Foreigners who have had any experience of this coast dread, above all things, the costly assistance of its hovellers. The following particulars are supplied to me by a consul of the country to which the vessel belonged: the captain was steering, in a heavy sea, straight for the Brake Sand. A lugger offered to put one or two men on board, but the captain was more afraid of the lugger than of the dangerous bank, and would not let the men come on board. ‘I have been here before. I know you. If you once get on board you will have half my ship and cargo. I shall take my chance.’ He steered on to the sand before the eyes of the boatmen and every soul on board perished.
A very different view of the service the hovellers provided was given by George Byng Gattie, civil servant, author, and patriotic citizen of Kent. In his Memorials of the Goodwin Sands, published in 1890, Gattie devoted a chapter to the particularities of hovelling and in it mounted a passionate defence of the trade. As he saw it, the hovellers were heroic practitioners of a noble trade, and had been slandered both by their fellow countrymen and the French. ‘Taking the whole body all round,’ he wrote, ‘the hovellers are as honest, well-conducted and respectable a set of men as are to be found anywhere round our coasts.’ According to Gattie, Daniel Defoe’s account of the Great Storm of 1703 was highly partisan and ‘libels the Dealmen in the grossest and foulest manner possible, charging them with visiting wrecks for the express purpose of saving whatever valuables they could for their own use, but leaving the crews to drown or perish! A more abominable and cruel falsehood it is impossible to conceive, for anybody who knows anything of the peculiar feelings of a Deal hoveller is well aware that his first thought, in all his daring and desperate expeditions to the Sands, is to save life and NOT property.’ The hovellers would race each other to a wreck, Gattie claimed, not with the intention of removing the ship’s best pickings, but with the hope of being first to reach a soul in distress, adding: ‘An incidence of a hoveller hesitating for a moment when there is a chance of saving life has, we believe, never been known.’
It was true, Gattie conceded, that the hovellers were occasionally accused of terrible crimes. Over the years, they had been forced to defend themselves against charges that they deliberately slipped anchor chains, that they were habitual drunkards or incurably addicted to smuggling. Most of the charges were, he considered, no more than the foul-minded libels of landsmen. Admittedly, hovellers had sometimes been hauled up before the local courts on charges of wrecking or extortion, and once in a while someone had been convicted of cutting cables. But though it was also true that many of the Deal men freely admitted to smuggling, Gattie believed that ‘he was not one whit worse than his neighbours in the adjoining counties . . . This class of simple, half-educated man, who have not gone very deeply into the theories of Adam Smith or John Stuart Mill, or made fiscal questions their special study, can never be brought to understand how or why, having fairly and honestly bought and paid for goods in a foreign country, they are breaking any law in landing and selling their lawfully purchased property.’ Worst of all, in Gattie’s view, was the allegation that the hovellers were overly fond of a drink. ‘This is a most unjust and unfounded accusation . . . a vile calumny entirely devoid of truth.’ On the contrary, Gattie claimed, ‘It is scarcely a matter of wonder that these men, who are accustomed to lead a hard laborious life, often exposed to winds and waves, snow and rain, in an open boat, without deck or shelter, for hours together, when they come ashore with, perhaps, every stitch upon them wet through, and halffrozen besides, should straightway indulge in that genuine sailor’s comfort, a little grog; and who would blame them?’ Taken all in all, he (unreassuringly) considered the hovellers to be ‘honest, hard-working, well-conducted, and respectable a set of men as are to be found anywhere round our coasts’.
Then there were the official salvors. If a ship was seen in distress, a group of the boldest sailors would race out to her from one of the nearby towns. If her hull was found to be damaged beyond repair, or—as in the case of many older ships—she was not deemed worthy of refloating, the salvors would negotiate terms with the captain to make the ship secure and to save the cargo. Those terms often caused friction. Shipowners and insurers on both sides of the Channel complained that the Kent salvors were little better than pirates. The French in particular alleged that the salvors condemned ships which were still seaworthy, that they forced captains to accept extortionate terms, that they boarded ships without consent, that they were more interested in saving cargo than they were in saving either passengers or crew, and that in some cases, they might deliberately wreck or scupper a salveable ship.
In 1857, the AB Kimbal, an American vessel, ran aground on the Goodwins. She was boarded by Deal boatmen who negotiated terms with the captain for saving both cargo and passengers. The captain then ordered his own effects to be placed in one of the luggers, and sent his steward with the boat back to shore. ‘When the lugger approached the shore after dark,’ reported Lloyd’s,
the boatmen told the steward they could not run their lugger ashore through all that surf. He must land in a small boat. At daylight, he could return and they would land the things. At daylight the lugger had disappeared and the captain’s effects and merchandise were never seen again. The next afternoon, when the captain reached the beach, and learned that he had been robbed of all he possessed in the world, he is reported to have been wholly overcome with grief: and to have exclaimed that he should return to his own country and report, that he had lost his ship in a country where the inhabitants were more savage than those of Patagonia . . . the next day, after the loss of the ship, her provisions, stolen by the boatmen, were hawked about the streets of Maidstone for sale.
By 1867, the French had become so indignant at perceived malpractices that a group of salvage experts issued a report on English wrecking. In it they complained that: ‘by the side of the lifeboats and their gallant crews, there exists a perfect fleet of boats, manned by grasping sailors, who prowl constantly in the neighbourhood of sand banks on the lookout for vessels which they may save, volens volens, from dangers, often imaginary, with a view to extorting indemnification from the owners, whom the law places completely at their mercy.’ They cited instances where pilots had claimed salvage for bringing a ship safely into port, of coastguards speculating on wrecks, of professional salvors exaggerating claims, ‘Or, lastly, these same salvors, suddenly transforming themselves into a company of pirates, board vessels which do not ask for any assistance, and engage in a struggle with the crew, who they overpower . . . It is a notorious fact that vessels in danger sometimes prefer running the risk of being lost to putting themselves into the hands of salvors; in no case do they willingly accept the assistance of the latter, except in the last extremity.’
If this seemed far-fetched, then it was backed up by the 1866 ‘Letter from the Committee of Maritime Underwriters in Paris’: ‘We certify,’ they wrote,
that it is of public notoriety in France, among those who are acquainted with matters of navigation, that on the English coasts the trade of salvage or . . . of simple assistance rendered to ships in peril by boatmen, fishermen, pilots and steam-vessels, is exercised under very oppressive conditions, which appear to us little worth of a civilised nation and for which we can scarcely find a parallel, unless among the wreckers of the Bahamas . . . we complain of these abuses, less in our own interest as underwriters . . . than in the interests of navigation itself, of morality, and of civilisation. It is certain that salvage, such as we see it practised on the English coasts, is a remnant of barbarism.
Lastly, there were the pilots. As in other parts of the country, the Kent pilots would race out to a ship’s signal, and the first man on board would pick up the commission to guide the ship out to sea or into safe anchorage. As the Lloyd’s report put it, ‘the pilot acts as a sort of advisor to the captain; ready at hand for all matters connected to the navigation of the ship which require local knowledge; and he is a watchman by night’. Unlike the hovellers, the pilots op
erated under a licencing system, licences being granted to freemen of Dover and Sandwich usually through a system of patronage. The system worked much like black taxis and minicabs do; both licenced and unlicenced pilots would compete for fares, and it was up to the captain to choose between the accredited pilots or those who, for a lesser fee, might guide them to safety or leave them sinking on a sandbank.
William Stanton was rare among boatmen for his willingness to put pen to paper. Born in 1803, he was raised in Deal, educated in Walmer and had put to sea by the age of eight as both pilot and salvor. In 1834, Stanton charmed the Duke of Wellington both into giving him dinner (‘a most splendid set-out it was,’ he recalled, ‘of every luxury you could think of’) and into approving his full pilot’s licence. Stanton made his living in the same way as the rest of the Deal men: through a combination of guile, courage, sharp practice and—if necessary—violence. Stanton’s account of the night of 31 December 1830 offers a pungent impression of his working methods. Though his version of the story should probably be taken with caution and a sea’s worth of salt, it does also give a sense of just how hard even for those born within sight of the Sands found negotiating the Goodwins.
During a high south-west gale, a German-registered brig, the Alexander, was spotted in trouble on the banks. Several Deal men put to sea, sailing rapidly towards the grounded ship. The tide was falling and by the time they reached her side, there was only five foot of water below their keels. Stanton and a friend of his, John Wilkins, leapt aboard. The brig’s mainmast and rudder had gone, but—as far as Stanton could make out—the Alexander did not seem badly holed. The captain told them that the vessel was new, ‘only five days since she was built, being iron-knee’d and copper-fastened, and very flat-bottomed, and that she would stand beating over a cliff’. She was carrying a cargo of linens valued at £25,000, and when the captain took Stanton aside and offered him £500 for saving her, Stanton rejected the offer, hoping that saving such a valuable ship would mean he could make a better settlement later. Ordering the remains of the mainmast to be cut away, Stanton set about trying to refloat the ship. ‘While doing this,’ he noted, ‘a young gentleman came and insisted on my calling a boat to take him on shore directly as he was the super-cargo, and did not mind what the expense was. I told him to pack up his valuables and he should go when the boat came.’ At first, the brig did well, rolling off the sea bed and sailing rudderless over the Sands towards safer open water. But after an hour or so, her bow dipped seawards. Stanton sent the carpenter below to see what the problem was. ‘He came up: his countenance told me enough. He said there was more than four feet of water in her forward.’ Stanton set all hands to pumping the bilges, but it was already too late. ‘I saw quickly she was done and beat and a wreck.’
The wind had risen again, and Stanton signalled for the remaining Deal luggers to come alongside to take off the crew and passengers, and to salve as much of the cargo as they could. As Stanton was battling to get a line to one of the boats, ‘the young man came to me with a bundle under his arm, and says, “why have you not got a boat for me, according to my orders? I insist on you calling a boat for me immediately, for I am the owner’s son, and a gentleman, and I will stop here no longer for anyone!” At last he became quite troublous.’ Stanton lost his temper, and shouted at the boy that if he did not sit in the cuddy and wait, the next boat ashore would not take him aboard. ‘He went in quite astonished,’ Stanton wrote, ‘and there I saw the poor fellow drown among the tables and chairs.’
Turning back to his task, Stanton realised that the luggers could not reach them and that the brig was on the verge of breaking up. As he began to shout orders for all those remaining on board to climb the foretop, the deck began to splinter beneath his feet. As the two halves of the Alexander bowed seawards Stanton found himself stranded aft alongside the captain and the remaining crew. Struggling to haul himself up the almost vertical decks, Stanton finally reached the foretop (the platform at the top of the foremast). As he did so,
the captain laid hold of me, begging and crying of me to save him, as if he thought I knew of some supernatural means to do so. On my looking down upon them aft, there was a heart-rending scene as ever eyes beheld: the men were drowning one at a time, the most awful deaths imaginable. One fine-built man actually died hanging by his wrist over the port side . . . his shrieks and cries are more than my pen can describe, and their looking up to us in the foretop, in a most pitiful manner, for help which was impossible for us to render, and we appearing in a safe place to them.
But their haven proved to be a false one. Stanton knew the foretop was eventually going to fall and—since the only parts of the brig remaining above water were the bowsprit, the forechains and a small section of bow—he did his best to cajole the others into moving. By now, most were either mute with terror, or had resigned themselves to a quick death. Stanton’s companion John Wilkins had lashed himself to the forelift, and when Stanton tried to urge him towards the bowsprit, he refused to move. Yelling through the gale, Stanton told Wilkins he planned to ‘die like men and strive to the last’. Wilkins remained, silent and unresponsive, neither moving further to save himself nor letting go. ‘I never got another word from his lips after this time. He was a fine strong-built young man, stood six feet, and in the height of his prime.’
By now, the storm had reached hurricane force, with a vicious cross-tide and mountainous surf. As the remaining men groped their way to the only parts of the ship which remained above water, a wall of grey-green sea rose up, washing the captain and three men off the bowsprit. The next wave left no-one alive except Stanton and one other sailor, who lashed themselves to the chains with the only binding they had to hand—their cravats. The fabric was insufficient; the next big sea that broke over them washed the two away from the remains of the ship and out over the Sands. As he drifted half-conscious across the Goodwins, he saw the two local boats still standing off. Somehow, he alerted their attention:
My legs refused their office, and my lips they told me were as black as ink . . . just at the time they got me in the boat we drifted into such a quantity of bale goods all around us; they asked me if I could stand it if they picked up some bales. I answered, “if you do not intend taking me on shore directly, throw me overboard again and let someone pick me up that will!” Not another word was spoken, but they clapped all the muslin on for Ramsgate. Poor fellows, the bales were very tempting to needy men, but I felt very ill, and I might expect to get worse.
Fed, bled, and rested, Stanton made his way to Deal, where he assumed his family would be anxiously awaiting his return. But, when he got home, he found his wife unimpressed by his heroic survival. She, ‘knew nothing of my day’s encounter, for she began telling me she was invited to a party, as it being the Old Year Out and the New Year In. She little thought the narrow escape I had from taking my exit altogether.’
Some time later, Stanton went to court in Dover to claim a salvage award. Though an award was made to the men who eventually managed to retrieve £6,000 of cargo from the brig, Stanton was told by the court that ‘there was no precedent to award for saving life’. Stanton’s experiences perfectly illustrate the peculiarities of salvage law, and the disincentive to save life which existed right up to the founding of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution in 1834. He, meanwhile, retired in 1867, and spent the remainder of his days writing up his Journal of a Deal Pilot, which offers an account of his working life at once both blunt and coy. ‘In later and more prosperous times,’ remarked Ashton Long in the journal’s foreword, ‘I fear the (Deal pilots) got an evil reputation . . . the evil was beginning in Stanton’s time, as he found when the Dover dock men refused to run off a rope without excessive payment. As is usual in such cases, the inevitable occurred: they abused their privileged position, were given plenty of rope, and hanged themselves.’
***
A milder generation of Englishmen are still dealing with the Goodwins, though these days the hazards are of a differ
ent kind. Since the recent reorganisation of the Coastguard service, Andy Roberts has been responsible for a section of coastline running from Heme Bay to Rye. The Channel itself is bisected by an invisible 12-mile borderline, the southern part controlled by the French and the northern by the UK’s Maritime and Coastguard Agency. Anything which might affect both sides of the line—a mid-channel collision, a powerless vessel—is subject to negotiation between the French and British authorities. But even with the assistance of the French, Roberts and his colleagues in Dover are responsible for an area which includes not only the Goodwins, but the narrowest part of the Channel and Beachy Head, Britain’s coastal destination of choice for the suicidal.
Merely policing the Channel itself would, Roberts says, keep him busy enough. At present, this narrow stretch of water takes over 600 shipping movements a day. Some of those—like the ferries—are regular and scheduled, but the rest—the supertankers, the freighters, the holiday yachts—vary from place to place and time to time. What are the weather conditions like in this part of the country, I ask. Is this, like the east coast, a bad area for fogs? ‘It’s no more or less foggy than other parts of the UK, but you know yourself how quickly it comes down when you’re driving. And out there, no-one slows down for fog. When I used to drive the hovercraft, we would still keep going at 60 mph through the fog, back and forth.’
The Wreckers Page 7
