monotony has gone also; the air, so to say, begins to tell, and without knowing why or wherefore, there comes a sense of increased strength and cheerfulness; the first impressions of loneliness and sameness have turned to interest and pleasure in much of novelty and strangeness; the freedom and freshness of the sands, the rocks, the whole country round, force by degrees a charm which cannot be resisted; constant changes of the sea, in colour, in waves, in brilliance,—never seen two days alike,—follow one another, in quick variety; until at last old recollections of what “watering-places” are, or ought to be, have passed away, and enjoyment of oneself by the seaside is found to spring from sources very different indeed from those which, for years past, we have been stupidly contented with. And the consequence of it all is, that the proposed stay of a week or two lengthens often into as many months, and Bude, out of the world and quiet and lonely though it be, is left at last with regret, and with the full purpose of return.
Pages might still be written, but our space draws shortly to its limit. We have given a true description of Bude; and there is one side still to be presented, sad and dreadful in its aspect, yet fascinating by the very horrors which surround it. As to this a few words only.
Upon a coast so exposed shipwrecks must often happen. The term “wrecker,” in old days, seems to have almost wanted to complete it, “Cornish”: and this, not because the people were more cruel or greedy than in other places, but because of the frequency of wrecks. Suffolk and Dorset, years ago, could have told tales of ships lured ashore by lights, and of men left to drown, quite as terrible and quite as true as those which tradition has handed down to us in Cornwall.
During the past autumn (of 1862), for example, there were three wrecks at Bude. One of these was so great, so fatal, that henceforth no description of Bude, or even of the county, would be complete without some account of it. It was also remarkable, especially, as having occurred in full daylight, when everything could be observed, when time was given for preparation, and when all means at hand could be tried to help. With a brief record of this wreck—of the Bencoolen, a ship of 2000 tons,—we shall end our paper.
Very shortly after mid-day on October 21st an alarm was given that a ship was in the offing “coming ashore:” the weather for four or five days past had been stormy, and it was still blowing very hard, dead on the coast. In a few minutes ten or a dozen people had collected at the Storm Tower; and, about five miles off, the long black hull of a large vessel, deep in the water, was plainly visible. We could observe no signals: no sails were set, and her masts were gone. At this time it was about three hours flood; the sea was high, rising higher every instant, and rolling in more and more heavily with the advancing tide. A flag was at once hoisted at the signal-staff by the Storm Tower; and a tar-barrel was lighted upon the cliff on the opposite side of the harbour, so as to bring the vessel, if not deserted, upon the sands (her only chance) instead of on the rocks. Very shortly after, a small sail could be made out set upon the stump of her foremast; her helm was put up, and it was evident that she was making for the smoke, and she steered straight for the entrance of the harbour.
It was now past two o’clock; the cliffs were crowded with people, and nothing to be seen upon every face but anxiety and dismay. The old sailors said, “It will be a bad business.” In another half hour she was near enough for us to make out three or four men at the wheel, and a great number together upon the forecastle. Slowly she rose and fell upon the waves, hidden by them as she sank between the troughs; still rapidly drifting in with the force of the wind and the run of the tide. As yet, however, no sea broke over her.
A few minutes before three the ship struck, exactly at the entrance of the haven, broadside on; her great length occupying and stretching more than over the whole of the small deeper channel by which the coasting vessels enter. Both the rocket apparatus and the life boat had been brought down to the extremity of the breakwater. Unhappily, there was but one small ship lying in the harbour at the time; it was impossible to get an efficient crew together, and the life-boat could not be of use.
The instant that the ship struck, the seas broke over her: and there was no doubt left that all on board were in the extremity of peril. The men at the helm ran forward; and the whole of the crew were together on the forecastle, holding on by anything to save being washed over. As she heeled towards the land when the waves struck her, a raft that had been got ready could now be seen, lying close to where the sailors were. The vessel was about 150 yards from the end of the breakwater; in less than five minutes the first rocket was fired, and fell short; another five minutes, and the second was fired; it fell on board, but was swept back instantly into the sea. An interval of twenty minutes followed;[1] then the third rocket flashed across the foam, and the line fell fairly over the stern of the ship. Instantly a man started from among the crowd forward, to secure the line; half-way along the deck he stopped to clear some wreck; he had left after one sea had broken; stopping, he clung to the side; the next huge wave swept in, broke over the ship from stem to stern, and the man was carried over with it, and never seen again. This was the second mate. The same sea rushed up the breakwater as high as the rocket apparatus, and made it useless. There were no possible means left by which aid could be given, and we could only stand and watch.
It was now half-past three: the last half hour had given frightful evidence of the rapidity with which all was going to destruction. The bulwarks were carried away, and the great seas, as they rolled in, poured no longer in mere sheets of foam- ↑ This miserable delay was owing to an old and inexcusable rule of the Board of Trade, by which two lines only were supplied for twelve rockets. It was necessary therefore to haul back and recoil one of the lines already fired. This required great care. The fatal consequence, in the case of the Bencoolen, cannot be over-estimated. By a regulation since made, four lines are now supplied to each station upon the Cornish coast. But it was only after great delay and useless waste of quantities of very valuable red tape that the Board at last consented to the expense of a few shillings for additional lines, in order to increase the hope of saving men’s lives.
