The steam-tug "Alice," laden with excursionists from several Tyneside
towns, struck in the autumn of 1882 on the Bondicar Rocks, sixteen miles
north of Blyth. The boat was not much damaged, and could easily have
been run into the Coquet River within a very few minutes if the
passengers had only kept steady. But the modern English spirit came upon
the men, and a rush was made for the boat. Women and children were
hustled aside; and the captain of the tug had to threaten certain
persons of his own sex with violence before he could keep the crowd
back. Some twenty-seven people clambered into the boat, and then a man
of genius cut away the head-rope, and flung the helpless screaming
company into the sea. Twenty-five of them were drowned. It will be a
relief if time reveals any ground of hope that the men of our
manufacturing towns will lose no more of the virtues which we used to
think a part of the English character--coolness and steadiness and
unselfishness in times of danger, for example. The Englishmen who live
in quiet places have not become cowardly, so far as is ascertained; nor
are they liable to womanish panic. In the dales and in the
fishing-villages along our north-east coast may still be found plenty
of brave men. Where such disgraceful scenes as that rush to the
"Alice's" boat are witnessed, or selfishness like that of the men who
got away in the boats of the "Northfleet," there we generally find that
the civilization of towns has proved fatal to coolness and courage.
Curiously enough, it happens that within six miles of the rock where the
"Alice" struck, a splendidly brave thing was done, which serves in
itself to illustrate the difference that is growing up between the race
that lives by the factory and the men who earn their bread out-of-doors.
Passing southward from the Bondicar Rocks you come to a shallow stream
that sprawls over the sand and ripples into the sea. You wade this
stream, and walk still southward by the side of rolling sand hills. The
wind hurls through the hollows, and the bents shine like grey armour on
the bluffs of the low heights. You are not likely to meet any one on
your way, not even a tramp. Presently the hills open, and you come to
the prettiest village on the whole coast. The green common slopes down
to the sea, and great woods rustle and look glad all round the margin of
the luxuriant grass-land. Along the cliff straggle a few stone houses,
and the square tower with its sinister arrow-holes dominates the row.
There is smooth water inshore; but half a mile or so out eastward there
runs a low range of rocks. One night a terrible storm broke on the
coast. The sea rose, and beat so furiously on the shore that the spray
flew over the Fisher Row, and yellow sea foam was blown in patches over
the fields. The waters beyond the shore were all in a white turmoil,
save where, far off, the grey clouds laid their shoulders to the sea
and threw down leaden shadows. Most of the ships had gone south about;
but one little brig got stuck hard-and-fast on the ledge of rocks that
runs below the village. She had eight men aboard of her, and these had
to take to the rigging; where the people on shore heard them shouting.
It is a fearful kind of noise, the crying of men in a wrecked ship.
Morning broke, and the weather was wilder than ever. There was no
lifeboat in the place, and it was plain that the vessel could not stand
the rage of the breakers much longer. It was hard to see the ship at
all, the spray came in so thickly. The women were crying and wringing
their hands on the bank; but that was of small avail. However, one
little trouting-boat lay handy, and her owner determined to go off in
her to the brig. He was a fine fellow to look at--quite a remarkable
specimen of a man, indeed. Without any flurry, without a sign of emotion
on his face, he said, "Who's coming?" His two sons stepped out, and the
boat was moved towards the water's edge.
Just then a carter came down to look at the wreck. The carter's mare was
terror-stricken by the wrath of the sea, and galloped down the beach. In
passing the coble the mare plunged, and the axle-tree of the cart staved
in the head of the boat below the water-line. This was very bad; but the
leader of the forlorn hope did not give himself time to waver. Taking
off his coat, he stuffed it into the hole; and then, calling in another
volunteer, he said, "Sit against that." The men took their places very
coolly, and the little boat was thrust out amid the broken water. Amidst
all this the face of one woman who stood looking at the men arrested my
attention. It was very white, and her eyes had a look in them that I
cannot describe, though I have seen it since in my sleep. The men in the
boat were her husband and her sons. She said nothing, but kept her hands
tightly clasped; and her lips parted every time the boat rose on the
crown of a wave. We could not see those good fellows half the time: all
we could tell was that the man who was sitting against the jacket had to
bale very hard. Presently the deep bow of the boat rose over a
travelling sea, and she ground on the sand. She was heavily laden with
the brig's crew of limp and shivering Danish seamen. And it was not a
moment too soon for her to be ashore: the brig parted almost directly,
and the wreckage was strewn all along the beach.
The men who did this action never had any reward. And it did not matter;
for they took a very moderate view of their own merits. They knew, of
course, that they had done a good morning's work; but it never occurred
to them that they ought to have a paragraph in the newspapers and be
called brave. The sort of courage they exhibited they would have
described, if their attention had been called to it, as "only natural."
The old hero who went through a heavy sea with a staved-in boat is still
living. His name is Big Tom, and his home is at Cresswell, in the county
of Northumberland. He does not know that he is at all heroic; but it is
pleasant to think of him after reading about those wretched
excursionists who drowned each other in sheer fright within sight of his
home. He has often saved life since then. But when he puts out to sea
now he does not need to use a stove-in coble: he is captain of the
smart lifeboat; and his proudest possession is a photograph which shows
his noble figure standing at the bow.