CHARLIE THE COX _A LIFE POEM_ BY HALL CAINE _Painting by_ CHARLES NAPIER HEMY, R.A. _Drawings by_ ARCH. WEBB CHARLIE was the cox of our Peel lifeboat. A braver spirit never sailed the sea. Years ago, in a terrific gale, a ship from Norway, the _St. George_, came dead on for the wildest part of our coast, the fierce headland that lies back of the old Castle rock. The sound signal was fired, and Charlie and his brave comrades went out to her. She was reeling on the top of a tremendous sea, and there was no coming near to her side. It was an awful task to get the crew aboard the lifeboat, but Charlie saved every soul, and lost not a hand of his own. When the "traveller" was rigged and the "breeches" were ready, and the crew of the doomed ship were at the bulwarks waiting to leave her, Charlie sang out over the clamour of the sea: "How many are you?" "Twenty-four," came back as answer. Then Charlie cried, "I can see only twenty-three." "The other man is hurt. He's dying. No use saving him," the Norseman shouted. "You'll bring the dying man on deck before a soul of you leaves the ship," cried Charlie. There was a woman among them, and when the carpenter came scudding down the rope he had a canvas bag on his back. "No tools here," shouted Charlie. "It's the child," said the man. The captain came next. He had left everything else behind him--his money, his instruments, his clothes, his ship--but out of his pocket there peeped the head of a baby's doll. [Illustration] It was a thrilling rescue, but to see it in all its splendour you must have a drop of our Manx blood in you. Our forefathers were from Norway, our first Norse king was named Gorry. He landed on this island, not far from this spot. And on that day of the wreck of the _St. George_ his children's children rescued from the sea the children's children of the kinsmen he had left at home. Most of our men had Norse names. One of them was a Gorry, lineal descendant beyond doubt of the old sea king. The Norwegian Government felt the touch of great things in this incident. It was not merely that the bravery of the rescue fired their gratitude. Something called to them from that deep place where blood answers to the cry of blood. They sent medals for Charlie and his crew, and the Governor of the island distributed them inside the roofless walls of the old castle of the "Black Dog." It was like grasping hands with the past across the space of a thousand years. The other day we had another great wind and another brave rescue. The sun had gone down overnight in a sullen red, very fierce and angry in his setting, and out of the black north-east the storm had come up while we slept. In the heavy grey of the dawn the sound-signal fired its double shot over our little town. A Welsh schooner, which had run in for shelter during the dark hours, was riding to an anchor in the bay and flying her ensign for help.