detailed account of it.

Ramsgate, March 26, 1870.

The eye-witness of a battle from an unusual point of view may, without presumption, believe that he has something interesting to tell. I therefore send you an account of what I saw in the Gull lightship, off the Goodwin Sands, on the night of Thursday last, when the Germania, of Bremen, was wrecked on the South-Sand-Head. Having been an inhabitant of the Gull lightship for a week, and cut off from communication with the shore for several days, I have been unable to write sooner.

Our never-ending warfare with the storm is well known. Here is one specimen of the manner in which it is carried on.

A little before midnight on Thursday last (the 24th), while I was rolling uneasily in my “bunk,” contending with sleep and sea-sickness, and moralising on the madness of those who choose “the sea” for a profession, I was roused—and sickness instantly cured—by the watch on deck suddenly shouting down the hatchway to the mate, “South-Sand-Head light is firing, sir, and sending up rockets.” The mate sprang from his “bunk,” and was on the cabin floor before the sentence was well finished. I followed suit, and pulled on coat, nether garments, and shoes, as if my life depended on my own speed. There was unusual need for clothing, for the night was bitterly cold. A coat of ice had formed even on the salt-water spray which had blown into the boats. On gaining the deck, we found the two men on duty actively at work, the one loading the lee gun, the other adjusting a rocket to its stick. A few hurried questions from the mate elicited all that it was needful to know. The flash of a gun from the South-Sand-Head lightship, about six miles distant, had been seen, followed by a rocket, indicating that a vessel had got upon the fatal Goodwins. While the men spoke, I saw the bright flash of another gun, but heard no report, owing to the gale carrying the sound to leeward. A rocket followed, and at the same moment we observed the light of the vessel in distress just on the southern tail of the Sands. By this time our gun was charged, and the rocket in position. “Look alive, Jack! get the poker,” cried the mate, as he primed the gun. Jack dived down the companion hatch, and in another moment returned with a red-hot poker, which the mate had thrust into the cabin fire at the first alarm. Jack applied it in quick succession to the gun and the rocket. A blinding flash and deafening crash were followed by the whiz of the rocket as it sprang with a magnificent curve far away into the surrounding darkness. This was our answer to the South-Sand-Head light, which, having fired three guns and three rockets to attract our attention, now ceased firing. It was also our note of warning to the look-out on the pier of Ramsgate Harbour. “That’s a beauty,” said our mate, referring to the rocket; “get up another, Jack; sponge her well out. Jacobs, we’ll give ’em another shot in a few minutes.” Loud and clear were both our signals; but four and a half miles of distance and a fresh gale neutralised their influence. The look-out did not see them. In less than five minutes the gun and rocket were fired again. Still no answering signal came from Ramsgate. “Load the weather gun,” said the mate. Jacobs obeyed; and I sought shelter under the lee of the weather bulwarks, for the wind appeared to be composed of pen-knives and needles. Our third gun thundered forth, and shook the lightship from stem to stern; but the rocket struck the rigging, and made a low, wavering flight. Another was therefore sent up; but it had scarcely cut its bright line across the sky, when we observed the answering signal—a rocket from Ramsgate Pier.

“That’s all right now, sir; our work is done,” said the mate, as he went below, and, divesting himself of his outer garments, quietly turned in; while the watch, having sponged out and re-covered the gun, resumed their active perambulation of the deck. I confess that I felt somewhat disappointed at this sudden termination of the noise and excitement. I was told that the Ramsgate lifeboat could not well be out in less than an hour. It seemed to my excited spirit a terrible thing that human lives should be kept so long in jeopardy; and, of course, I began to think, “Is it not possible to prevent this delay?” But excited spirits are not always the best judges of such matters, although they have an irresistible tendency to judge. There was nothing for it, however, but patience; so I turned in, “all standing,” as sailors have it, with orders that I should be called when the lights of the tug should come in sight. It seemed but a few minutes after, when the voice of the watch was again heard shouting hastily, “Lifeboat close alongside, sir. Didn’t see it till this moment. She carries no lights.” I bounced out, and, minus coat, hat, and shoes, scrambled on deck, just in time to see the Broadstairs lifeboat rush past us before the gale. She was close under our stern, and rendered spectrally visible by the light of our lantern. “What are you firing for?” shouted the coxswain of the boat. “Ship on the sands, bearing south,” replied Jack at the full pitch of his stentorian voice. The boat did not pause. It passed with a magnificent rush into darkness. The reply had been heard; and the lifeboat shot straight as an arrow to the rescue. We often hear and read of such scenes, but vision is necessary to enable one to realise the full import of all that goes on. A strange thrill ran through me as I saw the familiar blue and white boat leaping over the foaming billows. Often had I seen it in model, and in quiescence in its boat-house—ponderous and ungainly; but now I saw it, for the first time, endued with life. So, I fancy, warriors might speak of our heavy cavalry as we see them in barracks, and as they saw them at Alma. Again all was silent and unexciting on board of the Gull. I went shivering below, with exalted notions of the courage and endurance of lifeboat men. Soon after, the watch once more shouted, “Tug’s in sight, sir;” and once again the mate and I went on deck. On this occasion, the tug Aid had made a mistake. Some one on shore had reported that the guns and rockets had been seen flashing from the Gull and North-Sand-Head lightships; whereas the report should have been, from the Gull and South-Sand-Head vessels. The single word was all-important. It involved an unnecessary run of about twelve miles, and an hour and a half’s loss of time. But we mention this merely as a fact, not as a complaint. Accidents will happen. The Ramsgate lifeboat service is admirably regulated, and for once that an error of this kind can be pointed out, we can point to dozens—ay, hundreds—of cases in which the steamer and lifeboat have gone straight as the crow flies to the rescue, and have done good service on occasions when all other lifeboats would have failed, so great is the value of steam in such matters. On this occasion, however, the tug appeared late on the scene, and hailed us. When the true state of the case was ascertained, the course was directed aright, and full steam let on. The Ramsgate lifeboat, Bradford, was in tow far astern. As she passed us the brief questions and answers were repeated for the benefit of the coxswain of the boat. I observed that every man in the boat lay flat on the thwarts except the coxswain. No wonder. It is not an easy matter to sit up in a gale of wind, with freezing spray, and sometimes green seas, sweeping over one. They were, doubtless, wide awake, and listening; but, as far as vision went, that boat was manned with ten oilskin coats and sou’-westers. A few seconds took them out of sight; and thus, as far as the Gull lightship was concerned, the drama ended. There was no possibility of our ascertaining more, at least during that night; for whatever might be the result of these efforts, the floating lights had no chance of hearing of them until the next visit of their tender. I was therefore obliged to turn in once more, at three a.m. Next forenoon we saw the wreck, bottom up, high on the Goodwin Sands.

On Friday morning, the Alert—tender to the lightships of this district, under command of the Trinity Superintendent, Captain Vaile—came off to us, and we learned the name of the vessel, that she was a total wreck, and that the crew, seven men, had taken to their boat, and succeeded in reaching the South-Sand-Head lightship, whence they were almost immediately after taken by the Deal lifeboat, and safely landed at Deal.

It is to be carefully observed here that, although in this case much energy was expended unnecessarily, it does not follow that it is often so expended. Often—too often—all the force of lifeboat service on this coast is insufficient to meet the demands on it. The crews of the various boats in the vicinity of the Goodwin Sands are frequently called out more than once in a night; and they are sometimes out all night, visiting various wrecks in succession. In all this work the value of the steam-tug is very conspicuous. For it can tow its boat again and again to windward, and renew the effort to save life in cases where, unaided, lifeboats would be compelled to give in. Embarking in the Alert, I sailed round the wreck at low water, and observed that the Deal luggers were swarming round her like flies; the crews stripping her bottom of copper, and saving her stores, while, apparently, hundreds of men were busy upon her deck dismantling her shattered hull.

This, after all, is but an insignificant episode of wreck on the Goodwins. Many wrecks there are every year much more worthy of record; but this is sufficient to give a general idea of the manner in which our great war with the storm is conducted—the promptitude with which relief is rendered, and the energy with which our brave seamen are ready to imperil their lives almost every night, all round the coast, and all the year round.

Chapter Eight.
Docks and Shipbuilding

Having in the previous chapters treated of the subjects of ancient navigation and ships, and given some account of the boats of the present time, we now proceed to write about modern ships. In doing so, let us turn our attention first to:—

The Dockyard

If we were a maker of riddles, we would ask our reader, “Why is a ship like a human being?” and having added, “D’ye give it up?” would reply, “Because it commences life in a cradle;” but not being a fabricator of riddles, we don’t ask our reader that question. We merely draw his attention to the fact that ships, like men, have not only an infancy, but also have cradles—of which more hereafter.

Let us enter one of those naval nurseries—the dockyard—where ships may be seen commencing their career. What a scene it is! What sawing and thumping, and filing, and grinding, and clinching, and hammering, without intermission, from morn till noon, and from noon till dewy eve! What a Babel of sounds and chaos of indescribable material!

That little boy whom you observe standing under the shadow of yonder hull—his hands in his pockets (of course), his mouth open (probably), and his eyes gazing up fixedly at the workmen, who cluster like bees on the ribs and timbers of yonder infant ship has stood there for more than an hour, and he will stand there, or thereabout, for many hours to come; for it happens to be a holiday with him, and he dotes on harbours and dockyards. His whole being is wrapped up in them.

And this is natural enough. Most boys delight to gaze on incomprehensible and stupendous works. Let us—you and I, reader—follow this urchin’s example, keeping our mouths shut, however, save when we mean to speak, and our eyes open.

There are ships here of every shape and size—from the little coasting-vessel to the great East Indiaman, which, in its unfinished condition, looks like the skeleton of some dire megatherium of the antediluvian world. Some of these infant ships have an enormous shed over them to protect them from the weather; others are destitute of such protection: for ships, like men, it would seem, are liable to vicissitudes of fortune. While the “great ones” of the dockyard world are comfortably housed, the small ones are not unfrequently exposed to the fitful buffeting of the rude elements even from their birth.

There are ships here, too, in every state of progression. There, just beside you, is a “little one” that was born yesterday. The keel has just been laid on the blocks; and it will take many a long day of clinching and sawing and hammering ere that infant assumes the bristling appearance of an antediluvian skeleton. Yonder is the hull of a ship almost completed. It is a gigantic infant, and has the aspect of a very thriving child. It evidently has a robust constitution and a sturdy frame. Perhaps we may re-visit the dockyard to-morrow, and see this vessel launched.

Besides these two, there are ships with their ribs partially up, and ships with their planking partially on; and in a more distant part of the yard there are one or two old ships hauled up, high and dry, to have their bottoms repaired and their seams re-pitched, after many a rough and bravely-fought battle with the ocean waves.

Now that we have gazed our fill at the general aspect of the dockyard, let us descend a little more to particulars. We shall first tell of the:—

Nature and Use of Docks

There are two kinds of docks—dry and wet. A dry-dock is usually constructed with gates, to admit or shut out the tide. When a ship arrives from a long voyage, and needs repair to the lower part of her hull, she must be got out of the water somehow or other.

This object is frequently attained in regard to small vessels by simply running them gently on the flat sand or mud beach of a bay or harbour, so that, when the tide retires, they shall be left dry. But it would be dangerous as well as inconvenient to do this with large ships, therefore dry-docks have been constructed for this purpose. They are so built that when the tide is full the dry-docks are also full. When thus full of water, the gates of a dry-dock are opened, and the large ship is dragged slowly in, after which the gates are shut. The tide then retires, leaving it in this basin of water. The ship is then propped up on all sides with timbers, in such a way that she stands upright, “upon an even keel,” and thus, the pressure on her hull being equally distributed, she is not damaged. Then the water is let out by means of sluices in the gates, or it is pumped out, and the ship left dry. When the tide returns, the gates and sluices are all shut, and its entrance into the dock prevented, until such time as the ship is repaired, when water is let slowly in. As the vessel floats, the props and supports fall away, the gates of her hospital are opened, and off she goes again, in all the vigour of recruited health, to wing her way over the billows of the great deep.

A wet-dock is somewhat similar to a dry-dock, the chief difference being that ships while in it are kept floating in water.

Docks are not only used, however, for repairing and building ships. They are also used for loading and unloading them; and as ships are entering and departing from them almost constantly, the busy, bustling, active scene they present is always agreeable.

The principal docks in the United Kingdom are as follows:—

Docks on the Thames —namely, East and West India Docks, London Docks, Saint Katherine’s Docks, Commercial Docks, Victoria Docks.

Southampton Docks .

Liverpool and Bristol Docks .

Hull Docks .

Glasgow Docks .

Dundee Docks .

Leith Docks .

Birkenhead Docks .

So much for docks in passing. Let us now turn our attention to the process of:—

Building a Ship

As we think it highly improbable that any of our readers intend to become either ship-carpenters or ship-architects, we will not worry them with technical explanations. To give an easily understood and general idea of the manner of building a ship is all we shall attempt. The names of those parts only that are frequently or occasionally referred to in general literature shall be given.

The term ship is employed in two significations. In familiar language it denotes any large or small vessel that navigates the ocean with sails. In nautical language it refers solely to a vessel having three masts, each consisting of a lower-mast, a top-mast, and a top-gallant-mast. At present we use the term ship in the familiar sense.

Elaborate and complicated drawings having been prepared, the shipbuilder begins his work.

The keel is the first part of a ship that is laid. It is the beam which runs along the bottom of a boat or ship from one end to the other. In large ships the keel consists of several pieces joined together. Its uses are, to cause the ship to preserve a direct course in its passage through the water; to check the leeway which every vessel has a tendency to make; and to moderate the rolling motion. The keel is also the ground-work, or foundation, on which the whole superstructure is reared, and is, therefore, immensely strong and solid. The best wood for keels is teak, as it is not liable to split.

Having laid the keel firmly on a bed of wooden blocks, in such a position that the ship when finished may slide into the water stern foremost, the shipbuilder proceeds next to erect the stem and stern posts.

The stem-post rises from the front end of the keel, not quite perpendicularly from it, but sloping a little outwards. It is formed of one or more pieces of wood, according to the size of the ship; but no matter how many pieces may be used, it is always a uniform single beam in appearance. To this the ends of the planks of the ship are afterwards fastened. Its outer edge is called the cut-water, and the part of the ship around it is named the bow.

The stern-post rises from the opposite end of the keel, and also slopes a little outwards. To it are fastened the ends of the planking and the framework of the stern part of the ship. To it also is attached that little but most important part of a vessel, the rudder. The rudder, or helm, is a small piece of timber extending along the back of the stern-post, and hung movably upon it by means of what may be called large iron hooks-and-eyes. By means of the rudder the mariner guides the ship in whatever direction he pleases. The contrast between the insignificant size of the rudder and its immense importance is very striking. Its power over the ship is thus referred to in Scripture,—“Behold also the ships, which, though they be so great, and are driven of fierce winds, yet are they turned about with a very small helm, whithersoever the governor listeth.” The rudder is moved from side to side by a huge handle or lever on deck, called the tiller; but as in large ships the rudder is difficult to move by so simple a contrivance, several ropes or chains and pulleys are attached to it, and connected with the drum of a wheel, at which the steersman stands. In the largest ships two, and in rough weather four men are often stationed at the wheel.

The ribs of the ship next rise to view. These are curved wooden beams, which rise on each side of the keel, and are bolted firmly to it. They serve the same purpose to a ship that bones do to the human frame—they support and give strength to it as well as form.

The planks follow the ribs. These are broad, and vary in thickness from two to four inches. They form the outer skin of the ship, and are fastened to the ribs, keel, stem-post, and stern-post by means of innumerable pins of wood or iron, called tree-nails. The spaces between the planks are caulked—that is, stuffed with oakum; which substance is simply the untwisted tow of old and tarry ropes. A figure-head of some ornamental kind having been placed on the top and front of the stem-post, just above the cutwater, and a flat, ornamental stern, with windows in it to light the cabin, the hull of our ship is complete. But the interior arrangements have yet to be described, although, of course, they have been progressing at the same time with the rest.

The beams of a ship are massive wooden timbers, which extend across from side to side in a series of tiers. They serve the purpose of binding the sides together, of preventing them from collapsing, and of supporting the decks, as well as of giving compactness and great strength to the whole structure.

The decks are simply plank floors nailed to the beams, and serve very much the same purposes as the floors of a house. They also help to strengthen the ship longitudinally. All ships have at least one complete deck; most have two, with a half-deck at the stern, called the quarter-deck, and another at the bow, called the forecastle. But the decks of large ships are still more numerous. Those of a first-rate man-of-war are as follows—we begin with the lowest, which is considerably under the surface of the sea:—

The Orlop-deck, the Gun-deck, the Middle-deck, the Upper-deck, the Quarter-deck, and the Poop—the latter deck being the highest deck of all, a very small one, at the stern.

Thus a man-of-war is a floating house with six stories—the poop being the garret, and the orlop-deck the cellars. The upper decks are lighted by sky-lights; those farther down by port-holes (or gun-holes) and windows; the lowest of all by candles or lamps, daylight being for ever banished from those gloomy submarine regions!

The bulwarks rise above the upper-deck, all round the ship, and serve the purposes of protecting the upper-deck from the waves, and supporting the belaying-pins, to which the ropes are fastened. In ships of war the top of the bulwarks forms a sort of trough all round the ship, in which the hammocks (the swinging-beds) of the men are stowed away every morning. This trough is termed the hammock-nettings, and the hammocks are placed there to be well aired. In action the bulwarks serve to protect the crew from musketry.

The wheel, which has been already referred to, stands usually at the stern of the ship, on the quarter-deck; but it is sometimes placed on an elevated platform amid-ships, so that the steersman may see more clearly where he is going.

The binnacle stands directly in front of the wheel. It is a species of box, firmly fixed to the deck, in which is placed the compass. It is completely covered in, having a glass window, through which the man at the wheel can observe the course he is steering.

The capstan stands on the main-deck, sometimes near the centre of the vessel, at other times near the bow or the stern. It is a massive block of timber moving on a pivot, which is turned round by wooden levers, called capstan bars, or hand-spikes, and is used for any purpose that requires great tractive power—the drawing in of the cable, for instance, or warping the ship; which means that a rope is fixed on shore, or by an anchor to the bottom of the sea, and the other end of it is coiled round the capstan, so that when the capstan is forced round by the handspikes, the rope coils on to it, and the ship is slowly dragged forward.

The windlass is simply a horizontal, instead of a perpendicular capstan. Its sole purpose is for heaving up the anchor, and it is placed close to the bow of the ship.

The galley, or cooking-house, is usually near to the windlass, in the front part of the vessel. Here the cook reigns supreme; but this nautical kitchen is wonderfully small. It is just big enough to hold the fireplace and “coppers,” with a small shelf, on which the cook (always a man, and often a negro) performs the duties of his office.

The various decks below are partitioned off by means of plank walls, which are called bulk-heads, into a variety of berths and apartments; and the greater part of the centre of the vessel (in merchantmen) is called the hold, and is reserved for cargo.

The hull of the ship being finished, now gets a coat of tar all over it, which preserves the wood from the action of the weather, and helps to render the seams water-tight. Some vessels are sheathed from the keel to a short way above their water-line with thin sheets of copper, to preserve them more effectually from tear and wear, and especially to defend them against those barnacles and marine insects that would otherwise fasten to them.

Being now ready to be launched from her cradle into the sea—her future home—we will proceed in our next chapter to describe the process of launching.