Lifeboat Heroes: Outstanding RNLI Rescues from Three Centuries

by Edward Wake-Walker

  Try as they might, the Appledore lifeboatmen can make no sense of what the agitated boy is trying to tell them in his very foreign tongue. Five baffled minutes pass and then there is the sound of a stampede on the wooden deck above them. Eight men appear and, as if chased by a wild animal, jump over the side, miss the lifeboat and plunge into the sea. Swiftly and expertly the oarsmen manoeuvre so that others can lean over and haul each spluttering survivor into the lifeboat.

  Just as the last man is coming aboard, the lifeboat is momentarily caught broadside to the seas and is driven hard against the barque’s overhanging stern. There is a sickening wrenching sound and as the two vessels move apart, the lifeboat’s rudder is floating flat on the surface of the sea, torn clean away from the stern. Of even more concern is the sight of the coxswain, slumped down in his position at the stern, his hands clenched tight together, his head bent forward as he rocks to and fro in obvious agony. As the two vessels came together, his torso was caught between the end-box of the lifeboat and the Pace’s side and squeezed with brutal force. Gradually he recovers his breath as the others look on anxiously. Then he unbends, coughs, takes three deep but uneasy breaths, looks at his son, nods, and pulls himself slowly to his feet to resume command. As he stands once more in the stern, his crew are astonished to see that sections of cork are hanging broken from his side and realise that his lifejacket must have saved him from being instantly crushed to death.

  Each lifeboatman knows that eight men and a boy is too small a crew for a barque the size of the Pace but they can get no answer from anyone else on board; neither can they get any sense from those that they have rescued about how many of their shipmates are left aboard. Again they try to make their voices heard above the gale and breaking seas, urging them to join the lifeboat, but no one stirs.

  Joseph Cox now decides that they have hung on long enough and it is time to get the survivors ashore. He shouts to the bowman to cut the rope holding them alongside and, with an oar thrust out over the stern, steers the lifeboat towards the beach. The boat careers forward unceremoniously in the surf, the oarsmen struggle in the pause before the next breaker to keep her stern to the seas, then she is picked up again and surges shorewards again. Launchers dash into the shallows to take the bowline and the lifeboat is hauled up the beach. The coxswain tells the launchers to get the lifeboat back on the carriage for another launch as soon as possible; her job is only half done.

  He has finally ascertained what has been going on aboard the grounded ship. Effectively, a mutiny has taken place, led by the boy, now safely ashore. The Austrian skipper had assembled all his men under the shelter of the cuddy and ordered them to stay put, forbidding them to acknowledge the lifeboat’s presence in any way. He believed that there was hope yet for his ship as the tide was beginning to fall. If the weather improved, there was a chance, he felt, she could be refloated on the next tide. Clearly the eight men who disobeyed orders and followed the boy into the lifeboat did not share his optimism. And the coxswain most certainly doesn’t; he still fears greatly for the five men left on board.

  There is relief for the exhausted oarsmen as the survivors are ushered away; they will not be needed again as there are at least enough men for a fresh crew foregathered on the beach. But for the aching Joseph Cox and his son and one other, John Kelly, there is more punishment to come. Their skill and experience are indispensable for the second mission to the Pace.

  The replacement oarsmen prove themselves to be as strong and expert as the first and, in spite of the damage to the lifeboat, she is pulled clear of the surf for a second time. This time Joseph Cox, Jnr, takes a turn to steer with the oar. In the fading winter afternoon light, he is visible from the beach, standing high in the stern, the makeshift tiller wedged under his right arm as the lifeboat makes her bucking progress out towards the wreck. Then, as the lifeboat reappears after a huge wave sweeps her end to end, the figure of the coxswain’s son is no longer there.

  He is in the water. The wave has catapulted him over the stern end-box, his oarsmen watching helplessly as he disappears. Now, without a helmsman, the sea has finally won the battle for control and the Hope slews broadside to the waves. Immediately, she is bowled upside-down and every man on board is tipped head-first into the sea.

  First to grab the boat after she has sprung back upright is young Joseph Cox. With the strength that comes with desperation, he heaves himself over the side and back on board. There are men all around him in the water; he grabs the wrist of the nearest to him and brings him half inboard. Now he can reach down his back and grasp the bottom of his lifejacket and bundle him into the boat. After a few minutes, 14 men have regained the lifeboat, all numb with cold and many still gasping for air, having swallowed quantities of seawater. Twice Joseph Cox counts the oilskin-clad figures as they move about the boat, searching for oars and attempting to restore order.

  Fourteen men are aboard but they had put out with 15. Who’s missing? Where’s the old man? Where’s the coxswain? He’s not there, he must still be in the water! The men scour the seething surface of the sea and someone spots a rounded shape about 50 yards away. Only three oars are left in the boat after the capsize. However, with a huge effort and great skill, the lifeboat is coaxed towards the bobbing shape which is, indeed, the coxswain. A crewman reaches out at full stretch with one of the oars and, to the relief of all aboard, Joseph Cox, Snr, shows there is still life left in him by grasping the blade firmly and allowing himself to be pulled to the side of the boat and then aboard.

  He is utterly exhausted and has sustained further injuries in the capsize. His son knows that he must be got ashore and that, with only three oars, any further rescue attempt would be impossible. As the oarsmen bring the lifeboat’s bow round to head for the beach, he looks back at the Pace where five men, who have at last taken refuge in the rigging of the mizzen mast, watch dejectedly as the Hope pulls away from them.

  Skilful oarsmanship and some good fortune bring the lifeboat safely back through the surf for a second time. Many more people still have gathered on the beach and there are more than enough volunteers ready to crew the lifeboat for a third launch. Among these volunteers are the crew of the Braunton lifeboat which is stationed on the north side of the estuary. They had earlier tried to launch their own boat to the wreck but had been driven back. Now they have walked several miles and crossed the river to see how they might help the Appledore crew.

  William Yeo, a banker from Bideford and a prominent member of the lifeboat committee, has taken command of the situation on the beach. Seeing the lifeboat return through the surf with only three oars, he has sent horsemen back to Appledore for replacements. They are now galloping back along the beach, each carrying an oar, like lancers into battle, and hand them, breathless to the waiting volunteers.

  But Yeo is not happy to let the lifeboat go out again. Already there has been a near disaster in a lifeboat that is far from intact. What is more, the tide has fallen a good two feet, so the danger to the Pace is already less. She can be seen full of water, lying in a hollow in the sand, almost motionless. Soon men would be able to reach her without a boat and lead the survivors to safety.

  Coxswain Joseph Cox, his hand on the helm, poses with other Appledore lifeboatmen aboard the lifeboat Hope, from which he nearly lost his life saving the crew of the Austrian barque Pace in December 1868. (RNLI)

  So the lifeboat stays put and after a while a party of men wade out through the surf to the wreck. The captain and two of his men, numb with cold, clamber stiffly down from the rigging. With their arms around the shoulders of their rescuers, they stumble through the shallows to dry land. The other two men, who had stayed with their captain, have earlier lost their battle with the elements and dropped from the rigging and drowned.

  Joseph Cox, Snr, as he is having his injuries inspected at the lifeboathouse, remembers with a start that he had originally been told of two ships in difficulties. What had become of the second one? He would not learn the full story until la
ter that day back in Appledore. She was the Leopard, of London, on her way to Gloucester from Sombrero Island in the West Indies. She eventually drove ashore at Westward Ho!, about two miles to the south west of where the Pace ran aground. The rocket brigade could not get their line aboard in the fierce onshore wind, so David Johns, a Coastguard boatman, and one of Cox’s crew on his first launch to the Pace, volunteered to swim out with a line.

  He made it out to the stranded ship but, in his attempt to board her, was struck on the head by a piece of wreckage and drowned. This tragedy did not deter another Appledore man, George Galsworthy, from trying the same thing again. He was more fortunate and made it onto the ship with the line, enabling all her crew to reach safety.

  Joseph Cox recovered from his injuries and remained coxswain at Appledore for another four years. His two launches to the Pace earned him a second and third service clasp to his Silver Medal. His son and John Kelly also received Silver Medals and all three were later awarded a silver cross of merit by no less a figure than the Emperor of Austria.

  4. Newcastle, County Down and Ilfracombe, Devon, February and December 1874

  Captain Charles Gray Jones, RN, in his brief career with the RNLI as its Second Assistant-Inspector, finds himself winning the Silver Medal for bravery twice in a year, first aboard the Newcastle, County Down, lifeboat when four men are rescued from the rigging of a schooner wrecked in Dundrum Bay and then at Ilfracombe when he and the lifeboat crew save the crew of two brigs in the Bristol Channel.

  The RNLI of the 1870s was a very different outfit from the one which, 20 years earlier, had been forced to go cap in hand to the government to save it from oblivion. Under the highly capable stewardship of its secretary, Richard Lewis, the Institution’s independent financial viability was restored and lifeboats were at last becoming the indispensable tool for communities that had been Sir William Hillary’s vision when he founded the charity in 1824.

  Between its foundation and 1850, (the year of Richard Lewis’s appointment), the RNLI, or the ‘Shipwreck Institution’ as it was colloquially known, had degenerated to little more than a remote committee of titled gentlemen who would meet each month in London to confer financial rewards and sometimes gallantry medals on seafaring folk for their lifesaving deeds. It was very rare indeed for the rescues they recognised to have been carried out in one of the Institution’s own boats, mainly because local men preferred to use their own locally-designed boats and would shun official lifeboats, viewed by many as cumbersome or inappropriate.

  At most lifeboat stations there was a boat, but not much else; no one to maintain her and often no one officially to take command at times when she might have been of use. The post-1850 General Committee, now containing naval officers with practical knowledge of seamanship, realised that to make the RNLI an active and effective rescue service it needed lifeboats designed to take local conditions into account. Moreover, there needed to be a retained coxswain at every station who was paid a fixed salary and who would be responsible for the boat’s maintenance. They, in turn, would be supervised by full-time officers of the Institution, who made regular inspections of lifeboats to ensure that they were seaworthy, that they were always ready to be launched and that a crew was available at all times.

  The official qualifications required to become an inspector of lifeboats in the early days of the reformed RNLI and the duties they needed to perform included the following:

  QUALIFICATIONS

  He should have followed the sea as a profession and must produce testimonials of his services. He should have paid special attention to boat work and be active and in good health. It is desirable that he should not be more than 40 years of age on his first appointment; and he will be called on to retire at 60 years of age, or earlier, should his activity become impaired.

  He should be intelligent and able to speak at public meetings on subjects connected with the operations of the Lifeboat Institution. He should also possess a good address and, by patience, tact and temper, be able to win the confidence of the fishermen and the seafaring population and endeavour to obtain their zealous co-operation in the lifeboat service.

  He should be able to write clearly and concisely and have knowledge of accounts and of keeping stores.

  DUTIES

  He will visit the coast in his district periodically and thoroughly inspect the lifeboat stations.

  He will, as a rule, inform the honorary local secretary of his intended visits and times of arrival and, in conjunction with the latter, will examine and check all the documents requiring his notice; but this rule is not to interfere with his visiting the station at other times when he deems it desirable to do so.

  He will take the boats out, when practicable, at least twice in each year.

  He will move about amongst the crews of the lifeboats and confer with the coxswains as to the conduct and ability of their men, and should he find prejudice against the working of the system in any particular locality, he will endeavour to remove it.

  He will correspond with and receive his instructions from the Chief Inspector; and all his reports are to be addressed to that officer who will pass them to the Secretary, together with a summary of their contents, for the information of the General Committee.

  He will meet the Chief Inspector on his visits to the coast and call attention to any points which he may consider require the Chief Inspector’s personal observation.

  He will attend public meetings in his district called in furtherance of the objects of the Institution and encourage local interest in its favour to the best of his ability. He will also, in conjunction with the local committees and secretaries, use every effort to maintain and improve the interests of the Institution, financially and otherwise, in each locality.

  He will always bear in mind that the Lifeboat Service in all its details is voluntary, and in his relations with the local secretaries and committees, and in his conduct towards the coxswains and crews, he should exercise the greatest conciliation, consistent with the necessary vigilance in maintaining the several lifeboat establishments in a state of thorough efficiency.

  Contained within these brief paragraphs is the essence of the RNLI’s extraordinary success as a national voluntary rescue service over the past 150 years. Any inspector joining the RNLI today would find remarkable similarities between these 19th century instructions and his current job description. It has always been in the hands of a lifeboat inspector to balance the recognition that his workforce is voluntary with the discipline required in maintaining a seamanlike operation. That quintessential skill, arguably above all other, is what has made the RNLI so great for so long.

  The hierarchy of the RNLI inspectorate in the 1870s allowed not only for a Chief Inspector and five District Inspectors, there was also an Assistant-Inspector and a Second Assistant-Inspector operating from the headquarters in London. Appointed to this latter post in February 1874, at an annual salary of £200, was one Captain Charles Gray Jones, RN. Although his employment with the RNLI lasted less than four years, he was to achieve, in his very first year with the Institution, a record which has never been repeated by a lifeboat inspector.

  The job of Second Assistant-Inspector was clearly not a desk-bound one. Within days of his taking up his position on 5 February 1874, Gray Jones was despatched on a tour of the east coast of Ireland visiting stations at Rogerstown, Drogheda, Dundalk, Newcastle, Tyrella and Ballywalter. The weather during his trip was clearly determined to give him a baptism by fire and when he awoke in his hotel bed in Newcastle, County Down at daybreak on 26 February, he could hear the full force of a heavy south-easterly gale beating against his window.

  The view out into Dundrum Bay which greeted him was of a jagged grey and white mass of breakers heaving and elbowing their way towards the shore and crashing in shimmering plumes against the sea wall. As his eyes adjusted to the scene, he began to make out through the spray the shape of a ship’s mast, a schooner with sails in ribbons and with precious little distance betw
een her and the surf-strewn rocks to the south of the bay. The gale was blowing her straight at the shore and she would surely be a wreck within the hour.

  The town of Newcastle had an exceptional record when it came to courageous deeds of lifesaving in Dundrum Bay. In the 50 years since the RNLI’s foundation, the Institution had awarded four Gold and 12 Silver Medals to its citizens. Although a lifeboat had been stationed close to St John’s Point at the north end of the bay as early as 1825, neither that one nor its eventual successor placed at Newcastle itself in 1854, had been used in any of these medal-winning rescues. Now, however, there was a chance for a lifeboat of the modern RNLI to prove herself and Captain Gray Jones was down at the lifeboat station like a shot.

  James Hall, coxswain of the Newcastle lifeboat, would have found it difficult to tell his important visitor from head office that he would rather leave him on the shore for this mission, even if he had felt inclined to do so. The Second Assistant Inspector was obviously determined to demonstrate his credentials as early in his RNLI career as possible and took command of the situation. The lifeboat, the Reigate, was hauled out of her shed and before long her crew was pulling hard on the oars to clear the hefty breakers, Gray Jones standing erect beside the coxswain in the stern.

  Even before the lifeboat was afloat, the schooner, the Rose of Youghal, bound originally for Dublin from Bridgwater, was aground. The moment she struck, water poured in through her hull and over her deck and one of her crew was swept off his feet and carried overboard, never to be seen alive again. The four men who remained aboard were quick enough to make it to the fore-rigging as the ship disappeared beneath the surface.