There is generally very heavy weather in winter time on the north-east
coast. From North Sunderland the Farne Islands can hardly be seen, for
the tumultuous waves in the narrow channels throw up clouds of spray. At
the mouth of the Tyne the sea runs strongly, and the great piers have to
meet endless charges of green masses that break on the stone-work and
pour along the footway in foaming streams. As the evening comes, knots
of men stroll toward the pier. They are all clothed in thick guernseys
and business-like helmets, and on their breasts they have the letters
V.L.B. They are the Volunteer Life Brigade. The brigade is very mixed in
composition. There are carpenters, bankers, pilots, clerks, lawyers,
tradesmen of all grades, and working men of all trades. At the middle of
the pier stands a strong wooden house, in which there is one great room
where the watchmen sit, and also numerous small boxes with berths where
rescued men are laid. Hot-water bottles are constantly ready, and a
mysterious array of restoratives rest handy on a side-table.
Since the great piers were run out to sea the water in the Tyne has been
much deepened; but this advantage has its drawback in the fact that the
sea pours through the deepened channel like the swirl of a millrace. As
soon as the tiers of shipping begin to creak and moan with the lurching
swell the people know that there may be bad work. The brigadesmen sit
chatting in their warm shed. They know that they must go to work in the
morning; they know that they may be drenched and aching in every limb
before the dawn whitens: yet they take everything as it comes with
cheerful stoicism. During the winter of 1880 scores of men travelled to
business at Newcastle for a week at a stretch without having lain once
in bed. They went out when their services were required; stood to their
ropes, and were hustled about by the sea: they brought crew after crew
ashore, and in the mornings they fared without grumbling to office or
warehouse or shop. Snatches of sleep on the hard benches made their only
rest, yet they stood it out.
The stormy nights are passed much in the same way. The men who are not
looking out sit smoking and gossiping; the foam piles itself softly to
the weather side of the house, and the spray falls with a keen lashing
sound on the stones outside. Towards the end of the pier there is
nothing to be seen but a vague trouble, as though a battle were going on
in the dark, and to the north the Tynemouth light throws a long shaft of
brightness through the mist. Presently a light is seen away southward or
out to the east, and all the men are on the alert directly. If a ship
from the south can only weather the end of the pier and escape the wash
from the north, she soon gets into the fairway, but it is not easily
done in stormy weather. The light makes long lunges and describes great
arcs on the background of the darkness; then the brigadesmen know that
the ship is in the stream that pours up the gulf made by the piers. If
she keeps her red light open till she is nearly abreast of the House,
there is only one more danger for her. She may strike on the Black
Middens (a heap of snaggy rocks lying under Tynemouth), and in that case
the south-side men have nothing to do with her. But sometimes the vessel
shows all her lights and rushes upon the South Pier. Then the men wait
for the last lurch and that wallowing crash that they know so well. The
rocket is laid, and flies out over the rigging; the brigadesmen haul on
their rope, and the basket comes rocking ashore along the line. It is
not child's play to stand in the open and work the rocket apparatus;
sometimes a whole row of men are struck by a single sea, and have to
hang on wherever they can. Sometimes a careless man is carried along the
pier like a cork, and sometimes one is washed clean over the side. A
lucky young gentleman was taken into the sea one winter and buffeted
smartly until a chance wave landed him again. The buffeting and
drenching are taken as part of the day's work, and the young fellows
joke about it just as soldiers will joke under fire. There is much
curiosity as the basket is hauled in. On one occasion a cat and her
kittens were the first rescued of a ship's company, and on another
occasion a dog came ashore looking much surprised at his position. At
various times all sorts and conditions of men have to slide along that
friendly rope. Stolid Dutchmen, gesticulating Italians, cool
north-country sailors are landed, and all are treated alike. A solemn
man with a rum-bottle awaits them as they pass into the friendly light
of the House: like some officiating priest he gravely pours out a
glassful and silently hands it to the rescued seafarer; then the berth
and the hot-water bottle are made ready, and the fortunate sailor is
warmly wrapped up.
It sometimes happens that the rocket cannot be used--perhaps on account
of the position of the vessel, perhaps through the stupidity of the
crew. In that case other means must be employed. Last winter a ship came
on the shore; the sea broke heavily over her, and her crew had to take
to the rigging. A plucky brigadesman swam off through waves that might
have stupefied a bulldog; he had to watch his chances, and breathe when
the crest had rushed on so that he might make his next plunge through
the combing crest; and he managed to make his rope fast and save the
people. Southward of Shields a ship got into a still more awkward place
than the one last mentioned. She was carried in by a terrific sea, and
jammed on the stones at the foot of a cliff. The captain's wife and
child were lashed to the mast, and the captain himself was made fast
somewhere; all the other poor souls were washed overboard. No boat could
live in the breakers; no rocket was handy. But a sailor called Matthews
got some friends to lower him down the face of the scarp. The wind
knocked him against jutting points; the rope twirled and spun him about;
but he got foothold on the deck and managed to hang on. By working
cautiously he dodged up to the mast and fastened the little child in a
comfortable bight of the rope; then he sent the woman aloft; then he
sent the captain, and was hauled up safely himself. Matthews had no
reward for this piece of work, and is now a poor pitman.
There is no end to the bravery of these amateur life-savers. Only a very
little while ago a ship came on shore. The sea was like a huge pouring
cataract, and the wind pressed like a solid body. The dandy new
lifeboats were beaten back; the men on board tugged and strained till
they were exhausted. The oars were double-manned, but nothing would
avail; and all the time the cry of the men on the wrecked vessel sounded
through the storming of the gale. At last one man said, "Let's have the
old 'Tyne.'" The "Tyne" is a superannuated lifeboat which is kept under
lock and key. The key was refused, and the men who demanded it were
implored not to tempt Providence. Thereupon they coolly formed
themselves into a phalanx, rushed against the door, burst it in, hauled
the old "Tyne" down, and saved eight lives.