One stormy night – Lynmouth Devon 12th January 1899.
That stormy night – we watched them leave. Their plan, it touched our hearts. What they will do, hard to believe, but here, our story starts.
As winter cruel, their bones did chill, ‘Make haste!’ the coxswain bid. It took short steps, to meet the hill, where moonless path was hid.
And distant miles, we all did know, but we, did silence keep. O’er moor and hill in gale and snow, they’d march, while children, sleep.
One mile, four hours, to Countisb’ry, Inn’s refuge next the moor, not one of them, could disagree, the easy choice, for sure.
Some cold and beaten, must head home, the crew though, still advance. For ship adrift, in wave and foam, may still be saved, perchance.
By night and sleet, frail road obscured, like trackless moorland waste. Pained heroes all, fierce cold endured, in silence, still made haste.
Those desperate men must doubt, it’s said, but hope, still filled their soul, ‘gainst mud, and blood - four horses dead, the rescue, still their goal.
Then, ten miles on, at Porlock hill, exhausted, sure, they’d be. While thoughts of home, can test their will, from duty - none were free.
Once on the beach at Porlock Weir, high tide, floods in again, yet boat is launched, and scorning fear, makes way, through spray and rain.
Daring, ‘gainst such stormy weather, through tempest, crew did row, ‘tis now, they’ll live or die together, and we might never know.
No news came home, to cheer us all, our village, drowned in sadness. While out at sea, the Forrest Hall, a rescue, born of madness.
Oh, such brave crew, the tales they’ll tell. How, when, by moorland track, they fought their way, through gates of hell, then safe, by sea, came back.
RJS May 2019
The Women of Mumbles Head by Clement Scott 1841 – 1904
Bring novelists your notebook. Bring Dramatists your Pen: And I'll tell you a simple story of what women do for men. It's only the tale of a lifeboat, of the dying and the dead, Of a terrible storm and shipwreck that happened off Mumbles Head. Maybe you have travelled in Wales, sir, and know it north and south: Maybe you have friends with the 'natives' that dwell at Oystermouth. It happens, no doubt, that from Bristol you've crossed in a casual way. And have sailed your yacht in summer, in the blue of Swansea Bay.
Well, it isn't like that in winter when the lighthouse stands alone, In the teeth of Atlantic breakers that foam on its face of stone: It wasn't like that when the hurricane blew and the story-bell tolled, or when There was news of a wreck, and lifeboat launch'd, and a desperate cry for men. When in the world did the coxswain shirk? A brave old Salt was he! Proud to the bone of as four strong lads, as ever had tasted the sea. Welshmen all to the lungs and loins, who, about the coast twas said, Had saved some hundred lives apiece - at a shilling or so a head!
So the father launched the lifeboat in the teeth of the tempest's roar, And he stood like a man at the rudder, with any eye on his boys at the oar. Out to the wreck went the father! Out to the wreck went the sons! Leaving the weeping of women, and booming of signal guns; Leaving the mother who loved them, and the girls that the sailors loved, Going to death for duty, and trusting to God above! Do you murmur a prayer, my brother, when cosy and safe in bed, For men like these, who are ready to die for a wreck off Mumbles Head?
It didn't go well with the lifeboat. 'Twas a terrible storm that blew! And it snapped a rope in a second that was flung to the drowning crew; And then the anchor parted - 'twas a tussle to keep afloat! But the father stuck to the rudder, and the boys to the brave old boat. Then at last on the poor doom'd lifeboat a wave broke mountains high! 'God help us now! ' said the father. 'It's over my lads, good-bye!' Half of the crew swam shoreward, half to the sheltered caves, But father and sons were fighting death in the foam of the angry waves.
Up at the lighthouse window two women beheld the storm, And saw in the boiling breakers a figure - a fighting form, It might be a grey-haired father, then the women held their breath, It might be a fair-haired brother who was having a round with death; It might be a lover, a husband, whose kisses were on the lips Of the women whose love is life of the men going down to the sea in ships. They had seen the launch of the lifeboat, they had heard the worst and more, Then, kissing each other these women went down from the lighthouse, straight to the shore.
There by the rocks on the breakers these sisters, hand in hand, Beheld once more that desperate man who struggled to reach the land. 'Twas only aid he wanted to help him across the wave, But what are a couple of women with only a man to save? What are a couple of women? Well, more than three craven men Who stood by the shore with chattering teeth, refusing to stir - and then Off went the women's shawls, sir: in a second they're torn and rent, Then knotting them into a rope of love, straight into the sea they went!
'Come back!' cried the lighthouse keeper, 'For God's sake, girls, come back!' As they caught the waves on their foreheads, resisting the fierce attack. 'Come back!' moaned the grey-haired mother as she stood by the angry sea, 'If the waves take you, my darlings, there's nobody left to me.' 'Come back!' said the three strong soldiers, who still stood faint and pale, 'You will drown if you face the breakers! You will fall if you brave the gale!' 'Come back' said the girls, 'we will not! Go tell it to all the town, We'll lose our lives, God willing, before that man shall drown!'
'Give one more knot to the shawls, Bess! Give one strong clutch of your hand! Just follow me, brave, to the shingle, and we'll drag him safe to land! Wait for the next wave, darling! Only a minute more, And I'll have him safe in my arms, dear, and we'll drag him safe to shore.' Up to their arms in the water, fighting it breast to breast, They caught and saved a brother alive! God bless us! you know the rest-- Well, many a heart beat stronger, and many a tear was shed, And many a glass was toss'd right off to the' Women of Mumbles Head!'
by Clement Scott 1841 – 1904
Reckon then that to acquire soul-winning power, you will have to go through mental torment and soul distress. You must go into the fire if you are going to pull others out of it, and you will have to dive into the floods if you are going to draw others out of the water. You cannot work a fire escape without feeling the scorch of the conflagration, nor man a lifeboat without being covered with the waves. Charles Spurgeon 1832 - 1892
The love of life - Louisa.
(Inspired by the lifeboat, Louisa of Lynmouth, in the late 19th century, when lifeboats were launched by man and horse and were rowed to the scene.)
Wild calls for help, bring with them fear; maroons, they wake the night. Calls, to men both brave and strong and bound by hope, not fright. The crew is picked, the orders clear, the coxswain shares his plan. She’s launched into the pounding surf, as only life boats can.
‘Pull hard my crew,’ the coxswain shouts, ‘Pull hard for distant sail. Through wind and wave and darkness, I vow that we’ll not fail.' Back at the quay, the helpers stand. When will the storm abate? To welcome heroes home again, their fearful hearts must wait.
Upon the ship the children cry, the tattered sails cry too. Their captain tired, he’s given up, not so, the lifeboat crew. ‘Set off a flare,’ the coxswain says; ‘Twas done without a fuss. As dark turned bright, the captain prayed, ‘God’s angels come for us.’
Then voices called from out the dark, ‘You’re saved, now come aboard,’ but robbed of prize and sacrifice, the angry sea, it roared. The ropes were thrown, and grapnel fast, ship's timber it did grip. With failing hands and racing hearts they stumbled from their ship.
As one by one they made their way, each felt the need to rush. The sea, it wants to hurry too, Louisa's hull to crush. They sigh relief and comfort seek, all huddled on the deck. Now spirits high and bent to oars they leave the sinking wreck.
Now turned for shore and distant lights, oh, still so far from home and homeward bound, they have to race, white horses, and the foam. The waves rise high, the troughs sink deep, wild elements do rave, determined not to let them go, but put them in their grave.
That coxswain strong had other thoughts; he'd seen it all before. ‘Our good Louisa life boat, will take us to the shore.’ While sound of surf at base of cliff, bids the storm run free, to know if they can make it home, they pray; as so might we.