With each recurring autumn at nearly 300 points on our 8,000 miles of seacoast, careful preparations begin for the winter campaign of the life-saving service. Conducted in the face of constant peril and hardship, this annual battle with disaster, storm and death is a peaceful, yet always glorious one. During the year 1905 alone it resulted in the saving of more than 4,000 lives and the rescue of nearly $8,000,000 worth of property, imperilled by wreck and storm, all of which would otherwise have been lost. The United States Life-saving Service is now the most complete and effective organization of its kind in the world, furnishing a model and pattern for those of other countries. The story of its rapid development during the last thirty-five years is also the inspiring record of the life work of one of our most sagacious and devoted public servants, Sumner I. Kimball, a modest, blue-eyed, kindly-faced man of middle age, whose untiring labors in this field long since gave him a foremost place among the great benefactors of his time.

When in 1871, Mr. Kimball was made Chief of the Revenue Marine Bureau of the Treasury Department, the life-saving service had slender existence, save on paper. He found the station-houses sadly neglected and dilapidated, the apparatus rusty or broken, and many of the salaried keepers disabled by age or incompetent and neglectful of their duties. The outlook would have discouraged a man less resolute and determined than the new chief, but he had conceived the splendid idea of guarding the entire coast of the nation with a chain of fortresses garrisoned by disciplined conquerors of the sea, and he set about the accomplishment of his self-imposed task with patience, sagacity and skill.

He reorganized the service and prepared a code of regulations for its control, in which the duties of every member were carefully defined. Politics, the bane of the service in former years, was rigidly eliminated. Lazy, careless and incompetent employees were promptly dismissed, and their places filled with capable and faithful surfmen. The station-houses were repaired and increased, and equipped with the best life-saving devices human skill and ingenuity had thus far brought forth. Last and most important of all, a thorough and effective system of inspection and patrol was inaugurated, and so successful did it prove that during the first year's operation of the new system every person imperilled by shipwreck was saved. The service has been wisely extended from year to year, until now it has 270 stations, three-fourths of which are along the Atlantic coast, while others are on the lakes; a board of life-saving appliances; telephone lines for prompt operations and a splendid corps of assistant superintendents, experts, inspectors, station-keepers and mariners. The yearly cost of the service at the present time is slightly less than $1,800,000, a sum ridiculously small when the saving of life and property is taken into consideration.

Life at a life-saving station is never an idle one. The routine followed at the Avalon, New Jersey station, as I have observed it, in essential details, is the same as that practiced at all of the stations of the service. Four days of every week are devoted to drill. On Tuesdays the keeper orders out the surfboat and drills the crew in riding breakers and landing through heavy surf. On Wednesday he gives the men practical instruction in the working of the international signal code. On Thursday the Lyle gun is ordered out, and one of the crew, taking up a position some distance down the shore near a post stuck in the sand, personates a seaman on a stranded vessel. The other members of the crew plant the gun and fire a line which the watcher pulls in and rigs to the post. Then the men at the other end of the line dispatch the breeches-buoy and gallantly effect the rescue of their comrade. On Friday the recovery drill is carefully gone through. One of the crew assumes the role of a half-drowned sailor, and his comrades resuscitate him by rolling him on the sand and producing artificial breathing, according to the rules laid down for the purpose. Saturday is general cleaning day. The discipline of the crew is never relaxed and none of its members can go out of sight of the station save by special permission or when off duty.

The night hours at a life-saving station afford a much more thrilling story than the one I have just been relating. Each crew is divided into three night watches. The first watch goes on duty at sundown and patrols the beach until eight o'clock, at which hour the second watch relieves it and patrols until midnight, when the third watch sallies out and does duty until four o'clock in the morning. Then the first watch again goes on patrol and keeps watch until sunrise. During the day a surfman is constantly on the lookout in the watch-tower of the station. If the weather be clear, this precaution suffices, but if it is cloudy and storms threaten, the beach patrols are continued through the day. Each watch consists of two men, who, upon leaving the station, separate and follow their beats to the right and left until they meet the patrolmen from the neighboring stations on either side, with whom they exchange checks—this to show the keeper they have covered their respective beats. On the Atlantic seaboard, stations are now within an average distance of five miles of each other, but often the beats of the surfmen are six and seven miles long. It is a part of the surfman's duties to keep a constant watch of the sea and to note the vessels by the lights displayed, and, if they approach too close to the shore or outlying sandbars, give them timely warning. For this purpose he always carries a Coston signal, which, when exploded by percussion, emits a red flame that flashes far out over the water and warns the unwary ship of its peril. Last year more than two hundred vessels, warned in this way, at once changed course and ran out of danger. If the surfman observes a vessel that is stationary, he must determine whether she is at anchor or in distress, and if the latter proves to be the case, he displays his Coston signal, to assure the shipwrecked that aid is close at hand, and then hastens to the station to give the alarm to the keeper.

The work of the patrolmen involves frequent danger and almost constant hardship. Imagine, if you can, and that is impossible, the lot of a surfman on the Jersey coast during one of the great storms sure to occur once or twice in every winter. A fearful night has followed a stormy and lowering day. Inky darkness shrouds sea and land, and the wind, blowing at the rate of fifty miles an hour, pipes and roars defiance to the patrolmen as they struggle along their lonely beats. The driving snow freezes on their cheeks and chins; wet sand is flung into their faces and cuts with the keenness of a razor, while great masses of icy foam beat fiercely on the head and face and body at every dozen steps. Huge waves break at the foot of the sand dunes along which they painfully labor, and drench them again and again, often felling them to the ground. Every twenty or thirty yards they pause, and, baring their faces to the pelting snow and foam, search the ocean for lights. In this way hours pass before the prescribed beat is traversed, and the surfmen, wet, half-frozen, bruised and exhausted, seek for a brief season the warmth and shelter of the station-house. Sometimes weakness overcomes them and they are unable to reach this refuge.

When the patrolman descries a vessel among the breakers, he displays his Coston signal, to give assurance that aid is at hand, and then hurries to the station and arouses his comrades. From the report of the patrolman the keeper makes quick decision as to the best methods to be employed in effecting a rescue. If the surfboat is to be used, the doors of the boat-room are instantly thrown open and the boat-carriage drawn out and hauled by the crew to a point opposite the wreck. Then the boat is launched and the surfmen depart upon their errand of mercy. The surfboat is usually of cedar, with white oak frame, without keel, and provided with air cases, which render it insubmergible. Comparatively light, it can be hauled long distances, and is the only boat that has been found suitable for launching from flat beaches through the shoaling waters of the Atlantic and Gulf coasts. Handled by expert oarsmen, its action is often marvelous, and, although easily capsized, there are few recorded instances of its having been upset with fatal results while passing through the surf. Often repeated attempts have to be made before a wreck can be reached, and even then the greatest care must be exercised to avoid collision with the plunging hull or injury from floating wreckage and falling spars. When the benumbed and exhausted crew and passengers, who have usually sought refuge in the rigging from the overwhelming seas, have been taken off, the difficult return to shore yet remains. Sometimes the boat is run in behind a roller, and by quick and clever work kept out of the way of the following one, and the shore is gained in safety. At other times the boat is backed in, the oars being used now and then to keep it upon its course, and again, when the sea is unusually high, a drag is employed to check the force of the incoming breakers and prevent the boat from being capsized. In the manner described, boat and crew make repeated trips through the breakers until all have been taken off the stranded vessel, and the work of rescue is at last completed.

When the condition of the sea prevents the use of the surfboat the mortar cart, equipped with a small bronze, smooth-bore gun, named for the inventor, Captain Lyle, of the army, is ordered out. Its destination reached, the gun is placed in position and loaded by members of the crew trained to the work, while others adjust the shot-line box, arrange the hauling lines and hawser, connect the breeches-buoy, prepare the tackles for hauling, and with pick and spade dig a trench for the sand-anchor. With these preparations completed, comes the firing of the gun. The shot speeds over the wreck and into the sea beyond, while the crew of the imperilled vessel seize and make fast the line attached. The surfmen next attach to the short-line the whip (an endless line), the tail-block and tallyboard, and these are in turn hauled in by the sailors. And then by means of the whip, the surfmen dispatch the hawser and a second tallyboard, which directs how and where the end of the hawser shall be fastened to the wreck. When the tackle connecting the sand anchor and the shore end of the hawser is straight and taut, it is lifted several feet in the air and further tightened by the erection of a wooden crotch, which does duty as a temporary pier, while the wreck answers for another. Finally the breeches-buoy is drawn back and forth on the hawser, and the shipwrecked brought safely to shore. On this occasion there have been no delays, but at other times there are numerous obstacles to be overcome. The ropes may snarl or tangle or be snapped asunder by the rolling of the vessel, and again, the imperilled crew may perform their share of the work in a bungling manner, or unexpected accidents befall, which tax to the utmost the patience, resources and courage of the surfmen. In many cases people held suspended in the breakers or ensnarled in the floating cordage and debris of the vessel, have only been rescued by the most daring exploits of the surfmen, who, at the greatest risk of life and limb, have worked their way through the surf, released the helpless victims of the wreck, and brought them to shore.

A LIFE-SAVER ON PATROL

The breeches-buoy, to which reference has been made, is a circular life-preserver of cork, to which short canvas breeches are attached, and will hold two persons. But when a large number of people are to be rescued, the life-car, invented by Joseph Francis and connected with the hawser by a simple device to prevent it from drifting, is used. This is a water-tight, covered boat of galvanized sheet iron and will carry five or six adults at a time. At its first trial more than two hundred persons were rescued from the wreck of the Ayrshire on the New Jersey coast, when no other means could have availed. Silks, jewels and other valuables have often been saved by its use and from one vessel the car took ashore a large sum of gold bullion belonging to the United States, together with the mails. On the lake and Pacific coasts, where the shores are steep and the water deep, the self-righting and self-bailing lifeboat is in general use. This, the best lifeboat yet devised, is the result of more than a century of study and experiment, following the first model designed in 1780 by an English coachman, Lionel Lukin. It possesses great stability, is rarely upset, and when this happens instantly rights itself, while when full of water it empties itself in from fifteen to twenty seconds.

The work of the life-savers seldom ends with the rescue. After all have been brought ashore from a wreck, the benumbed and helpless sufferers are quickly conveyed to the station-house, transferred for the moment into a hospital, where an abundance of dry clothing is instantly applied; the prostrated ones put to bed; lint, plasters and bandages supplied to the bruised and wounded, and stimulants from the medicine chest, never absent from any station, given to those who need them. At the same time the mess-cook prepares and serves out hot coffee alike to rescued and rescuers. When this has been partaken of, the keeper assigns a portion of the crew to look after the needs of the strangers and the others retire to rest until called to relieve the patrol.

After what has been written one would expect to find rich material for true stories of peril, adventure and heroism; and for romances in real life among the records of the life-saving service—stories that never fail to stir the blood and quicken the pulse of those to whom they are told. And such is the case. The annals of the service are replete with splendid deeds of daring, and each month's record adds to the roll of honor. Often the surfmen know they are going forth to almost certain death,' and yet never a moment do they falter. A year or so ago a crew that rescued four sailors from a stranded vessel under the most trying conditions, before launching their boat, left their slender effects in the charge of a comrade for the benefit of their families—not one of them believing that they would return alive! And when the life-savers went off through the violent sea to rescue those on board the German ship Elizabeth, stranded on the Virginia coast, in January, 1887, all but two of the crew perished, together with the entire ship's company. The brave fellows' doom was sealed from the first, but this did not swerve them from their duty.

One of the saddest chapters in the annals of the service deals with the death of the keeper and two of the surfmen of the Peaked Hill Bar Station, on the Massachusetts coast. In the waning hours of a stormy November night, fifteen years ago, the sloop Trumbull was descried by the patrol on the inner bar, and a few moments later the lifeboat, manned by Keeper Atkins and Surfmen Mayo, Taylor, Kelly, Young and Fisher, was on the way to the rescue. The crew, save two who, refusing assistance, remained on board the vessel, were speedily brought to land. The gale was now increasing and the sea running mountain high, but Keeper Atkins and his crew again essayed the rescue of the two men, who still remained on the Trumbull. It was very dark, and the lifeboat in approaching the ship was struck by a swinging boom and capsized. After clinging for a time to the upturned boat, the surfmen released their hold and attempted to swim to shore. Surfmen Kelly, Young and Fisher reached the beach barely alive, and were picked up and tenderly cared for by a comrade, but Keeper Atkins and Surfmen Mayo and Taylor, although strong swimmers, were finally overcome and vanished in the storm and darkness. The sea gave up their bodies many hours later, and there were few dry eyes among the hundreds who followed to their graves three heroes as dauntless as ever were sung in song or story.

One of the most gallant rescues performed within the scope of the service stands to the credit of the Dam Neck Mills crew, on the coast of Virginia. The schooner Jennie Hall, bound from Trinidad to Baltimore, sailing in a dense fog, struck bottom a few miles south of Cape Henry. A tempest was blowing, and a deluge of sleet blinded and benumbed the crew as they clung to the mizzenmast, on which they had taken refuge. The captain had been swept away while attempting to cross the deck, and it seemed certain that the almost helpless sailors must soon follow him. Blind desperation alone gave them strength to endure until the morning. Then, in the dawning of the day, through the lifting curtain of mist, they saw the life-savers preparing to attempt their rescue. The sea was still too high to warrant the launching of the lifeboat. What must be done was to get a hawser to the schooner, and then, by means of the breeches-buoy, haul off the wrecked men.

The gun was, therefore, placed in position, and the shot-line coiled properly, so as to follow without fouling. The ship was about three hundred yards off shore. The shot was fired, and the line carried just over the rigging at the necessary spot. All would have gone well had not the block of the whip-line become fouled. The men on the mast were too exhausted to extricate it, so the whip-line was hauled to shore, and the shot-line cut away. Another shot was fired. This time it landed out of the reach of the wrecked men, now almost insensible from cold and exhaustion. Still another shot was fired, this time fairly in the hands of the unfortunates. The whip-line was painfully drawn to the mast and properly made fast. Then the hawser was drawn slowly from shore, and also properly fixed around the mast. Just as the breeches-buoy was being sent out to make the rescue at last, just as safety and warmth and life were within their grasp, two of the six fell to the deck, struck like lead, and were washed overboard, never more to be seen. The breeches-buoy had now reached the mast. Two of the men managed to get in, and were hauled ashore, unconscious, very nearly dead. Again the buoy went on its errand of mercy, and the mate was brought to safety. There was still one man left on the mast. The buoy was sent back for him. But he made no sign of life.

Somebody must go out for him. A surfman by the name of O'Neal put himself in the buoy and was hauled to the wreck. He found that the man, now unconscious, had so firmly lashed himself to the crosstrees that it was not in his power to extricate him without help. So he returned to the shore for an assistant. An ex-surfman, Drinkwater by name, volunteered to go back with him. The sea having gone down a trifle, the keeper decided to place them on board the wreck by the lifeboat. A crew was called, and the rescuers rowed out through a still tremendous sea to the Jennie Hall. The two men skilfully got aboard, and climbed the mast, the lifeboat in the meanwhile, after nearly a fatal accident, returning to the beach. Even with help, O'Neal had great difficulty in getting the remaining sailor out of the rigging. But it was finally done, and the well-nigh frozen man sent ashore. Then the two life-savers returned in the buoy.

The records of the live-saving crews of the Great Lakes also abound with thrilling and heroic incidents. These vast inland seas, with 2,500 miles of American coast-line, are subject to sudden and violent gales, in which anchored vessels are swept fore and aft, often causing their total destruction, while others seeking shelter in harbors are driven helplessly upon jutting piers or the still more dangerous beach; and frequently just before winter suspends navigation on the lakes, a single life-saving crew is employed upon several wrecks at a time. Again, the lifeboats often go under sail and oar many miles from their station to aid vessels in distress. When the steamer Bestchey was wrecked near Grindstone City, seven miles from the Point aux Barques station, on Lake Huron, a few years ago, the crew hurried to the rescue, and found several hundred people watching the breaking up of the wreck, but powerless to aid the passengers and crew, who, for ten hours, had been face to face with suffering and death. When the lifeboat had been launched and the ship's side gained, two of the surfmen leaped into the water, and by the aid of ropes, after a desperate struggle gained the steamer's deck and directed the difficult and dangerous task of transferring those on board to the boat. Eleven women and a small boy were lowered over the bulwarks, and the boat, shoving off, gained the pier in safety. Four trips were made within an hour, and all on board, more than forty persons, brought ashore. A few months later the Point aux Barques crew responded to signals of distress displayed by a vessel three miles away, and in the fearful storm that was raging, their boat was capsized. The men tried to cling to it, but the cold overcame them, and one after another perished until six were gone. Only the keeper, bruised and insensible, was washed ashore, and he was so badly injured that he was forced to resign his position. Thus in one day, the service lost all the members of one of its most skilful and gallant crews. During the same year the men at the Point aux Barques Station had been the means of saving more than a hundred lives.

Still the life of the surfmen has its merry, as well as its serious moods. Each station is provided with a small but well selected library, and the men find it a constant source of instruction and delight. Then there is always in every crew one or two who can play a violin, flute or accordion, and often when the weather is fine and the wind off shore, the surfmen gather in the messroom and listen to the music of their companions or sing songs and spin yarns, the latter couched in a quaint and awkward vernacular, yet full of life and spirit, and redolent of the sea and the waves. Often on clear, moonlit nights there are "surprise parties" at the station, made up of the wives, sisters' and sweethearts of the crew, who always bring with them a generous store of household dainties for those they love, sure to prove a welcome addition to the surfmen's plain, but substantial fare. On such occasions the boat-room is quickly cleared for the dance, and joy and merriment hold unfettered sway. And, yet, never is the patrol relaxed, nor do the surfmen forget the stern call to duty that may come to them at any moment. "When I see a man clinging to a wreck," said a sturdy surf man, not long ago, "I see nothing else in the world, nor think of family and friends until I have saved him." And it is but simple truth to say that this heroic spirit animates every member of the life-saving service.