Battles with the Sea | Page 4

sands, sometimes on the sea, and sometimes
even on the pierheads. Their operations are varied by circumstances.
Let us draw nearer and look at them while in action, and observe how
the enemy assails them. I shall confine myself at present to a skirmish.
When the storm-fiend is abroad; when dark clouds lower; when
blinding rain or sleet drives before the angry gale, and muttering
thunder comes rolling over the sea, men with hard hands and
weather-beaten faces, clad in oilskin coats and sou'-westers, saunter

down to our quays and headlands all round the kingdom. These are the
lifeboat crews and rocket brigades. They are on the lookout. The enemy
is moving, and the sentinels are being posted for the night--or rather,
they are posting themselves, for nearly all the fighting men in this war
are volunteers!
They require no drilling to prepare them for the field; no bugle or drum
to sound the charge. Their drum is the rattling thunder; their trumpet
the roaring storm. They began to train for this warfare when they were
not so tall as their fathers' boots, and there are no awkward squads
among them now. Their organisation is rough-and-ready, like
themselves, and simple too. The heavens call them to action; the
coxswain grasps the helm, the oars are manned, the word is given, and
the rest is straightforward fighting--over everything, through everything,
in the teeth of everything, until the victory is gained, and rescued men,
women, and children are landed in safety on the shore.
Of course they do not always succeed, but they seldom or never fail to
do the very uttermost that it is in the power of strong and daring men to
accomplish. Frequently they can tell of defeat and victory on the same
battlefield.
So it was on one fearful winter night at the mouth of the Tyne in the
year 1867. The gale that night was furious. It suddenly chopped round
to the South South East, and, as if the change had recruited its energies,
it blew a perfect hurricane between midnight and two in the morning,
accompanied by blinding showers of sleet and hail, which seemed to
cut like a knife. The sea was rising mountains high.
About midnight, when the storm was gathering force and the sentinels
were scarcely able to keep a lookout, a preventive officer saw a vessel
driving ashore to the south of the South Pier. Instantly he burnt a blue
light, at which signal three guns were fired from the Spanish Battery to
call out the Life Brigade. The men were on the alert. About twenty
members of the brigade assembled almost immediately on the pier,
where they found that the preventive officer and pier-policeman had
already got out the life-saving apparatus; but the gale was so fierce that
they had been forced to crawl on their hands and knees to do so. A few

minutes more and the number of brigade men increased to between
fifty and sixty. Soon they saw, through the hurtling storm, that several
vessels were driving on shore. Before long, four ships, with their sails
blown to ribbons, were grinding themselves to powder, and crashing
against each other and the pier-sides in a most fearful manner. They
were the Mary Mac, the Cora, and the Maghee, belonging to Whitstable,
and the Lucern of Blyth.
Several lifeboats were stationed at that point. They were all launched,
manned, and promptly pulled into the Narrows, but the force of the
hurricane and seas were such that they could not make headway against
them. The powers of man are limited. When there is a will there is not
always a way! For two hours did these brave men strain at the tough
oars in vain; then they unwillingly put about and returned, utterly
exhausted, leaving it to the men with the life-lines on shore to do the
fighting. Thus, frequently, when one arm of the service is prevented
from acting; the other arm comes into play.
The work of the men engaged on the pier was perilous and difficult, for
the lines had to be fired against a head wind. The piers were covered
with ice, and the gale was so strong that the men could hardly stand,
while the crews of the wrecks were so benumbed that they could make
little effort to help themselves.
The men of the Mary Mac, however, made a vigorous effort to get their
longboat out. A boy jumped in to steady it. Before the men could
follow, the boat was stove in, the rope that held it broke, and it drove
away with the poor lad in it. He was quickly washed out, but held on to
the gunwale until it drifted into broken water, when he was swallowed
by the raging sea and the boat