University of Virginia Library

Those who have read Sir Evelyn's Wood's volume, “The Crimea in 1854 and 1894,” will remember his account of an able-seaman, Michael Hardy, of H.M.S. “Leander,” and the record of this Irishman's bravery.

On the morning fixed for the assault of the Redan, the 18th of June, the anniversary of the battle of Waterloo, young Evelyn Wood, who was ill, writes:—

“Thinking I would secure, at all events, one physically strong man at my side, I observed to Hardy, who was holding me on to my saddle, ‘When we go out, I shall stick to Captain Peel, mind you stick to me.’ Hardy replied somewhat evasively; ‘Yes, I'll stick to him, if he goes well to the front.’ This indomitable blue-jacket fully carried out his somewhat insubordinately expressed intention of not permitting anyone to surpass him in the assault.”

That evening, young Wood, who had been wounded, whilst lying in the operating tent, enquired anxiously for his friend Michael Hardy, of whom he could learn nothing then; but he continues:—“At the flag of truce next day, his body was found under an embrasure of the Redan, the only man as far as I know, who crossed the ‘Abatis’ and Ditch that day.”—

At the time of the Crimean War, William Peel, the third son of the great minister, was Captain of H.M.S. “Diamond.” Evelyn Wood writes:—

“We had heard of him, that when in command of his first ship, H.M.S. “Excellent,” he was reading in the stern cabin, and hearing the shout, ‘man overboard,’ rushed to the window in time to see a blue-jacket pass underneath him. With one spring Peel was in the water, and supported the man till both were picked up; and when the officer of the watch ran down to report ‘man overboard—boat lowered,’ the cabin was empty—it was not known what had happened until both were brought on board.”

Though all our officers were brave, it was Captain Peel who inspired his followers with a part of his own nature. He exemplified the American poet's hero:—

In 1851, when crossing the Nubian Desert from Korosko to Abu Hamed (where Colonel Stewart and his companions, sent down by Colonel Gordon, were treacherously slain in 1884), Peel dismounted from his camel to give water from his store to a small dying bird!

One day, he to my knowledge, although I did not see it, gave us a grand example. A shell weighing 42 pounds came through the parapet, and rolled into the centre of a small group of men who threw themselves flat on the ground, which would not, however, have saved those nearest, for there were several boxes of powder on the ground then being passed into the magazine.

Peel, stooping down, lifted the shell, and resting it on his chest, carried it back to the parapet, and stepping on to the “banquette,” rolled the shell over the superior crest, on which it immediately burst.

(Extract from “The Crimea in 1854 and 1894,” by General Sir Evelyn Wood, G.C.B., V.C.).— Fortnightly Review, October, 1894.

On the night of April 25, 1886, a fire broke out in an oil and colourman's shop, at the corner of Gravel Lane in Union Street, Borough.

The fire cut off all chance of escape by the stairs, and was too fierce to admit of the use of the fire-escape.

Alice Ayres who was the nurse-maid in the household, was seen at a window in the second floor with a child in her arms and the crowd called to her to save herself. She refused to do this; after pushing a mattress through the narrow window, she waited till the people below held it ready, and then dropped the child down upon it. She disappeared into the burning house and reappeared with a second child whom she likewise dropped through the window to safety; again heedless of the cries to save herself she went back for the third time and effected the rescue of the last of her charges. Then and not till then she herself attempted to jump, but owing probably to her being faint from the fumes, she could not jump clear of the house, struck one of the dummy jars above the shop front, and fell thence to the pavement with a broken back. She lingered a little while in Grey's hospital saying only to those who came to see her on her death-bed that she “had tried to do her best.”

There is a fine fresco in the Red Cross Hall, by Walter Crane, which illustrates this heroic incident. The people there speak of her proudly as “Our Alice.” A full account of her is given by Miss Lane in her “Heroes of Every-day Life,” pp. 60-64.

Lord Gifford, V.C., has communicated the following to Reuter's Agency:—

“The Hon. Maurice Gifford writes by this mail a graphic account of how Major Wilson and his party met their fate in their plucky attempt to capture Lobengula. Mr Gifford obtained the information from an Induna of the Insuka Regiment, who was present at the engagement. The account is briefly as follows:—

“‘On Major Wilson and his party returning with Captain Borrow's reinforcements to the King's scherm in the morning, they were received by a volley from part of the Inguba and Imbisu regiments, who had orders to take up their position on the road by which Major Wilson and his party would return. On receiving the volley, Major Wilson retired into the bush towards the river, but he found his party surrounded on all sides by natives numbering from 2,500 to 3,000 at the very least. The orders from the Indunas to their men were that on reaching Major Wilson's party they were to shoot the horses first. This order the Matabele proceeded to carry into effect, Major Wilson's party keeping up a heavy fire all the time. The horses which Major Wilson had tied together in a ring were soon all shot. The Englishmen then lay down behind them, and kept up a steady fire, with such good effect that they succeeded in driving off the Matabele for a short time; but reinforcements arriving from across the river, the attack was again renewed, and, as far as Mr Gifford could gather from the Induna, the fight must have lasted some three hours. A number of our men were seen to be wounded, and their ammunition began to run short. Then the natives gradually crept up closer, shooting any one they could. The Induna describes Major Wilson most accurately by his dress and the hat he wore, and states that he was wounded in several places and covered with blood, whilst another wounded man stood by his side loading rifles and handing them to him. Major Wilson and his men fought desperately to the very last. The Induna said, that as the supreme moment came, the English-men, who were still able to rise, stood shoulder to shoulder, took off their hats, and joined in a song, the kind of song that he (the Induna) had heard missionaries sing to the natives. The Matabele then rushed up, and whilst the men were singing what we suppose to have been ‘God Save the Queen,’ they were overwhelmed by the natives and assegaied. The Induna estimated that the Matabele lost eight to every one of the 34 white men killed, and said that Lobengula's warriors lay round the dead white men like grass.’”— Cf. The Times, March 13th, 1893.

The incident here described took place on 2nd June 1879, during the Zulu war, when Sir Redvers Buller, with Lord Beresford acting as his staff officer, undertook a reconnaisance in force across the Umvaloosi River towards the Kraal of King Cetewayo at Ulundi. The gallant deed, which attracted much notice at the time, won for Lord William Beresford the Victoria Cross. It is very fully described by the war-correspondent, Archibald Forbes, in a paper entitled, “The Bravest Deed I ever saw,” in the first number of Pearson's Magazine for Jan. 1896.

“The Queen has been graciously pleased to signify her intention to confer the decoration of the Victoria Cross upon the undermentioned Officer, whose claim has been submitted for her Majesty's approval, for his conspicuous bravery during the sortie from Chitral Fort, on the 3rd March last, as recorded against his name:—

Act of Courage for which recommended.—During the sortie from Chitral Fort of the 3rd March last, at the commencement of the siege, Surgeon Captain Whitchurch went to the assistance of Captain Baird, 24th Bengal Infantry, who was mortally wounded, and brought him back to the fort under a heavy fire from the enemy. Captain Baird was on the right of the fighting line, and had only a small party of Gurkhas and men of the 4th Kashmir Rifles. He was wounded on the heights at a distance of a mile and a half from the fort. When Surgeon Captain Whitchurch proceeded to his rescue, the enemy, in great strength, had broken through the fighting line; darkness had set in, and Captain Baird, Surgeon Captain Whitchurch, and the sepoys were completely isolated from assistance. Captain Baird was placed in a dooly by Surgeon Captain Whitchurch, and the party then attempted to return to the fort. The Gurkhas bravely clung to the dooly until three were killed and a fourth was severely wounded. Surgeon Captain Whitchurch then put Captain Baird upon his back and carried him some distance with heroic courage and resolution. The little party kept diminishing in numbers, being fired at the whole way. On one or two occasions Surgeon Captain Whitchurch was obliged to charge walls, from behind which the enemy kept up an incessant fire. At one place particularly the whole party was in imminent danger of being cut up, having been surrounded by the enemy. Surgeon Captain Whitchurch gallantly rushed the position, and eventually succeeded in getting Captain Baird and the sepoys into the fort. Nearly all the party were wounded, Captain Baird receiving two additional wounds before reaching the fort.”— Cf. The Standard, July 17, 1895.

“It is difficult to write temperately about Whithurch,” said Mr Robertson in reporting this action to the Government, and men who have themselves gained the Victoria Cross have said that never was it more gallantly earned than on this occasion by the Surgeon Major.

“On the arrival of our relief party” write the Captains Younghusband in their “Relief of Chitral,” “One of the first subjects on which they spoke to us was about poor Baird. Few officers have ever attached their comrades more sincerely to them than did this brave officer, and he was one of the best and keenest soldiers in the service. He was noted for his tact and for the amiability of his character, and he studied his profession with the spirit of an enthusiast. His coolness was as remarkable as his zeal, and suffering though he was and knowing that he must die, he remained cheerful and collected to the last. He said that he would not have wished to die any other death than the soldier's death which he was now to meet; he had done his duty and led his men as a soldier should do, and he never regretted his fate. He gave a few last messages to those at home and then, with a smile on his face, and thinking of his profession to the very end, wished his comrades success in their plans and bade them good-bye.

“He died on the morning of March 4th, and was buried in the dead of night outside the main gate of the fort while the enemy were firing all round.”

Trooper Abbott, of Crosthwaite, Keswick, fell with Major Wilson, Captain Borrow, and thirty-five comrades near the Shangani river, Matabeleland, 4th December, 1893, when in pursuit of Lobengula.

“Yesterday morning a shocking occurrence happened at the East Ham sewage pumping station in which four men lost their lives, and another lies in the West Ham Hospital in a precarious condition; in fact, little hopes are entertained of his recovery. It appears that between six and seven o'clock a man named Arthur Rutter went down a well for the purpose of cleaning the screen in front of the sewer pipes leading to the pumping station. It was noticed that Rutter suddenly disappeared in the water, which was five feet deep at the time. Digby at once descended the well to rescue his companion, when he also disappeared. Mr F. Mills, the chief engineer in charge of the works, was informed of what had occurred, and immediately descended the ladder, and, hearing groans, asked what was the matter. These were the last words he is supposed to have uttered, as he almost immediately disappeared. Durrant was the next to go to the rescue, and he met with a similar fate, and was followed by a man named Jones. The latter, however, feeling the effects of the gas, nearly met with a similar fate as the other men. The test of placing a bucket of fire down the shaft was then resorted to, and it was found that this would burn. A man named Herbert Worman volunteered to go down, and succeeded in bringing the body of Jones to the top, and he was taken on the police ambulance to West Ham Hospital. With great determination Worman descended no less than four times, and was driven back by the foul gases. At last, however, after a lapse of three hours he brought the first body to the surface, and afterwards brought two more to the top. A man named George Wheal brought the fourth man out. All four were dead. Mr Mills was very popular amongst his men.”— The Daily Chronicle, July 2nd, 1895.

The news of this heroic deed comes from Victoria in British Columbia. A storm raged so furiously on Wednesday, 24th January 1894, in the harbour there, where Her Majesty's Ship “Garnet” was lying, that a sailor was blown clean overboard. It is easy to understand from this fact the force of the wind, and what the waves would have been like. On the disappearance of the sailor, orders to lower the cutter were immediately given. It was seen, however, that the man was drowning, and his death would have been certain, had not Midshipman Addison, the very youngest officer of the ship, jumped overboard, and supported the man until help arrived. Captain Hughes-Hallett of the “Garnet” reports that the action was one of uncommon bravery, as a full gale was blowing, and he will recommend the young officer for the Royal Humane Society's medal.

A shaft accident which happened at the Naval Colliery, Penycraig, on Thursday night, December 14, 1893, will long be remembered for the heroism displayed by a collier who lost his life in the attempt to save his comrades. Six men had descended in the cage to put in position a rope which had just been lowered after having been brought to bank and spliced. As they were going down, the rope, which was hanging in the shaft, struck against the side of the cage and slightly tilted it over. Almost immediately the ascending cage struck it, and three men were jerked out, and falling to the pit's bottom, were instantly killed. There still remained in the now blocked cage the overman (John Waye), the rope inspector (Thomas Isaacs), and a lad named Ivor Foster, aged 16. Seeing their perilous position, Waye said he would go down by the guide rope, get through the pit to the upcast shaft, and so obtain help. Isaacs and his mate could see Waye descend safely for about 150 yards. Then he called out to some hauliers on the four-foot landing, “How far am I from the bottom?” They replied, “Not far.” Thereupon he was heard to mumble something, and then to cry out, “O dear, I am done for now.” The friction had probably become too great for him to hold on longer. He let go, and was hurled like a flash past the hauliers in the landing, dashed against the pit's bottom, and instantly killed.— Daily Paper.

On November 1st, 1891, a cyclone swept over Port Blar, the Indian Penal settlement in the Andaman islands. The “Enterprise,” which was lying at her moorings, was caught by the tornado, and at 2 o'clock in the morning of the 2nd broke adrift, and was dashed upon the South Point Reef, where she soon went to pieces.

There were eighty-three souls on board; out of this total only six Lascar seamen were saved. And these were rescued by an admirable act of courage.

Close to the spot where the steamer was driven upon the rocks is a small settlement of female convicts. As the cyclone threatened to destroy the buildings, these women were allowed to go down to the shore.

When the “Enterprise” broke up and the crew were seen struggling in the waves, these brave women formed themselves into a line holding one another by the hand, and so while the one end of this living chain remained on shore, the other reached out far into the surf, ready to seize and help the exhausted survivors.

It is solely to the gallant conduct of these female prisoners that the six survivors owe their lives.

On the evening of September 9th, 1892, the sailing cutter of H.M. “Swallow,” while cruising off the south end of the Zanzibar Islands, anchored off Uzi Island, when half the men landed, leaving the chief boatswain M`Dermott, John Sadler, H. Payne, Charles Lawford, and W. Rundle, A.B. seamen, in the boat. Lawford and Payne jumped overboard and were bathing, when a large shark was seen making towards Lawford. The shark was only four or five feet off when, without any hesitation, and without waiting to divest himself of any of his clothes, M`Dermott plunged into the sea “right on top of the shark,” and with the splash he made frightened it away for a short time, while the men were quickly drawn into the boat. This extraordinary act of heroism, the particulars of which have just been forwarded to the Royal Humane Society by the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty, has been investigated by the committee of the former body, which has unanimously conferred its silver medal upon Thomas M`Dermott.

The following is an extract from a letter which appeared in the Daily Chronicle of 30th Aug. 1895 from the Sec. of the Hunstanton Branch of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution.

“Sir,—May I call the attention of your readers to the disaster which befell the “Princess,” one of our pleasure-boats, through a whirlwind squall off Skegness at the beginning of this week, an account of which they will have seen in your columns?

“In this accident five lives were lost, and it was only through the splendid heroism of the skipper, A. Riches, that the remainder, numbering eleven, were saved.

“Immediately upon the boat foundering, when all were thrown into the water, he, with rare presence of mind, helped a boy into the small boat attached to the yawl, and gave him his open knife to cut the line connecting it, and swimming in a rough sea he saved in all by his own individual exertions nine of the party, of whom not one was able to swim. He had at one time no less than five persons clinging to him at once, all of whom he ultimately rescued.”

“One incident of heroism is worth recording; as the daylight was breaking we heard, about one hundred yards off, yells of pain, and on looking in the direction saw a wounded nigger standing up, crying ‘Miaw’ (‘Mother,’ an exclamation always used by Zulus in time of distress). Immediately every rifle ceased firing, and cries of ‘Run in’ were raised. He seemed undetermined for a long while, till the Bishop of Mashonaland, Dr Knight-Bruce, went out to him, and helped him in to camp, amid constant shot from the enemy. A cheer went up, and business was resumed.”—Extract from J. Bolder's account of the battle of Shangani River.— The Standard, 4th Jan. 1894.

H.M.S. “Serpent,” Commander H. L. Ross, sailed on Saturday, Nov. 8th, 1890, from Plymouth for the West African Station, and after encountering heavy gales was cast upon a reef called the Punta Buey, near Camarinas, on the N.E. coast of Spain, and her crew numbering nearly two hundred hands, with three exceptions, perished.

It is believed that in consequence of the heavy weather lights and bearings were unobtainable; that owing to some atmospheric disturbance, or to the presence of large quantities of iron ore in the geological formation of the coast, the ship's compass had been temporarily put out of gear, and that the set of the Atlantic current, accelerated by the westerly gale, drove the ship out of her course; while the officer of the watch, failing to make the light of Cape Finisterre, got into Camarinas Bay, wherefrom, as he missed the light on Cape Villano, escape was impossible.

One of the survivors stated that they struck at 10 p.m., when it was black as pitch; everybody kept cool, notwithstanding that the sea broke furiously over the deck and continually washed men away.

An hour after the ship struck, the Commander, seeing that all was lost, gave the men leave to save themselves as best they could, but only one man sprang into the water. Another survivor said, “as soon as we struck there was a rush on deck, but order was immediately obtained. Captain Ross was most cool and collected. He at once gave the order ‘Close all water-tight doors and clear away the boats,’ and the orders were instantly obeyed.

“The whaler from the port quarter with nine or ten men in her was lowered away, but she had barely touched the water before she was dashed against the ship's side and crushed to pieces. “There was never any panic. I wish this to be known in fairness to those that are gone.”

After the great fire that destroyed Messrs Mawson & Swan's chemical warehouses at Newcastle-on-Tyne, a fireman, named

Murphy, died from the effects of the fumes. Formerly a man-of-warsman, Murphy had been instrumental from first to last in saving thirty lives as member of the various fire brigades he had joined. One of the most heroic rescues he effected is the subject of the accompanying ballad.

A fire had broken out in London in a tenanted house of four or five stories, and working its way upward had entirely gutted the lower floors, when suddenly the face of a woman appeared at a top window. All attempts at rescue seemed out of the question. Between the top of the side wall of the house where the fire had originated, and the adjoining building which had also now caught fire, there was an iron girder or stay many yards in length, and about a foot wide. The girder was almost red hot, but suddenly a fireman appeared upon it, and amid the absolute silence of the crowd beneath, he slowly and steadily stepped across upon it and disappeared into the burning building. He soon reappeared, carrying a woman in his arms, and again deliberately crossed by the girder, and was quickly in the street with his burden safe and sound. His face was scorched, and his boots had been burned off his feet by the hot girder. This was Murphy, the Fire Brigade-man.

William Walker, his son, and two other men, were working in Postlethwaite's Eskett mines on the Cumberland seaboard. A sudden rush of red hematite iron ore took place, crushed and buried Walker's son, and overwhelmed his companions. William Walker felt that his boy was beyond human help, but heard faint cries from the others, and knew that not a moment was to be lost.

He set to work in the terrible darkness with desperate will to dig them out; in so doing, his spade actually came in contact with his own son's dead body, but he kept his presence of mind, stuck to his purpose, and thought his heart was nigh to breaking, toiled on till he had effected the rescue of his comrades.—1891.

My informant, in a diary written on the spot, at Walhalla, Stringer's Creek, Gippsland, Victoria, says:—

“Two or three years ago the whole town, or nearly the whole, was burned down. The fire started on a Saturday afternoon in the Hotel. Almost all the folk were on the hills above the town, for it was hot weather. They made for their homes, and began getting their goods out; but someone raised a cry, ‘The dynamite.’

“Everything was abandoned at once. The dynamite was stored in great quantity—enough to blow the whole town to pieces—in a cave under the hill (the hill was lovely, covered with grass-trees), beside the Long Tunnel Gold Mine Yard to the left hand of Stringer's Creek. In front of the dynamite was the gunpowder, and in front of that, just outside the cave, a quantity of dry wood.

“Had an explosion taken place the quartz battery and most of the workings must have been destroyed, and Walhalla would have ceased to exist.

“One lad, young Rawson—I believe his Christian name was George—about seventeen years old, thought of that, and made straight for the cave, taking with him an armful of old sacks which he dipped in the Creek as he went. The wood was just kindling as he reached it, and he stood there beating the flames out until the risk was over.”

“My informant adds:—“Australians often have to fight fire, but not with the added danger which young Rawson faced. His mother told me the story, which was confirmed by others, whom I questioned. He met with no special recognition of his courage; was given a good ‘billet’ in the mines, that was all.”

“The Queen has been pleased to confer the decoration of the Albert Medal of the second class on Mr Hereward Hewison, of Newcastle, New South Wales. The following is an account of the services in respect of which the decoration has been conferred. While a number of men were bathing on the sea beach at Newcastle, New South Wales, on the morning of November 28th, 1894, the cry of “shark” was suddenly raised. Everyone at once made for the shore, with the exception of Mr Horace Hewison, who cried out that the shark had seized him, and immediately afterwards disappeared under the water. Mr Hewison, realising the danger of his elder brother, promptly turned, and, swimming to the spot, found that the shark had seized his brother's right arm. He at once grasped his brother round the body, and the two fought the shark as well as they were able, until the complete severance of the arm just above the elbow joint released Mr Horace Hewison, and afforded them an opportunity to escape to the shore, which they succeeded in reaching without further accident. Mr Hereward Hewison assisted his brother by keeping behind him and pushing him forward.”—Cf. The Standard, July 18, 1895.

Hereward Hewison thus writes to me:—

“The accident occurred on the 28th November 1894; we were in the habit of going for a swim every morning, and on this particular morning the sea was so very calm that we did not think it safe to venture out as far as usual, fearing that sharks might be prompted to come in by the smoothness of the sea, and consequently stopped within fifteen yards of the shore. There were about fifty people in bathing at the time and about one hundred on shore.

“We were all swimming about when the cry “shark” was raised by my brother. A general rush for the shore ensued, no one imagining that the shark had seized him, but when on looking round as I swam I was horrified to see the shark with its head right out of water clutching my brother's arm. I turned and swam back to him, but just as I got close to them, it dragged him under water, he all the time struggling and trying to hit it with his left hand; I dived and caught him under the left arm and pulled, and just then the other arm was completely severed above the elbow, we then swam in to shore, I supporting him by the left arm, neither of us thinking that his right arm was off, for, as he said afterwards, he thought the shark was still hanging on to his arm, but when we reached the shore the sight was awful, the muscles were hanging in shreds from the stump of his arm and the bone scraped bare; the doctors had to amputate the arm close up to the shoulder, but in thirteen days my brother (thanks to a good constitution) was able to go back to his office.”

The incident on which this ballad is founded was related to me by a passenger, who was on board the “Norham Castle” during the same voyage on which the rescue had been effected off the Natal Coast.

Early in the morning, February 6th, 1895, the wreck of the “Fascadale” was sighted off the Impengali River, on a reef surrounded by a terrible surf, and Captain Duncan of the “Norham Castle” stood in towards her and called for volunteers to man the lifeboat, and try to effect a rescue. Mr Whitehead, chief officer, volunteered his services. It was found impossible to venture near, and swimming seemed out of the question. But, signalling to those on the wreck to do likewise, Mr Whitehead waited for the rebound of a wave, and with a lifebuoy and cord attached, or as another account says, with a log-line round his body, he leapt from the boat into the water, and was carried towards the wreck. A boy on board the “Fascadale,” Ferris by name, with a line and a lifebuoy leapt at the same time into the surge, and meeting Mr Whitehead on the top of a wave they tied the lines together and effected a communication by means of which 18 lives were saved. All this time the “Norham Castle” stood off, broadside on, to break the seas and give what shelter she could to the boat's crew. The men had barely left the wreck when a heavy sea broke it in two, and the “Fascadale” disappeared. The heroism of Whitehead, who had again leapt into the surf to save the life of the captain of the “Fascadale,” was accentuated by the fact, which was learned afterwards by my friend, that just before he sailed from home he had become engaged to be married.

Early in the morning of Monday, 16th September 1895, when the passenger steam-ship “Iona,” Captain G. Thomson, was on her voyage from Leith to London and was just off Clackton on Sea, a fire broke out on board, it is believed in the lamp room, which swiftly communicated itself to the ladies' cabin.

Edith Mary Ledingham, a native of Gateshead, who had been a lover of the sea from her girlhood, had joined the ship as stewardess in June, and was making one of her first few voyages to London. She had won all hearts, we are told, by her kindness and capability.

She was awaked from sleep, and after rousing the ladies in her cabin and warning them to escape at once to a place of safety she was seen to run up on deck. Then remembering that a little child—Lily Mowall Stewart, who had been put in her charge—was still in the cabin, she was heard to say, “Oh! how terrible!” and without a moment's hesitation she rushed back into the very jaws of a fiery doom to rescue the child. When the fire was got under and the cabin was sufficiently cooled to allow of exploration, the sailors found seven bodies on the floor, reduced to ashes. One of them, though charred beyond recognition at first sight, was the body of the brave stewardess, still holding the little child by the hand. Her mother writes me as follows:—

“She and her brothers, who are both of them stewards, have always had a great liking for the sea, since I brought them up to London from Newcastle by steamer nine years ago.

“My daughter's character was of the noblest. Always ready to run in a case of emergency. Twice to my knowledge she ran for a doctor in the middle of the night, half clad. And when her father was dying, it was she I telegraphed for to come and help me. I may well say I have lost my right-hand supporter in the home. She had been a great reader, and was very much touched by the history of Grace Darling, her prize from school.”

During the great gale of November 7th, 1890, the “Ocean-Queen,” a schooner bound from Padstow to Runcorn, with a crew of four, struck on a rock one hundred and fifty yards from the shore opposite Llandulas Quarry. Their boat was stove in by the sea, and the Llandulas life-boat had been so damaged by recent service as to be unfit for use. But a small cobble was launched from the beach by the quarrymen, and after being beaten back six times succeeded at the seventh in making its way alongside and bringing the crew safe to land. The names of these gallant fellows were John Jones, John Roberts, and William Williams, quarrymen, and William Williams, shopkeeper.

From William Dodd, the under-manager at the Diglake Mine, come these particulars of the disaster: Shortly before noon, on Monday, January 21st, a boy ran into the office, saying, “There is water rushing down the 1oft. dip.” Dodd hurried out and saw 3ft. to 4ft. of water rushing right through the pit bottom, and making along the roadway. He shouted at the top of his voice, “Make off for Boyle's Hall.” By this time the large volume of water was joined by another torrent from a different direction. With considerable difficulty Dodd fought his way through it to the Staple Pit, about 100 yards off. Descending, he found three men. He told the two oldest to make their way to Boyle's Hall, and the third to go with him. Further down were four lads who were beyond a pool of water which was only nine or twelve inches from the roof. He shouted to them to plunge into the stream and he would catch them as they came by. They followed his instructions, and were landed in safety. Dodd then shouted to some others, but got no answer, the walls at that moment collapsing and filling the place from top to bottom. After this he made an effort to go down the dip with the full current, and dropped through a trap-door, and here he met the fireman, Thomas Longshaw, and got him to come along with him. In the main dip he was washed along by the current like a straw, and had it not been for a post that he was knocked against he must have been drowned. The stream he found too deep for any living man to get down, and he gave up the attempt. With Longshaw he then made his way to the Staple Pit Shaft, but found the water pouring down in a roaring torrent. Longshaw tried to go up, but failed. The water subsided a little, and they went to look at the main dip but found it no shallower. With the water pouring down on them, the two men then made their way desperately up the ladders at the Staple Pit. At the top Dodd felt someone lay hold of him, and overcome with exhaustion, sunk into unconsciousness. When he came round, kind friends offered to escort him home, but he was determined to help the men in the “boundary side,” and called for volunteers to go with him. Three men offered themselves, and sixteen men were found in the boundary, and six lower down. These were all saved. Dodd and the three men then went to the overcast, cast, where they found the water had subsided a little. One man stayed here to help the men through the stream, while Dodd and another made their way further upwards into the workings, and knocked at the brick stoppings, and men rushed down in answer to the alarm. Dodd shouted, “Where are you lads?” and they answered, “We are here William, and we are glad to see you.” He told them to follow his light, and they made their way up the stream, keeping themselves up by the bell-wire. After these were in safety two of the volunteers came and said they had found six more men and wanted assistance. Three men went with them, and the six, greatly exhausted, were rescued. All were now out of the top workings. Dodd and another then made their way towards No. 2 pit, and found water up to the armpits. Dodd asked his companion if he could face it, and he said, “Yes, I can swim.” He swam away, while the under-manager followed for a distance of sixty or seventy yards. Four lads were found perched on the top of an engine, and these were handed from one to the other along the roadway, as the water was too deep for them to walk in. These were the last to be saved. There were twelve in the 8ft. seam, but probably they could not face the torrent, as they were warned. One man, Beech, Dodd thinks, lost his life in trying to save others. William Dodd has since been summoned to Windsor Castle, and has received, from the hand of Her Most Gracious Majesty the Queen, the gold Albert Medal for conspicuous gallantry.

The account of this heroic rescue with its dramatic ending appeared in the daily press in the autumn of 1894.

Readers will remember that it was from the swamps of Schleswig-Holstein that our English forefathers hailed. It would appear that courage has never left its native ground.

In the terrible disaster at the Great Western Pit at Ponty-pridd, in the Rhondda Vale, at the first alarm of danger a group of four or five men hurried from their working-place to the bottom of the shaft, a mile distant. They found, to their dismay, that it was only possible to squeeze one more into the cage. Amongst the breathless colliers was one young man—the rest were old ones. The old men decided that the young collier should have the preference, and away the cage swept up the shaft, to hurry down again to the brave fellows who were waiting its return. The interval, although short, had however, been too long for those below, and they were found to have been suffocated.

The Battle of the Malakand Pass was fought on April 3rd, 1895. The first obstacle which lay in the path of the Southern Column of the Chitral Relief force was an exceptionally strong position; and was not carried till after five hours hard fighting. The enemy fought desperately and lost 500 men, while nearly 1000 were wounded. The British lost 70 killed and wounded.

“Of the enemy's bravery,” write the Captains Younghusband in their ‘Relief of Chitral,’ Chap. iv., p. 69, “it is impossible to speak too highly, and individual courage was conspicuous. One leader, carrying a large red and white banner, called on his men to charge the Scottish Borderers when they were halfway up the hill. The charge was made, but all his followers gradually fell till the leader alone was left. Nothing daunted, he held steadily on, now and again falling, heavily hit, but up and on again without a moment's delay, till at last he was shot dead, close to the line. More desperate courage than this is difficult to imagine.

“Again, one of the enemy's drummers, not content with taking his fair share of risks, persisted in mounting on to the roof of a hut, where he showed up clear and conspicuous against the sky line, and thence cheered on his comrades. Every now and again a bullet would find him out, and he would drop to dress his wounds, and then, again mounting, recommence beating his drum. At last a bullet got him through the heart, and he fell headlong a hundred yards down the cliff, and there lay stark dead, but with his drum round his neck, and his arms ready raised to strike it.”

The account of the daring sortie by which, on the eve of their being relieved by Colonel Kelly, the gallant defenders of the Chitral Fort blew up the enemy's mine, which would otherwise have been their ruin, will be found in “The Relief of Chitral,” by the Captains Younghusband, Chap. vi. p. 126.

A full account of the gallant way in which Mr William Fletcher, uncommissioned officer of Royal Engineers, on February 7th, 1895, with a mere handful of men, held a halffinished stockade at Malemya's Town against the chief Kawinga and 1500 warriors, and after fighting for four hours, finding that his ammunition was failing, charged and put them to flight,—was given in the British Central Africa Gazette, 11th March 1895.

Mr Alfred Sharpe, British Consul for the territories under British influence to the North of the Zambesi, who came to the relief of the garrison after the attack, corroborated the account, and gave me further details of one of the most daring sorties in the face of overwhelming numbers that was probably ever made.

The name Fletcher may imply that the hero's ancestors were arrow-makers.

The following incident occurred at the Gainsborough Station on 26th December 1895;—a striker named Thomas White-house, twenty years of age, saving the life of one of Messrs Smith & Son's newsboys at the risk of his own. The lad, named Furniss, about fifteen years of age, was crossing the metals when his foot became wedged in the points on the up line. The train was in sight, and the lad shrieked for help, and was told by some of the people to lie down. Whitehouse threw down some parcels he was carrying and jumped on to the metals, but could not dislodge the lad's foot. Furniss threw his arms round him, and shrieked again for help. Whitehouse then put his head between the lad's legs, and bodily lifted him out of his precarious position, and they both fell into the six-foot just as the train rushed in.

Thomas Whitehouse sends me the following account:— “On Boxing Day I was going to Rotherham, to see some friends, and whilst I was standing on the platform of the M. S. & L. Railway Station, the bell rang for the ten minutes to eight train, and when it was about 90 or 100 yards from the station, the news-boy, William Furniss, came running across the metals and stepped on to the points to get on to the platform and his foot slipped in between. The poor lad looked around and saw the train coming towards him and on the same metals and cried for help. I saw the danger, dropped my parcels and jumped down to try and get him out, but his foot was too fast the first try; he then cried bitterly for help; I put my head between his legs and lifted all I could, and his boot-sole gave way, and we both fell into the six-foot. I then got up, lifted him up, and carried him to the other side of the platform.”

In a lull in the fighting at Doornkop, a young Boer, named Jacobz, took pity on one of Jameson's wounded troopers, and carried him some water. Whilst performing this act of mercy he was shot down and killed by another wounded trooper, who had probably mistaken his intentions.—The Daily Telegraph, January 13th, “Incidents on the Battlefield,” by Central News Agency, Capetown, January 9th, 1896.

After the battle of Om Worogat in which Slatin Bey's forces were decimated, whilst he was attending the wounded Isa, it occurred to him that he had not seen his other boy, Morgan Hosan, who was leading one of his horses. “He was,” says Slatin Bey, “a fine, intelligent young fellow, scarcely sixteen years old, honest, quiet, and brave. ‘Isa,’ said I, to the boy carrying the satchel, ‘where is Morgan, who was leading my horse Mubarak; he is an active fellow, and perhaps mounted the horse, and has managed to escape?’ Sad and brokenhearted, poor Isa shook his head, and, his eyes filling with tears, he handed me a bit of my horse's bridle. ‘What is this?’ I asked. ‘Master,’ said he, ‘I did not want to make you more sorry than you are. I found him not far from here, lying on the ground, with a spear-wound in his chest. When he saw me he smiled, and whispered, “I knew you would come and look for me. Say good-bye to my master, and tell him I was not a coward. I did not let go his horse, and it was only when I fell down stabbed in the chest that they cut the bridle to which I clung, and took him; show my master the bit of the bridle that is still in my hand, and tell him that Morgan was faithful. Take the knife out of my pocket,—it belongs to my master; give it to him, and say many salaams to him from me.”’ Isa, his voice choked with sobbing, handed me the knife, and I, too, now quite broke down. Poor Morgan, so young and so true! Poor master, to have lost so faithful a servant and so true a friend! ‘Tell me, Isa, what was the end?’ I said. ‘He was thirsty,’ he replied, ‘and I took his head in my hands, and in a few seconds he was dead. I then got up and left him; I had other things to do, and there was no time to cry.’”

Extract from “Fire and Sword in the Soudan, 1879-1895,” by Rudolf Slatin Pacha, C.B.

In an old Paisley churchyard that slopes down to the railway were laid to rest in the same grave, during the summer of 1874, the remains of two plate-layers, uncle and nephew, Jamieson by name.

They were working with other navvies on the railway between Glasgow and Paisley, and stood back at the approach of an express train, which, after passing them, would have to cross a lofty viaduct. The engine was in sight, when it was seen that a “sleeper” had started, and unless replaced, would wreck the train. Jamieson made a sign to his nephew; the two rushed forward; they fixed the sleeper, saved the train, and were left dead in the six-foot.

An account, by Miss F. Martin, of this heroic deed, appeared in Macmillan's Magazine at the time, and Walter Crane has made it the subject of one of his cartoons in the Red Cross Hall.— Cf. The English Illustrated Magazine, June 1893.

The Stanhope Gold Medal, the chief prize of the Royal Humane Society for the year 1895, was awarded to seaman E. A. Hatton of the “Dunbar Castle.”

When nearly dark, and with a high sea running, he jumped overboard and rescued the carpenter who had been swept from the deck.

The steamer was running ten knots an hour, and the sea was full of sharks.— Cf. The Spectator, April 11th, 1896.

“The Queen has been pleased to confer the decoration of the Albert Medal of the first class on Mr William John Nutman, late master of the steamship ‘Aidar,’ of Liverpool. The following is an account of the services in respect of which the decoration has been conferred:—At two A.M. on the 19th January 1896, while the steamship ‘Staffordshire,’ of Liverpool, was on a voyage from Marseilles to Port Said, signals of distress were observed to be proceeding from the steamship ‘Aidar,’ also of Liverpool, and the ‘Staffordshire’ immediately proceeded to her assistance. As the ‘Aidar’ was found to be sinking fast, three of the ‘Staffordshire's’ life-boats were at once launched, and with great difficulty, owing to the darkness and the heavy sea, succeeded in rescuing her passengers and crew, twenty-nine in number. At 6.10 A.M. the only persons left on the ‘Aidar’ were Mr Nutman (the master), and an injured and helpless fireman, whom he was endeavouring to save, and whom he absolutely refused to abandon. The steamer was now rapidly settling down, and as it was no longer safe to remain near her, the officer in charge of the rescuing boat asked Mr Nutman for a final answer. He still persisted in remaining with the injured man, choosing rather to face almost certain death than to leave him to his fate. The men in the boat were obliged to pull away, and immediately afterwards, at 6.17 A.M., the ‘Aidar’ gave one or two lurches, and foundered. After she disappeared, Mr Nutman was seen on the bottom of an upturned boat, still holding the fireman. Half-an-hour elapsed before the rescuing boat could approach, but eventually Mr Nutman and the fireman were picked up and taken on board the ‘Staffordshire,’ where the injured man was with difficulty restored by the ship's surgeon.”— Cf. The Standard, April 9th, 1896.