interested in benevolent efforts for the seaman’s welfare.

                    [Illustration: RONAYNE’S BRAVERY.]

Some twelve miles westward from Tramore—a favourite watering-place and
summer resort for the citizens of Waterford, and nearly half a mile from
the coast—a farm is situated which has been long occupied by John Ronayne,
a hardy and typical Irish farmer. The farm-house has few of the
necessaries and none of the luxuries of civilised life, it is a true type
of the poor class of farm-houses in many parts of Ireland, consisting of
but two rooms—one the sleeping apartment, where Ronayne’s family of twelve
children have been born, and the other the living-room, where it is to be
suspected sundry four-footed friends occasionally find their way, and bask
or grunt before the fire. Rather less than half a mile from the farm is
the rugged shore, approached by a rough “boreen,” or narrow lane, emerging
on the cliff near the course of a stream, which is a roaring foaming
torrent in winter and spring-time. On winter days and nights, brown and
turbulent, this stream rushes foaming into the ocean over crags and rocks
and pebbly shore; but before it joins its fresh water with the salt sea
foam, it plunges into a crevice, narrow and deep and deadly. Every
coastman along the rock-bound shore knows this deep, treacherous hole, and
warns the traveller to beware of it—for, once in it, there is no return.
But this source of peril is little enough to that which is beyond.

A hundred yards or so from the cove into which this impetuous torrent
pours frown two massive ridges of rock, offering to any venturesome ships
attempting to run between their threatening sides destruction on either
hand, while only some dozen yards of foaming breakers separate the one
from the other. Skilful must be the steersman, and bold the skipper, who
would dare the narrow channel, even though the only one by which they
might hope to beach their sinking ship. And yet, on one fearful night in
January, 1875, a large vessel, the _Gwenissa_, bound from Falmouth to
Glasgow, and new but a few weeks before, successfully accomplished the
dangerous passage. Not that any skill was shown, for none on the doomed
ship knew of their proximity to rocks or shore, but, driving blindly on
before the full fury of the gale, by chance were brought safely through.
But in another instant the ship struck the rocky shore, and in a moment
was shattered to pieces, timbers and tackle, cargo and living freight,
being thrown, scattered and helpless, into the angry surf. Escaping, as by
a miracle, the rocky dangers of Charybdis, the good ship _Gwenissa_ had
been hurled upon Scylla, and her doom sealed.

The family at Killeton Farm little suspected, as they went to their humble
beds, the tragedy which was being enacted on the shore; and even when some
of the boys thought they heard cries of distress, little wonder—when the
wind was blowing in great fitful gusts, sweeping round the homely cottage,
shaking windows and doors, and moaning down the chimneys—that, after
listening a while and hearing nothing further, they thought no more of the
cries, and went to bed. Ronayne had, however, not been long in bed when a
loud knocking awoke him, and he jumped up, and on opening the door was
accosted by three men in sailor’s garb.

The first surprise over, the instincts of hospitality asserted themselves,
and he heaped up the turf fire, and, as they warmed themselves, learned
that they alone of the crew of the _Gwenissa_, nine in number, were
certainly saved. But there was a possibility that one or two might yet
survive; and though the wintry blast roared loud without, Ronayne lingered
not a moment. Hurrying on his clothes, and taking a large sod of flaming
turf by way of lantern, he rushed down the “boreen,” and soon reached the
cove. Cautiously he made his way, and approached the edge of the stream,
whence he now heard the shouts of several men. He followed up the cries of
distress, and soon came upon a man in a most dangerous position.

Ronayne blew the turf until it glowed brightly, and, holding it down, saw
a man waist-deep in the water, but so jammed between the crags that it was
impossible for him to move, far less climb the overhanging rocks. He was
bruised, stunned, and nearly insensible. Ronayne saw at a glance that the
only way to help him was himself to go down, extricate his bruised legs
from the rocks and wreck that held him like a vice, and then assist him to
climb from his perilous position. This, by means of much pulling and
hauling, he at length accomplished, and ultimately had the satisfaction of
leading the poor fellow to a place of safety, where, for a time, he left
him, sorely bruised, faint, and well-nigh frozen, for the others, who had
never ceased calling for assistance from the moment of his arrival. They
were four in number, and, as far as could be judged through the increasing
darkness, lay in the very gorge down which rushed the swollen stream; and
so it proved, for one was hanging to a spar which had become fixed in the
rocks, while another was grasping a projecting crag, by which he contrived
to keep afloat. The others, more fortunate, had been thrown on a ledge,
which left them in comparative safety, though they were waist-deep in
water. But though secure upon this ledge, they were quite as helpless as
their companions, for the beetling face of the rocks defied their utmost
efforts to scale them unaided. Here Ronayne’s knowledge stood him in good
stead, and after much active assistance in the shape of climbing,
swimming, pulling, and scrambling, he succeeded in rescuing one after the
other, each assisting afterwards to make the task easier. Five men stood
beside him, cold and hurt, but saved by his perseverance and bravery from
a watery grave.

“But,” says the narrator—and here especially he should tell his own
tale—“not without great labour had this been effected, for one of the men
had his leg broken, and all were more or less bruised, and perishing of
cold and exposure. Three men were at his house and five here; but where
was the other? for nine men were on board the luckless vessel, and here
were but eight. Leaving the rescued men in the lane, Ronayne ran again to
the cove, and the dim spark expiring in the turf showed him where he had
left it. He scraped off the ash, and, the wind fanning it, again it burned
up brightly—too brightly, for now it burned down to his frozen fingers;
but he only grasped it the tighter, for did it not light him on his errand
of mercy? and if another life might be saved at the expense of a few
burns, would it not be great gain? So on sped he along the shore,
searching into every cranny and cleft and crevice lighted by the turf,
and, burning and shouting between his labours, at length was rewarded by a
faint cry as of a man in distress—more a moan than a cry, and at a
distance. Rapidly but carefully he had scanned the beach, and partially
searched every gully and cleft, and now and again receiving to his cries a
faint response, but always from far away. No doubt the man was out on the
rocks, to which he had been carried by a receding wave after the ship
struck, and Ronayne knew that some further help must be procured before he
could be reached. So he hastened back to the five men he had left in the
lane. They then all proceeded to the farm-house—a melancholy
_cortége_—carrying as best they could the helpless between them. He then
started off, wet and weary as he was, to the coastguard station at
Bonmahon, where he gave information of the wreck, and demanded assistance
for the poor fellow out on the rocks.” The coastguard men lost no time in
turning out with the rocket apparatus; but just as they were fixing it in
position, Ronayne, who had been hunting about, came upon the very last and
ninth man of the crew, lying, half in the water and half out, upon the
beach among a quantity of wreck. His supposition had been correct in
regard to his position on the rocks, but while assistance was being
procured he had been washed ashore, with shattered limbs—bruised,
helpless, unconscious, but _alive_! The poor fellow, who remained
unconscious, was carried to the farm, where some old whisky-jars were
filled with hot water and placed to his feet. The little whisky in the
house was divided among the benumbed men, and more solid provision set
before them.

And now Ronayne’s house contained over twenty inmates, most of them
standing round the turf fire wringing the water from their clothes and
warming their frozen limbs; the few beds, too, had their occupants. For
Ronayne the work had but barely commenced. Saddling his young mare, he
started to lay information of the wreck before Lloyd’s Deputy Receiver at
Tramore, some _twelve miles_ distant, for eight shillings were to be
earned, and for this trifling reward he was prepared to ride some
twenty-four miles on a cold winter night.

On his road he passed the doctor’s house, and sent him to attend the
injured men, arriving at Tramore a few minutes before the telegram from
the coastguard station. Two of the sailors were afterwards removed to the
hospital, and recovered, and they and the remainder cared for by the
Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society’s agents. Ronayne was indemnified for any
expense he had incurred by the same Society, and the Life-boat Institution
shortly after rewarded him.

                               CHAPTER XX.

                 SHIPS THAT “PASS BY ON THE OTHER SIDE.”

      Captains and Owners—Reasons for apparent Inhumanity—A Case in
     Point—The Wreck of the _Northfleet_—Run down by the _Murillo_—A
     Noble Captain—The Vessel Lost, with a Hundred Ships near her—One
         within Three Hundred Yards—Official Inquiry—Loss of the
       _Schiller_—Two Hundred Drowned in one heavy Sea—Life-saving
       Apparatus of little use—Lessons of the Disaster—Wreck of the
         _Deutschland_—Harwich blamed unjustly—The good Tug-boat
     _Liverpool_ and her Work—Necessity of proper Communication with
         Light-houses and Light-ships—The new Signal Code and old
                               Semaphores.

From time to time there appear in the public journals accounts given by
sailors who have been saved from imminent peril from drowning by passing
ships. Many and many an honourable case could be cited; but there are,
alas! ships that “pass by on the other side.” An article in the
journal(79) issued quarterly by that grand society the National Life-boat
Institution explains some of the reasons for this sad state of affairs.
The writer generally denies that the majority of the masters of ships who
would pass another vessel in distress are brutal or callous, and thinks
that were many of them brought face to face with an isolated case of
probable drowning, they would not hesitate to expose their own lives to
preserve the one endangered. There must be some strong causes operating on
the minds of the men who act in the inhuman manner indicated. Among them
are the following:—

“1st. That the loss of time which the most trifling service of this kind
causes would possibly represent a very considerable money loss to the
owners, by the delay in the arrival in port of the ship and cargo.

“2nd. That the cost of maintenance of the persons saved is insufficiently
repaid by the Government.

“3rd. That in all but the largest kind of ships the amount of food and
water habitually kept on board is rarely sufficient to meet the strain of,
say double, or, it may be quadruple, the number of men they were intended
for; and if a ship of the smaller class, towards the end of her voyage,
has to take on board the crew of a vessel greater in number than her own,
she is, from shortness of provisions and water, in nine cases out of ten,
compelled to make for the nearest port, which may be a cause of
incalculable loss, unless it chances to be the one she is bound for.

“4th. Every captain knows that all owners are more or less inimical to
their ships rendering either salvage service or life-saving service. Not,
as we suppose, that any owner deliberately sets to himself the axiom that
no ship of his shall save life, but that they, not unnaturally, view with
suspicion salvage service, because they can receive nothing from it but
loss in time and money; and cases are not infrequent in which pretence of
saving life is made a source of real loss to the owners.”

One case among the many which could be presented is here given. It
appeared before the magistrates of Falmouth in 1873, in consequence of the
refusal of a crew to proceed to sea. The ship had come from a Chinese port
to _a port in Europe_: it being uncertain, from the fluctuating state of
the market, which it would be. The vessel fell in with a distressed ship,
from which she took seventeen persons. When in the entrance to the English
Channel, the captain found himself short of provisions and water, and put
into Falmouth, to land the shipwrecked crew and replenish his provisions.
His own crew thereupon claimed their discharge, as having arrived “_at a
port in Europe_.” The Bench ruled the men’s claim to be just, and it took
the captain a fortnight to obtain a fresh crew, to whom higher wages had
to be paid. “The actual and immediate loss to the owners, by this act of
humanity of their captain, was stated at £270. The only reimbursement was
the usual State grant for feeding so many men so many days, amounting
altogether to £16 and a few shillings.” The delay in delivering cargo
entailed a heavy loss, and having put into a port not named, she had, it
was said, vitiated her policy. How might the owners feel towards that
captain in future? And again, how might he feel next time, when duty
called him one way and interest the other? In an indirect way, this and
foreign Governments recognise humane services of the kind indicated by
presents of telescopes or binocular glasses. Such recognition is
undoubtedly valued by the sort of men who would do their duty under any
adverse circumstances, and whether they were to be thanked or no; but it
is to be feared that captains who were as unfortunate as the one at
Falmouth might think twice before they performed that which their
consciences could only approve as right.

The owner of the relieving vessel should have the right of being recouped
to the full extent of the loss incurred by delay and service—though many
would never accept it; and a ship’s insurance should never be vitiated by
its calling at a port on a matter of any such necessity as landing a
shipwrecked crew or obtaining provisions. It is certain that we should do
all that is possible to reduce that annual list of ships whose only record
is “Not since heard of.”

A successful mail-steamer passage or quick run, the first clipper from
China with the season’s tea, make not only a certain stir in a pretty wide
circle, but represent a considerable increase of actual wealth. The
despairing cry of those few poor seamen—who, in their sinking craft, or
who, perishing from hunger or thirst, see fading away on the distant
horizon the white royals of some lofty ship which they had watched with
such agonising alternation of hope and despair—is heard by God alone.

                    [Illustration: THE “NORTHFLEET.”]

The wreck of the _Northfleet_, and loss of life to over 300 souls, on
January 22nd, 1873, will illustrate some of the above remarks.(80) The
_Northfleet_ was a fine old ship of 940 tons, built at Northfleet, near
Gravesend, and so named. After various vicissitudes in the service of
Dent’s China and other lines, she had become the property of Messrs. John
Patton and Co., of Liverpool and London, and was at the time of which we
are about to speak chartered by the contractors of the Tasmanian Line
Railway to convey 350 labourers and a few women and children to Hobart
Town. The vessel left the East India Docks on Friday, the 17th December,
1872, with a living freight of about 400 persons. The cargo consisted
principally of railway material. At the very last moment of leaving the
docks, her commander for the previous five years, Captain Oates, was
subpoenaed by a Treasury warrant to attend the Tichborne trial, and the
command was given to his chief officer, Mr. Knowles. He was allowed to
take on board the lady to whom he had been married about a month.

After leaving Gravesend the _Northfleet_ encountered very stormy weather,
and Captain Knowles felt it prudent to anchor under the North Foreland,
where the vessel remained until the following Tuesday, when, the weather
having moderated, she sailed down Channel, and was reported at Lloyd’s as
having passed Deal, “All well” being the signal. On the Wednesday, at
sunset, she came to an anchor off Dungeness, about two miles from shore,
in eleven fathoms of water. She was then almost opposite the coastguard
station. About ten o’clock the ship was taut and comfortable for the
night; almost all the passengers had turned in, and none but the usual
officers and men of the watch were on deck. Just as the bells were
striking the half-hour past ten the watch observed a large steamer,
outward-bound, coming directly towards them. She appeared to be going at
full speed, and the shouts of the men on watch who called upon her to
alter her course roused Captain Knowles, who was on the after deck. But in
another moment the steamer came on to the _Northfleet_, striking her
broadside almost amidships, making a breach in her timbers beneath the
water-line, and crushing the massive timbers traversing the main deck.

  “’Midst the thick darkness, Death,
    The dread, inexorable monarch, stalked;
  And, lo! his icy breath
    Encircled the devoted barque, where talked,
  Or laughed, or watched, or slept,
    The doomed three hundred of her living freight,
  Unconscious that there crept
    Through the still air the stealthy steps of Fate.

    *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

  “Oh God, that fearful crash!
    The stout ship reels, her planks disrupted wide;
  Fast through the yawning gash
    The green sea pours its dark, resistless tide.
  What followed then, O heart,
    Thou scarce may’st realise! ’Tis well for thee:
  Ne’er would that sight depart
    From gentle mind that had been there to see.

  “For maddening terror reigned;
    Honour, and manhood, and calm reason fled,
  And brutal instincts gained
    The mastery; and even shame was dead.
  Each one, to save his life
    Would give to death the lives of all beside;
  Nor cared in that fell strife
    What awful end his fellows might betide.(81)

  “Yet ’mid that wild despair
    Nobility of soul found room to stand,
  And lustre bright and rare
    Enfolds the memory of Knowles and Brand;
  Who, face to face with death,
    Save of dishonour, showed no coward dread,
  Brave hearts to the last breath,
    They joined the galaxy of Britain’s dead.”

The shock was described by the survivors as like the concussion of a very
powerful cannon. The reader will here make his own reflections.
Immediately after the collision the steamer cleared the ship, and before
many of the terrified people below could reach the deck she was out of
sight. Most of the passengers were awakened by the shock, and a fearful
panic ensued. Captain Knowles acted with singular calmness, promptitude,
and decision. He caused rockets to be sent up, bells to be rung, and other
signals of distress; but the gun to be fired would not go off, the
touch-hole being clogged. Meantime he directed the boats to be launched,
giving orders that the safety of the women and children should be first
secured. There was a disposition to set these orders at defiance, and, on
some of the crew crowding to the davits, with a view of effecting their
own safety, Captain Knowles drew a revolver, and declared he would shoot
the first man who attempted to save himself in the boats before the women
were cared for. Most of the crew seemed to understand that the captain was
not to be trifled with; but one man, Thomas Biddle, refused to obey the
order, and the captain fired at him in a boat alongside the ship. The
bullet entered the man’s leg just above the knee.

Meantime the pumps were set to work, but with little or no effect, the
water pouring in through the opening in the ship’s side. The scene on deck
was frightful. Many of the passengers were in their night-dresses; others
had only such scanty clothing as they could secure on quitting their
berths. Children were screaming for their parents, and parents searching
in vain for their children; husbands and wives were hopelessly separated.
The horror was increased by the darkness of night. The captain’s wife was
placed with other women in the long-boat, under the charge of the
boatswain; but the tackle being too suddenly set adrift, the boat was
stove in.

                [Illustration: WRECK OF THE “NORTHFLEET.”]

By this time the _City of London_ steam-tug, having perceived the signals
of distress, reached the spot, and succeeded in rescuing nearly the whole
of the occupants of the boat, as well as several others of the passengers
and crew, to the number of thirty-four. She remained cruising about the
spot till early next morning, picking up such of the passengers as could
get clear of the wreck, and in the last hope, which proved vain, of
rendering assistance to those who might have floated on fragments of the
ship after she settled down. The Kingsdown lugger _Mary_ was likewise
attracted by the signals of distress, and succeeded in rescuing thirty
passengers. The London pilot-cutter No. 3, and the _Princess_, stationed
at Dover, also got to the spot, and succeeded in rescuing twenty-one, ten
of them from the rigging. The total number thus rescued was eighty-five
persons.

The ship went down about three-quarters of an hour after she was struck,
the captain remaining at his post till she sank. One of the survivors
states that he was standing close to the captain when she went down. The
former managed to lay hold of some floating plank, and was borne to the
surface. The captain, however, was not again seen. The pilot and ten
others had taken to the mizen-mast, from which they were rescued. The
whole of the officers perished.

It must seem remarkable that while the _Northfleet_ showed lights and
other signals of distress within two miles of shore during twenty minutes
or half an hour no notice was taken of them. When a ship is in
difficulties in the night, it is usual for her either to fire guns or to
exhibit a flare of light. But here, even the vessels close at hand thought
that the ship was only signalling for a pilot; and at the time there were
nearly a hundred vessels at anchor in the roadstead, with their lights
burning brilliantly. Those on board the three ships nearest the wreck
would have instantly sent help had they imagined there was a vessel in
distress, and they could have got to the ship in a few minutes, for,
though the night was dark and squally, it was clear at intervals, and any
boat could live, the sea not being rough. It appears that the _Corona_, an
Australian clipper, was lying at anchor within 300 yards of the
_Northfleet_ when the disaster occurred, but neither the terrible shock of
the collision, the subsequent cries for aid, nor the rockets continuously
fired from the deck of the sinking ship, could arouse the man who was the
only watch on deck to call up either his comrades or the officers of his
ship. Various reports were at first current as to the name of the vessel
which ran the _Northfleet_ down, and which passed straight on her way,
without taking any heed of the disaster she had caused, though it must
have been clearly known on board of her, if not—it is to be hoped—to the
full extent of the calamity. Suspicion attached to the _Murillo_, a
Spanish steamer, bound for Lisbon from Antwerp. The _Murillo_ arrived at
Cadiz on the evening of Thursday, the 30th, having stopped at Belem, the
entrance to the port of Lisbon, on the day before, and having then been
warned by a telegram to go on to Cadiz without landing her Lisbon cargo.
Upon her arrival at Cadiz an official inquiry was commenced, at the
instance of the British Consul. From the report of Mr. Macpherson, Lloyd’s
agent at Cadiz, it appeared that her starboard bow had been newly painted
black and red to the water line, and her port bow showed marks of a slight
indentation near the anchor davit. It was stated, however, on behalf of
her owners, that the painting was done in London or Antwerp, before she
started on her present journey, and that the indentation had been made on
entering the port of Havre two years before. An inquiry was instituted in
the Spanish Courts, and the committee appointed for that purpose declared
that the _Murillo_ was not the vessel which ran down the _Northfleet_. The
_Murillo_ was therefore released. But some time afterwards justice was
avenged.

The official report of the inquiry made—at the instigation of the English
Government—by Mr. Daniel Maude, stipendiary magistrate, assisted by
Captains Harris and Hight acting as assessors, stated that there was no
doubt that the ship which came into collision with the _Northfleet_ was
the Spanish iron screw-steamer _Murillo_, trading between London and
Cadiz, which left London on the 12th of January, proceeded to Antwerp,
and, after leaving that port, arrived off Dungeness on the night of
January 22nd. The _Northfleet_ was anchored in an apparently most safe
position, a mile and a half or more inside the usual fair course for
vessels outward-bound. The _Murillo_ came down inside the _Northfleet_,
and struck her nearly amidships. It would appear, both from observation on
board the _Northfleet_ and also from the evidence given by the chief
engineer of the _Murillo_, that the latter had slackened her speed some
little time before the collision, or probably both ships would have sunk.
There is no doubt the shock was a slight one; but the sharp stem of the
iron steamer having struck the weakest part of the wooden ship will
account for the mischief done. The master of the _Murillo_, in his log,
stated that the reason for not laying by to inquire as to the injury
sustained by the shock was that a boat had immediately left the ship and
examined the damage, and that the boat and crew having returned again, he
concluded nothing of moment had happened. The Court was satisfied that no
such incident had occurred, nor was it mentioned by the witnesses who had
previously been examined by the Court. The survivors of the collision were
unanimously of opinion that if the _Murillo_ had lain by, the whole of the
_Northfleet_ people could have been saved. They thoroughly believed that
the _Murillo_ steamed away, and left them to perish, in defiance of their
signals, rockets, blue lights, and the shouts and screams of the whole
ship’s company, which must have been noticed. On the other hand, it
appears that Captain Knowles did not apprehend immediately the damage his
ship had suffered, and that no rockets were fired for a quarter of an hour
after the collision. During this time the _Murillo_ was steaming away at
half-speed, and was probably two miles off. Upon this evidence the Court
felt they ought not to impute to the captain of the _Murillo_ the full
apparent brutality of his offence in not staying by the injured ship. The
Court added a strong expression of opinion that no master of a ship should
be allowed to take his wife to sea with him.

On Friday, the 7th of May, 1875, one of those sad events occurred which
show the imperfection of many of the most carefully-devised schemes for
life-saving at sea. Although it occurred in British waters, neither the
ship nor the larger part of the passengers were British subjects. The
_Schiller_ was a fine iron steamship of 3,600 tons, belonging to the Eagle
line of Hamburg; she was nearly a new vessel, having been built at Glasgow
in 1873. She left New York on the 27th of April, having on board at the
time 264 passengers, while the officers and crew numbered 120 souls. All
went well till the 7th of May, on which day she was due at Plymouth, when,
in the afternoon, a fog set in; nevertheless, the vessel was kept at full
speed until 8.30 p.m., when the density of the fog having greatly
increased, she was put at half-speed, and an hour after she struck on the
Retarrier Rocks, off the Scilly Islands, and within two-thirds of a mile
of the lighthouse on the Bishop’s Rock. Although going at slow speed at
the time, and although the engines were immediately reversed, the
unyielding rocks had done their work: the ship was immovable, and
immediately filled. All was at once confusion, and a panic ensued, cries
of terror rising from every lip. Orders were given by the captain to lower
the boats, and until he was himself washed off the bridge, at about 4
a.m., and drowned, he did his best to preserve some order, even
threatening the frantic crowd with his pistol. All the boats, however,
except two, were swept away by the sea before they could be lowered, many
perishing with them, and one was crushed by the funnel falling on it. The
ship held together for several hours, and had there been any means of
making their hopeless condition known at St. Mary’s, the chief of the
Scilly Islands, a steamer, and a first-class lifeboat(82) belonging to the
National Lifeboat Institution, might have arrived in time to save a large
number of lives. Such, however, was not to be, and when the morning dawned
all that remained of the crew and passengers who, a few hours before, had
been looking forward to happy meetings in the Fatherland with fathers,
mothers, sisters, brothers, and friends at home, were those who had
succeeded in mounting the rigging of the fore and main masts, and a few
others in the half-swamped boat, the only one which had been safely
lowered. The women and children who had crowded the deck-houses and
saloon, and the male passengers and those of the crew who were on the
upper deck or the bridge, had perished. Alarm-guns were fired and signal
lights thrown up continually, until the seas breaking over the ship
prevented such efforts attracting attention; and some of the former were
heard on the islands, but as steamers from America had been in the habit
of firing guns to mark their arrival off the islands, they were not
supposed to be danger signals. It is said, however, that at St. Agnes, the
nearest island to the wreck, the guns were believed to be from a vessel in
distress, but the fog was so thick that boats were afraid to venture out.

                   [Illustration: THE SCILLY ISLANDS.]

The mainmast fell at about seven o’clock in the morning, and the foremast
an hour later, when most of those who remained in their rigging were lost.
Just before the foremast had fallen, four boats from the shore arrived,
and picked up several persons from the water, but finding the sea too
heavy to allow them to go alongside the ship, one of them went to St.
Mary’s, to convey intelligence of the disaster and to procure the aid of
the steam-tug and lifeboat. As soon as possible the latter arrived in tow
of the steamer, but all, alas! was then over, and they only picked up
twenty-three bags of mail matter and a few bodies. Out of 384 souls only
53 were saved.

It was about ten o’clock in the evening when the ship struck. A little
festive party had been given in honour of the birthday of one of the
officers, but there is no evidence to show that the working of the ship
was thereby neglected. The majority of the passengers were on deck, on the
look-out for land, which they knew was near. Nearly all the women and
children and a few men were in their berths; others were sitting about,
talking, smoking, playing cards or dominoes, and thinking little of the
fate which was so soon to befall them. There was not the slightest
premonition of the disaster, and the shock appears to have been so slight
that few were at first aware that the ship had struck on a rock. But in a
few minutes the sea which ran over her forced her on her broadside, where
she lay constantly washed over by the breakers. Let the reader imagine, if
he can, the sudden change from the gaiety and hopefulness on board, the
anticipations of soon reaching shore and home, to that scene of wild
terror and dismay!

               [Illustration: THE BISHOP ROCK LIGHTHOUSE.]

About midnight the funnel fell overboard and smashed two of the starboard
boats. Soon after the fog cleared away, and a gleam of hope arose when the
bright clear light of the Bishop Rock Lighthouse shone out. But it was
only momentary, and dense darkness soon surrounded them. When the
deck-house was swept away by a sea so heavy that it ran up to the top of
the mainmast, a heartrending cry, mingled with shrieks and groans, rent
the air. Nearly two hundred perished by this one catastrophe. Then the
captain gathered for safety some people on the bridgeway, the highest
place, in the vain hope of saving them. Every one, including the captain,
engineers, and doctor, were swept off. The riggings of both masts were now
crowded with people. With every lurch the steamer careened over to the
starboard side until the yards touched the water, and the cargo began to
float about on all sides. Bales of wool and cotton, feathers, trunks,
boxes, and woodwork of all kinds, strewed the waves.

A survivor—one of seven who left the ship in a boat and was afterwards
instrumental in picking up others—said that they cruised about the greater
part of the night near the vessel, and that the screaming all the time was
heartrending, and lasted almost from the commencement of the disaster to
four o’clock in the morning, when it ceased. Alas! by that time nearly all
had gone to their long account. The last screams he heard, and which he
could never forget, were from a little child. Mingled with all was the
cracking of the ship’s timbers as wave after wave broke over her. One by
one the lights disappeared, till, at three o’clock, not one was left but
the masthead light.

A proportion of the bodies only were recovered, among them those of
several ladies wearing valuable jewellery; one had £200 in money upon her,
which she had endeavoured to save. That with 1,200 life-belts on board so
few should have escaped seems nearly incredible; but the panic and other
circumstances help to account for the sad fact. The second mate stated
that he had much trouble in getting the passengers to understand the
importance of wearing them well under the armpits, and that if the belt
got below the waist it would at once force the head under water. From the
position of some of the corpses recovered, it is evident that many must
have perished in this manner. In a number of cases the lower strings of
the life-belts had broken. The larger part of the dead were buried on the
various islands of the Scilly group.(83)

The main features of this disaster teach some important lessons. “We
find,” says a writer in _The Lifeboat_, “in this instance, a noble ship,
under full control of steam and sail; the captain(84) an able,
experienced, and careful officer, whose devotion to his duty and sense of
the responsibility thrown on him were shown by the fact of his not having
had his clothes off for five nights previous to the loss of his ship; and
the weather fine, with the exception of the prevalence of a dense fog.

“If we further inquire whether the owners of the ship had done their duty
in providing their passengers with all available means of safety, we find
that she had an ample and competent crew, had eight boats, six of them
being life-boats, and that life-belts more than sufficient for every one
on board were provided, and were to a large extent used, since all, or
nearly all, the bodies that were picked up had life-belts on them. The
latter may, however, have been of inferior quality—indeed, are said to
have been so. With so many elements of safety, what then caused them to be
of no avail?

“The immediate causes of the loss of the ship were apparently the dense
fog and an insufficient allowance for the set of the well-known current
which sets out of the Bay of Biscay to the northward, across the entrance
of the British Channel, which has sometimes considerable strength.

“A secondary cause was the old offence, so general in the merchant
service, despite all the warnings of experience—neglect of sounding, the
lead not having been used during the day or night, nor on the two previous
days.

“Lastly, the chief cause of so few lives being saved, there can be little
doubt, was the same as that which led to such fearful results in the case
of the _Northfleet_, viz., the custom of making use of night signals of
distress for other objects, such as to call for pilots, to signify
arrival, &c., a folly admonished in advance in the old fable of the boy
raising the alarm of ‘Wolf, wolf!’ when there was no wolf, and then
receiving no succour from his neighbours when the wolf came.

“It appears to be customary for the German steamers to make the Scilly
Islands to enable their agents there to telegraph to Plymouth the approach
of their steamers, in order that the necessary preparations should be made
for a prompt disembarkation of their passengers for England on their
arrival at that port.

“The saving of time, which, looking to the great daily expense of such
vessels, with their hundreds of mouths to be fed, and their immense
consumption of coal, is the saving of money to the shareholders, and is,
of course, the motive for communicating by signal with Scilly, just as the
maintenance of high speed in all weathers, and by night as by day at all
hazards, is so, and which leads to so many disasters.

“All that we would suggest, in the interest of humanity, is that such
communication should be left discretionary with the captain of every ship
in the case of fogs, when it should be optional for him to proceed
directly for Plymouth, or to heave to, or to feel his way at greatly
diminished speed by frequent sounding, which would be a certain guide to
him for a distance of many miles round the islands.” The writer suggests
that, in view of the too common neglect of sounding, such neglect, when
discovered, should be punishable by heavy penalties. It was proved in
evidence that the Eagle line of steamers were expressly prohibited from
firing guns, or exhibiting other distress signals, to make themselves
known, but that other German steamers had done so, of which those on board
this unfortunate ship now reaped the evil consequences.

On the morning of the 6th December, 1875, one of those sad disasters
occurred which ever and again remind us of the dangerous nature of our
shores. But a few months before the _Schiller_ had been wrecked, with the
loss of 331 lives, and now an emigrant steamship, of the same nationality,
was to share the same terrible fate off the Essex coast. Happily, the loss
was not so serious, and led to the establishment of a life-boat station
where one had not existed before.

               [Illustration: WRECK OF THE “DEUTSCHLAND.”]

Few maritime disasters of modern times have excited more general interest
than the wreck of the _Deutschland_: partly from the fact that it occurred
so near the mouth of the Thames, and partly because a part of the German
press, in a strange and reckless manner, advanced serious charges against
the town of Harwich and the boatmen of that port, accusing them of
allowing the unfortunate emigrants to perish before their eyes, and
refusing them succour. The circumstances are as follows:—In the first
place, the spot where the _Deutschland_ was wrecked—on the Kentish
Knock—is twenty-four miles from Harwich, and, therefore, at too great a
distance for the vessel herself, and far less for any signals of distress
or national flag to be seen from that place, even in clear weather.
“Accordingly, the only modes by which intelligence of the disaster could
be conveyed to Harwich would have been by the different light-vessels
repeating the signals from one to another, and finally to that town, or by
some vessel or boat proceeding there. Now it so happened that all the
hovelling smacks belonging to that and adjacent places had themselves been
driven into port by the violence of the gale and the heavy sea, and that
the only available means of communication was, therefore, by signals from
the light-ships. It appears from the evidence of the officers in charge of
those vessels at the Board of Trade inquiry, although the _Deutschland_
had been on shore since five and six o’clock in the morning on Monday, the
6th of December, and had immediately commenced to throw up rockets, and
continued to do so until daylight, none of them were seen even from the
nearest light-ship—the Kentish Knock—no doubt, owing to the thickness of
the weather and almost continuous snow-storms, the master of that vessel
first perceiving the unfortunate steamer at 9.30 a.m. He then fired guns,
sounded the fog-horn, and continued to do so at half-hour intervals during
the day, and at 4.30 p.m. commenced to throw up rockets, which were
answered by the steamer.

“At 5.20 the mate of the Sunk light-ship first saw two rockets, which he
supposed to be from a vessel on the Long Sand, whereupon he fired guns and
sent up rockets throughout the night, but did not see the wrecked ship
until 7.30 on the morning of Tuesday, the 7th. His first rockets had,
however, been seen by the look-out on board the Cork light-ship, from
which vessel rockets were then immediately discharged; and at 7.30 these
were replied to from Harwich, they having given the first intimation to
the good people of that town that anything was amiss at sea; and even then
not that a German emigrant steamer was ashore on the Kentish Knock, but
merely that some vessel was in danger somewhere on one of the numerous
sandbanks which lie in all directions off that port. We have thus
accounted for the circumstance of these unfortunate shipwrecked persons
being allowed to remain for fourteen hours in their perilous position
without succour from the shore, from the simple cause that no one knew of
their danger; and we have arrived at another stage of our inquiry: viz.,
Were the means then adopted all that could be reasonably expected from
humane people, who would gladly afford succour, if in their power, to any
one in distress, to whatever country they might belong?”

The writer of the critical article from which the above quotations are
taken(85) shows, firstly, that there was not at that time a life-boat
station at Harwich. It had always been considered that the sands were too
distant from that port for the successful employment of such a boat, and
that, in the event of wrecks upon them, the numerous hovelling smacks
would have anticipated its services. There was, however, a small but
serviceable steam-tug—not, be it remembered, Government or town property,
but that of a private individual. It is right that this should be fully
understood. The circumstance of this tug, the _Liverpool_, not going off
instantly on perceiving the rockets thrown up by the Cork light-ship was
much criticised by some ignorant persons at the time. “Fortunately, she
was commanded by an able and experienced seaman, Captain Carrington, who
knew what he was about; who knew the difficulties of navigating in the
intricate passages between the numerous shoals off the port on a dark
night and gale of wind, and he could only do so at great risk of losing
his owner’s vessel and the lives of those intrusted to him; that he might
spend the whole night in vainly searching for the vessel in distress, and,
even if he should find her, that, with the small tug’s boats, it would be
quite impossible for him to render any assistance to a vessel surrounded
by broken water, in a dark night and heavy sea; and, moreover, that if any
mishap should disable his own vessel, the only chance of saving the
wrecked persons might be destroyed.” He judiciously waited till shortly
before daylight, and then proceeded, first, to the Cork light-ship, where
he ascertained that the Sunk light-ship had been firing all night. He then
steamed to the latter, and was misinformed (unintentionally) regarding the
locality of the wreck. He, after searching in vain for some little time,
steamed for the Kentish Knock, and when half-way to it saw the
_Deutschland_ on that sandbank. He then went to the Knock light-ship, and
hailed her, inquiring whether those on board knew anything about the
wreck, or whether there were any people remaining on board her, but could
get no information. He soon proceeded to the spot, and, finding there were
a large number of persons on board her, anchored his vessel under her lee,
at about sixty fathoms’ distance, and sent his boats to her. After taking
off three boat-loads, he weighed his anchor, placed his vessel alongside
the ship, and took off the remainder of the survivors—173 in all. In spite
of the time which had elapsed and the great dangers to which the vessel
had been exposed, the loss of life had not been so serious as might well
have been anticipated. Fifty-seven poor men and women had, however,
perished in the raging waves. The tug(86) had done her work of saving
nobly and well, and had performed it at a time when the hovelling smacks
could have done nothing at all. On the same occasion the Broadstairs
life-boat proceeded as soon as possible to the scene of the wreck, twenty
miles distant, but too late to be of service. In these days of nearly
universal telegraphy, it would seem strange that our light-ships on
dangerous sands, and our lighthouses on dangerous rocks, are almost
entirely without the means of proper communication with the nearest
shores. From the light-ship, indeed, rockets and guns are constantly
fired, as we have seen in many preceding examples, but fogs and heavy
weather often prevent either from being of service. The expense of
connecting _all_ of them with the coasts by means of submarine cables
might be sufficient to frighten any Government; but some such
communication, however costly, should be made with many of those exposed
and dangerous spots where shipwrecks are of constant occurrence.

Excellent authorities on maritime matters have strongly advocated the
necessity for the establishment of a sound system of day and night signals
from all outlying lighthouses, light-ships, and coastguard stations, and
the laying of submarine cables to many of the more prominent stations. A
formula of “signals of distress” was included in the new “Merchant
Shipping Act of 1873,” which came into operation on the 1st of November of
that year. Prior to that time such signals were too vague and too
indiscriminately used to have much value, and sometimes were calculated to
mislead. Thus, in the case of the _Northfleet_ already cited, 400 of those
on board were drowned, “although she was surrounded by other ships, and
the rockets which she discharged as signals of distress were seen by the
coastguard and life-boat men ashore, but were unheeded, it being a common
custom for homeward-bound ships to discharge rockets for pilots, or as
_feux de joie_ on their safe return from distant lands.” The following
signals of distress are now required. In _the daytime_ the following
signals, when used together or separately, shall be deemed sufficient and
proper. 1. A gun fired at intervals of about a minute. 2. The
International Code signal of distress. This is a square flag with
chess-board pattern, blue and white, having beneath it a long triangular
white pennant, with a red ball in the centre. 3. The distant signal,
consisting of a square flag, having above or below it a ball or anything
resembling a ball. _At night_ the following signals:—1. A gun fired at
intervals of about a minute. 2. Flames on the ship, as from a burning
tar-barrel or oil-barrel, &c. 3. Rockets or shells, of any colour or
description, fired, one at a time, at short intervals. And “any master of
a vessel who uses or displays, or causes or permits any person under his
authority to use or display, any of the said signals, except in the case
of a vessel being in distress, shall be liable to pay compensation for any
labour undertaken, risk incurred, or loss sustained, in consequence of
such signal having been supposed to be a signal of distress, and such
compensation may, without prejudice to any other remedy, be recovered in
the same manner in which salvage is recoverable.”

The signals for pilots are also definitely fixed as follows:—_By day_, the
“Jack” or other national colour usually worn by merchant ships, having
round it a white border, is to be displayed at the fore; _or_ the
International Code pilotage signal, this consists of two square flags, the
upper of which is a blue flag with a white square in its centre, and the
lower of which is a striped flag, red, white, and blue, similar to the
French flag. _At night_, “blue lights,” or bright white lights, are to be
flashed at frequent intervals, just above the bulwarks. If these signals
are used for any purpose other than that for which they are intended, a
penalty, not exceeding twenty pounds, is incurred. Residents at, and
visitors to, seaports and sea-side resorts will, from the above
description, be able to judge whether a vessel in the offing is in dire
distress or simply requires the ordinary services of a pilot.

In the eighteenth century, the requirements of a maritime country
constantly at war obliged the Government to establish a complete system of
signals and signal stations all round our coasts. At the conclusion of our
wars with France that system was in full force, and at that time the
movements of nearly every vessel, friend or foe, were telegraphed from
point to point with a facility which contributed in an important degree to
the security of the country. “This Government telegraph system was also
available for summoning such aids as then existed for the preservation of
life from shipwreck. Accounts of wrecks at what may be called the
life-boat era all tend to show that the system of coast telegraphy then in
existence played an important part in most notable life-boat and other
rescues from shipwreck. With the long peace the need for information on
the part of the Government as to the movements of its own or other ships
became less urgent, though the coast system of signals maintained a
precarious existence for many years, to assist the coastguard in
protecting the revenue. As smuggling decreased, the coastguard men were
reduced in number, and the chain of signallers became broken into gaps,
which widened year by year. The final blow was given by railways and
electricity to the old line of semaphores stretching between Portsmouth
and the Admiralty, and elsewhere, and from headland to headland. But while
the Government, by the help of modern invention, enormously increased its
facilities of communication with the great dockyards and arsenals, it,
conceiving itself to be in no way concerned (we suppose) with the safety
of merchant ships or saving life, failed to supply a substitute for the
old semaphore system along the coast line; and year by year the evil has
increased from the reduction of the coastguard, and the consequent
lengthening of the interval on lines of coasts in which watch has ceased
to be kept. The result is that during the last twenty-five years, and up
to the present time, there has been greater difficulty in communicating
along the coast and summoning aid to distressed vessels at all
out-of-the-way parts of the coast than existed at the end of the last
century.

“The First Lord of the Admiralty or the President of the Board of Trade
can converse at leisure with Plymouth, Deal, Leith, or Liverpool, but the
Eddystone has no means of letting the authorities at Plymouth know that a
ship is slowly foundering before the eyes of the keepers, though the two
points are in sight of each other. The light-keepers at the Bishop have no
means of telling the people at St. Mary’s that a ship full of passengers
is slowly but surely tearing to pieces on the Retarrier reef; and the
hundreds of vessels that yearly are in deadly peril on the Goodwins, the
Kentish Knock, the Norfolk Sands, and elsewhere, have no means of
summoning prompt aid from the land, though they are only a few miles
distant from it.”(87) The writer notes that the number of cases of
shipwreck, where the vessels might have been saved, which reach the
National Life-boat Institution is considerable. These come largely from
obscure and detached parts of the coasts. A foreign barque was wrecked on
the Ship-wash, a sandbank eight miles from land, the nearest port being
Harwich, from which its southern end is distant ten miles. The wreck was
discovered by several smacks soon after seven o’clock on the morning of
January 7th, 1876, and the news of the disaster was in the possession of
the coastguards at Walton, Harwich, and Aldborough, before ten o’clock
that day. Yet the crew were not taken off the wreck till the following
morning, after they had been more than twenty-four hours exposed to all
the horrors of a pitiless easterly gale, and the momentary expectation of
being swept into eternity. So ill-adapted was the system of sending
information along the coast that the news did not reach Ramsgate till the
next morning, and tug-boat and life-boat then started on a gallant but
fruitless expedition, to find that they had only just been forestalled by
the Harwich steamer. The Ramsgate men were thus needlessly exposed for
fourteen hours in a storm, with the cold so intense that the salt water
froze as it fell on the boat. “It is also significant,” says a writer in
_The Lifeboat_, “that the Aldborough life-boat’s crew declined to launch
their boat (they being fifteen miles from the wreck), mainly because there
were no sure grounds for concluding that the crew were still on board
it—information which could certainly have been conveyed by the Ship-wash
lightship had it had an electric wire communication with the shore; or,
failing that, by properly arranged ‘distant signals’ visible to the eye.”
The writer shows that had the information been telegraphed from the point
which it actually did reach about 10 a.m., either to the Admiralty or the
Board of Trade, or any other public department, assistance could with ease
have been sent to the wreck, by orders from London, not the day after, but
on the forenoon of the same day. And what might not have been the sad
consequences of delay, had the vessel been carrying a lot of helpless
passengers instead of nine hardy seamen?

A case occurred shortly after the above occurrence, illustrating the
necessity for prompt and suitable communication with land. The steamer
_Vesper_, of Hartlepool, was lost on the Kish Bank, four miles south of
the Kish light-ship. The crew of this wreck, which struck the bank at 5
a.m., though only _four_ miles from the light-ship, six of a coastguard
station on shore, and seven of another point, received no assistance, nor
did the light-ship pass the intelligence till 10 a.m., when a boatman at
Kingstown saw masts sticking out of the water on the Kish Bank, with
signals of distress flying from them. Promptly enough then the life-boat,
towed by H.M. steam-tender _Amelie_, proceeded to the wreck, only to find,
however, that on the steamer sinking the crew had taken to their own
boats, and being unburdened with passengers, had escaped to land. The
weather was moderate; had there been a gale, the story might have been far
different. What a reproach to our system! first, that the light-ship had
no means of signalling for assistance; and, second, that it had no means
afterwards of indicating that all hands were happily saved.

                               CHAPTER XXI.

               A CONTRAST—THE SHIP ON FIRE!—SWAMPED AT SEA.

        The Loss of the _Amazon_—A Noble Vessel—Description of her
       Engine-rooms—Her Boats—Heating of the Machinery—The Ship on
     Fire—Communication Cut off—The Ominous Fire-bell—The Vessel put
     before the Wind—A Headlong Course—Impossibility of Launching the
    Boats—“Every Man for Himself!”—The Boats on Fire—Horrible Cases of
             Roasting—Boats Stove in and Upset—The Remnant of
     Survivors—“Passing by on the Other Side”—Loss of a distinguished
      Author—A Clergyman’s Experiences—A Graphic Description—Without
    Food, Water, Oars, Helm, or Compass—Blowing-up of the _Amazon_—“A
    Sail!”—Saved on the Dutch Galliot—Back from the Dead—Review of the
    Catastrophe—A Contrast—Loss of the _London_—Anxiety to get Berths
    on her—The First Disaster—Terrible Weather—Swamped by the Seas—The
     Furnaces Drowned out—Efforts to Replace a Hatchway—Fourteen Feet
     of Water in the Hold—“Boys, you may say your Prayers!”—Scene in
    the Saloon—The Last Prayer Meeting—Worthy Draper—Incidents—Loss of
         an Eminent Tragedian—His Last Efforts—The Bottle Washed
    Ashore—Nineteen Saved out of Two Hundred and Sixty-three Souls on
        Board—Noble Captain Martin—The _London’s_ Last Plunge—The
                Survivors picked up by an Italian Barque.

No greater horror can occur at sea than for the good ship to be on fire.
At first sight, indeed, it might appear that in the midst of an unbounded
waste of waters nothing could be easier than to extinguish a conflagration
on board a vessel, but examples already cited in this work have shown the
difficulties in the way. Steam-ships have special facilities for pumping
water into almost any part of their hulls, yet one of the saddest examples
of a ship on fire is afforded in the loss of the _Amazon_, a steam-ship of
the first-class.

The _Amazon_ was one of a fleet of new vessels placed by the Royal Mail
Steam-ship Company on the West India service, and was stated to be, at the
time of her launching, the largest _timber-built_ steam-ship ever
constructed in England. She was of 2,256 tons burden, and fitted with
every improvement known at the time; her entire cost was stated at over
£100,000. When, on the 16th of December, 1851, she arrived at Southampton,
she was regarded as the perfect model of a passenger vessel. In due time
she was ready for sea, and having received her crew and engineers aboard,
and a little later her passengers and the Admiralty agent with mails, she
left Southampton on Friday, January 2nd, 1852. The officers were all tried
men, and her commander, Captain Symons, was one of those seamen whom large
steam-ship companies are only too glad to employ and retain. He was not
merely an officer of thoroughly competent skill, but a man of unbending
resolution, a man fitted to be a ruler among men, as should be every
commander of a great vessel. Only a few weeks before he had received the
thanks of the American Government, accompanied by a present of a silver
speaking-trumpet, for interposing, at the risk of his own life, in an
affair at Chagres between the Americans and the natives. On this occasion
he not only was the means of saving much valuable property, but by his
energetic conduct arrested a conflict, which, but for his intervention,
might probably have been attended with much bloodshed and slaughter. The
_Amazon_, a pioneer of the service she was to inaugurate, left Southampton
amidst a considerable amount of _éclat_, and commenced her voyage.

“And so,” says the work(88) from which much of the following account is
compiled, “the gallant ship sped on. The wind was right ahead, but her
engines were powerful, and she passed rapidly through the water. But it is
necessary, in order to make clear what follows, to describe the position
of her engines and boats.

“The engine-room was about the middle of the vessel, having sixteen
boilers—eight in the forward and as many in the after part. There were,
consequently, two funnels: one about midships, the other immediately
behind the foremast. In those vessels which have but one set of boilers
and one funnel these are placed in the after part of the engine-room,
while the store-room, containing tallow, oil, and other inflammable
materials, is placed forward. But the _Amazon_ having boilers at both
ends, it happened that the floor of the store-room rested directly on the
wood casing that surrounded the upper part or steam-chest of the forward
boilers.

“Then, with regard to the boats: most of the older vessels have life-boats
resting, bottom up, on the top of the paddle-boxes, according to a plan
much approved in the navy, and the smaller boats swing suspended over the
water, from two curved iron props, or davits, as they are technically
termed, by ropes that, running through a pulley, enable men seated in the
boats to lower themselves from the ship’s side to the water, when the
hooks by which the tackle is attached to the boats may at once be cast
off. But as it would be inconvenient that the boats so hung from the
davits should be swinging backward and forward with every roll of the
ship, ropes are lashed round them and fastened to the bulwark of the
vessel, in order to keep them steady. Now, in order to get quit of this
latter somewhat clumsy contrivance, as well as to ease the strain of the
boat upon the tackling by which it swings, a different mode of fastening
was adopted in the _Amazon_. There were the davits as usual, and the
common contrivance for lowering the boats into the water; but instead of
the undergirding ropes or guys, two iron props were introduced, each of
which, branching out at the top into two prongs, received in its groove
the keel of the boat, in which she sat as in a cradle, thus taking away
all strain from the ordinary tackling. This change in the mode of securing
the boats had, however, this effect: that, whereas in the former case the
boat’s crew had but to lower the boat and themselves into the water, by
the new mode it became necessary, before they could do that, to hoist the
boat up a few feet till it was got clear of the projecting points of the
crutch on which it rested. Of what fatal consequence this necessity was
will become too apparent in the course of the narrative.”

The machinery was perfectly new, and, as is frequently the case on first
trials, became much heated in the bearings: so much so, indeed, that water
had to be pumped over them. Whether or not the terrible disaster about to
be described resulted from that fact will never be known; it much more
probably occurred from some light being dropped upon the waste, &c., of
the oil-room. No neglect of duty was attributed to the engineers, who seem
to have been exceptionally careful.

About a quarter before one o’clock, Sunday, when the ship was about
entering the Bay of Biscay, Mr. Treweeke, the second officer, a most
promising and practical sailor, being then officer of the watch, was on
the bridge. Just before, Dunsford, quartermaster, had gone the rounds to
see that the lights were all out, and had reported that all was right; Mr.
Treweeke then was on the bridge, and Mr. Dunsford was standing under him
to receive orders. Mr. Vincent, one of the midshipmen, was on the
quarter-deck; all was still as the grave, save the monotonous throbbing of
the engines. He happened to look towards Mr. Treweeke at that moment, and
saw him leaning listlessly against the railing of the bridge. Suddenly
Treweeke started up, and looked earnestly at something apparently issuing
from the engine-room. That officer had discovered flames issuing thence,
and Dunsford was detailed to call the captain: and although he should have
performed his duty noiselessly, he managed, rather boisterously, to
disturb some of the passengers. The captain immediately ran out of his
cabin, half nude, and after finding that the fire was serious, ran back
and put on some clothes, immediately returning to the scene of action. At
the same time, Mr. Stone, the fourth engineer, saw fire on the starboard
foremost boiler from the iron platform on which he was standing, and
instantly gave the alarm. He even attempted to stop the engines, but the
smoke was so dense that he was obliged to retreat. One of the men, who was
going to the engine-room to warm himself, observed a glare of light in the
fore stoke-hole, and on examination found between the starboard
fore-boiler and the bulkhead a flame issuing as far as he could see. The
firemen’s backs were turned at the time, and he shouted out to them,
“Don’t you see the fire? Why don’t you get water?” They did not, however,
seem to notice it. He rushed aft, where the hose was kept, and tried to
drag it forward, shouting for assistance; but by the time the hose was
brought the flames of fire were rushing up through the oil, tallow, and
waste store-rooms. The flames were leaping upwards to the deck above.
Owing to the smoke, he was obliged to give up the hose, and rush on deck,
it being impossible to remain below any longer. The chief engineer, Mr.
Angus, and one of his assistants, tried to put on the hose, and kept by it
till they could not breathe. Hearing a cry for buckets on deck, Angus ran
aft as fast as he could, and the passengers were then breaking open the
saloon door to get on deck. Several attempts to get water to the flames
were unsuccessful or utterly ineffective.

The second engineer, Mr. William Angus, stated that when he was alarmed by
the cry of “Fire!” he was in the act of “blowing off”(89) the
after-boiler, and on coming up the lower platform ladder of the
engine-room, ran to set the “donkey” engine (which pumps the ship and
keeps the boilers a-going). A blast of smoke stopped him, and when he
recovered more or less from the suffocation he attempted to work her, but
failed. All the lamps were extinguished by the smoke. Mr. Stone, the
fourth engineer, came to his assistance, but was forced to retire. The
stokers and others found it equally impossible to remain. One of the
survivors described the progress of the flames in the engine-room “as that
of a great wave of fire, before which no man could stand and live.” He
stated that it rushed upon his mind that if the boilers were left in their
then state the water would soon become exhausted, and the boilers
themselves explode, so he turned on the water into them, and attempted to
remove the weights from the safety valves, so as to ease the pressure of
the steam. The glass above was cracking with the intensity of the heat.
“It was not three minutes from the time that the fire was discovered till
the ship was in flames.”

Above, on deck, all was horror, confusion, and despair, among the
passengers and crew. The flames, having broken out abaft the foremast,
rapidly extended across the whole breadth of the ship, forming a wall of
fire as high as the paddle-boxes, cutting off all communication. One or
two of the sailors, indeed, managed to get across the paddle-boxes,
cautiously creeping up one side and sliding down the other, but all other
means of access were effectually debarred. It was the sole chance of
safety, for the boats were all in the after part of the ship. “It would be
needless here to tell of the screams and shrieks of the horror-stricken
passengers, mixed with the cries of the animals aboard; of the wild
anguish with which they saw before them only the choice of death almost
equally dreadful—the raging flame or the raging sea, and of those fearful
moments when all self-control, all presence of mind, appeared to be lost,
and no authority was recognised, no command obeyed.” Meanwhile the ominous
fire-bell was ringing—the knell of many a poor man and woman that night.

                 [Illustration: BURNING OF THE “AMAZON.”]

                 [Illustration: THE “AMAZON” STEAM-SHIP.]

When Captain Symons rushed on deck, his first order was to “put up the
helm,” which was instantly obeyed. The helmsman, assisted by Mr. Treweeke,
the gallant second officer, worked at the wheel till the vessel “paid off”
and turned so as to go before the wind. The effects of the wind were, by
this device, somewhat moderated, but it had almost advanced to a gale, and
the paddles were revolving rapidly, carrying the doomed vessel through the
water with headlong speed. The flames were driven, however, forward and
away from the passengers and greater number of those on board. To this
movement, in fact, is to be attributed the preservation of the few boats
which, as we shall see, succeeded in leaving the ship. To extinguish the
fire was now out of question; while it was equally impossible to shut off
the steam and stop the vessel’s way. Yet, without this being done, no boat
could be launched into the water while the vessel was driving on at the
rate of thirteen knots an hour. Buckets of water were still thrown on the
burning mass; trusses of lighted hay and loose spars thrown overboard.
“Keep fast the boats for a while, and try to save the ship!” cried the
captain. But, alas! ship and crew were alike doomed. “Don’t lower the
boats!” repeated Captain Symons again and again; and the danger—at the
rate of the _Amazon’s_ speed—of attempting it was too obvious. Lieut.
Grylls, R.N., a passenger on board, was attempting to lower the tackle of
one of the boats, when Symons “seized him by the arm, and besought him to
desist, as he said everybody would be drowned. Lieut. Grylls then called
out to the person by the foremast fall, imploring him not to lower, as the
ship was going so fast. The person at the foremast fall, by constant and
urgent request of the people in the boat, let the fall go, by which means
the boat turned over, and, as nearly as could be seen, every one was
washed out of her. Seeing this at the moment, Lieut. Grylls attempted to
let go the after fall so as to save them, but the fall being jammed, and
having fouled, and the boat thus not being clear, her stern hung in the
air for a moment, until cut adrift by some one, when she turned over, and,
seeing the people washed away, Lieutenant Grylls turned away from the
appalling sight in horror. He then met, face to face, Captain Symons, who
called out for some one to help him to clear away the port life-boat,
which was stowed on the sponson, abaft the port paddle-box, and at the
same moment leaped into the boat, using every endeavour to clear her away.
Lieut. Grylls followed, and also exerted himself, but the flames having
reached the boat, and Captain Symons’s hair having caught in a blaze, and
one sleeve of his shirt, he was obliged to run off, and Lieut. Grylls was
compelled to follow him, both rushing through the flames and fire.”

About this time it was discovered that the ship was veering round, owing
to the helm having been lashed. A fresh order was shrieked out to keep her
before the wind, and two of the officers sprang forward to execute the
captain’s bidding. The passengers were now all on deck, with what feelings
we can imagine. “At last the shout was raised, ‘Every man for himself!’
but not by the captain. The captain called out, ‘Lower the starboard
life-boat!’ to which the answer was, ‘She is on fire!’ ‘Lower the larboard
(port, or left-hand) life-boat!’ ‘She is on fire!’ was still the cry. The
captain dropped the bucket which he idly held in his hand. ‘It’s all over
with us!’” But though he knew it so well, he did not relax an effort; nor
did Mr. Roberts, the chief officer, nor any of the officers, all of whom
went down with the ship. They were last seen collected in a group near the
helm; and to the close of that appalling scene nobly did their duty. The
last words the captain was heard to say were, “It has got too far.” He
then turned aft, took the wheel, and that appears to have been the last
that was seen of Captain Symons.

When it was discovered that the two life-boats were on fire, attention
could only be given to the other boats. All efforts must be made: better
to drown than to die in the midst of flames—suffocated, scorched. “One of
the passengers, Mr. Alleyne, of the West Indies, was observed pacing the
deck, with his hands clasped in prayer, patiently waiting that awful fate
from which he knew there was no escape. A gentleman and lady, in their
night-dresses only—both of which were on fire—came on deck, and, with
their arms round each other, walked over to one of the ship’s hatches, and
fell together into the flames. They had previously been seen standing
right abaft and looking perfectly collected, the gentleman before the
lady, apparently to keep the heat from her. A female passenger rushed on
deck, having on only her night-gown, the bottom of which and her legs were
much burnt. Three times she was placed in one of the boats which was
saved, but she refused to remain. Several persons hurriedly said to her
that they would soon give her plenty of clothing when she got away from
the ship, but modesty prevailed over the love of life, and she remained
behind to perish.”

A horrible story of one standing near the helm is given: his face and side
burnt, and a huge blister formed, which burst in; the skin was falling
away in ribbons. A little boy was also burnt black, and the skin was
falling from him in a similar manner. Still the vessel was dashing forward
in headlong speed, but still efforts were made to launch the boats; but
here, in consequence of the manner in which they were stowed—resting on
iron crutches or brackets, instead of being simply suspended, as
usual—unexpected difficulties presented themselves. It was necessary first
to raise them, put them over the bulwarks, and lower them—a work of time
and labour. In the hurry two of the boats were stove in; and in the case
of others, one end would be lowered properly, the other remaining high in
the air, so that the wretched passengers and sailors who crowded into them
were plunged violently into the water, escaping the fury of one element
only to be devoured by another. In one single case fifteen were thus
drowned, while one only escaped. Not to accumulate the details of horrors,
which constantly repeated themselves, it may be here stated that the whole
number of persons on board the _Amazon_ when she left Southampton was 162;
of these 110 formed the crew; there were 50 passengers, and the mail agent
and his servant. The first boat which landed at Plymouth brought in 21;
the _Gertruida_, a Dutch galliot, picked up a boat containing 16 on Sunday
night, and another containing 8 on the following morning. Another vessel,
also a Dutch galliot, picked up 13 more. The total number lost amounted,
therefore, to 104, and 58 only were saved.

A survivor stated that during the time they were drifting in their boat
towards the ship, which was burning broadside on to the wind, her mainmast
went first, the foremast following; it was a considerable time before the
mizen-mast fell, directly after which he noted a slight explosion of
gunpowder. Previous to this a barque hove in sight, and passed between
their boat and the burning ship. They judged her to be outward-bound from
her being under close-reefed topsails. As she passed at between three and
four hundred yards they hailed her several times with their united voices,
strengthened by all the energy of despair. She answered them, and brailed
her spanker, and they naturally thought she was preparing to bear up for
their rescue. “I shall never forget,” said the narrator, “the deep sob of
hope with which I noticed these preparations, or the bitterness of feeling
with which I saw him spread his canvas to the wind, and wear round past
the stern of the burning vessel, as he left us to our fate.”

Among those who perished on that terrible night was a distinguished
author, whose writings are, or should be, familiar to all readers.
Warburton(90) perished either in the flames or, as some thought, in one of
the boats which was swamped. He had been sent out by the Atlantic and
Pacific Junction Company, specially deputed to make a friendly arrangement
with the Indians of the isthmus of Darien. As an old and practised
traveller, he had proposed to stay on the isthmus for some time, in order
to study its topography, scenery, climate, and resources. The Rev. Acton
Warburton, his brother, on receipt of the fearful news, and with the fact
before him that there were boats not yet accounted for which had been seen
to leave the ship, proceeded in a steamer from Plymouth on January 17th,
in the hope that, by cruising about in the Channel and entrance to the Bay
of Biscay, some traces might be found of his missing relative. All was in
vain; no further vestiges of the crew or passengers were found. A few days
afterwards a homeward-bound vessel picked up at sea, among other fragments
of the wreck, three settees, or backed forms, which had stood on the deck
of the _Amazon_, and which had been lashed together, doubtless for the
purpose of supporting some of the crew or passengers in the water. Other
pieces of the wreck were washed ashore on different parts of the coast,
and a piece of burnt timber was picked up near the Eddystone, having
attached to it a fragment of a lady’s dress. One of the mail bags,
containing newspapers, unscorched, but very much damaged by sea-water, was
washed ashore near Bridport three weeks after the occurrence of the wreck.

         [Illustration: RESCUE OF THE SURVIVORS OF THE “AMAZON.”]

The Rev. William Blood, who was one of the survivors, was landed at
Plymouth in one of the boats late on Thursday night, and was much too ill
to commit his thoughts to paper during the Friday and Saturday following.
But on the Sunday following, in presence of 4,000 people, he, in the
course of an extempore sermon, gave his hearers a graphic description of
the catastrophe and of his escape from the wreck.(91) The first evening of
the voyage he sat up till between eleven and twelve o’clock, enjoying the
sea-breeze and the beauty of the scene. He had then retired, undressing
himself as at home, and had slept well. On the fatal night, however, he
seems to have had an indefinite presentiment that something was about to
occur. On that evening, says he, “without any cause, I was induced to
retire early (nine o’clock), and when going to bed it was deeply impressed
on my mind not to undress. I accordingly lay down upon the bed with my
clothes on, even my boots, and immediately fell into a sound sleep. At
about half-past twelve I awoke, greatly refreshed, and prepared for what
was to follow. No voice awoke me; no alarm had been given; no bell aroused
me. When I awoke, I felt surprised by a peculiar indescribable sensation
as of solitude, of vacancy; and on opening the window of my cabin, I
looked out, but saw no person; still all was silent; and with the same
feeling I arose, went out of the cabin, without even taking my watch,
which lay beneath my pillow, and, as I passed along the saloon, I
overheard the voice of the stewardess in the distance, saying, ‘The ship
is on fire!’ I then hastened towards the stairs at the fore part of the
ship, and saw (oh, horror!) the blaze ascending right across the vessel. I
ascended the stairs just in time to escape the flames. When on the deck, I
had merely time to walk across to the bulwarks, for on the deck the flames
were spreading with terrific rapidity.

“When I got on deck I saw no one, and heard no noise or confusion, so that
much of the disaster must have been over by that time. I then saw some men
endeavouring to lower one of the boats near the paddle-box, and at the
same moment I became fully aware of my awful position, and that I had to
choose between death by fire or by water, unless I made some effort to
save myself. With this conviction on my mind, I laid hold of a rope, and
swung myself over the ship’s side, and was just about to precipitate
myself into the boat beneath me, which was then swinging with her stern in
the water. In another moment her human freight were in the death struggle
in an element not less terrible or destructive than that from which they
had been making such frantic efforts to escape; and even at this moment
their appalling shrieks, as they struggled amidst the dark and gloomy
waves, seem to ring in my ears. Here, again, I think Divine interference
was manifested on my behalf, for an apparent accident saved me from that
boat. Almost crippled as I was, I managed, by the aid of the rope to which
I clung, to regain the now blazing deck, just as some of the crew were
endeavouring to release one of the life-boats from her very embarrassing
fastenings. They succeeded. She was turned over the ship’s side. I was in
her then; and, while suspended midway between fire and water, she turned
keel up, and her oars were thrown out. She righted in a few minutes after,
and when she did so I was still in her—by what means I know not, but that
the All-seeing eye was still upon me. In a minute or two more she was
lowered into the sea with her freight of thirteen human souls, and amidst
cries of ‘She is leaking!’ ‘She is stove in!’ ‘She will be swamped!’ but
at the same moment one of the crew in her cut the rope that bound her to
the blazing ship, and she at once dropped astern. We now made the terrible
discovery that she was really leaking, and with the apparent certainty of
having escaped one horrible death only to perish by another, we set our
wits to work to staunch the leak and bale out the water. Michael Fox, one
of the sailors—a man who merits much honour for his coolness and bravery
throughout—actually thrust his arm through the leak to arrest the ingress
of the water; while I handed him my cap, another gave his stockings;
others did likewise; and then, with such means as these, and with the aid
of our boots and two little empty casks, we managed to prevent the
life-boat from being swamped. While thus occupied, and being tossed about,
without food, water, oars, helm, or compass, totally at the mercy of the
contending elements, we had dropped about two miles astern of the doomed
ship. She was apparently motionless, while the sea continually broke over
us. A barque passed between the blazing pile and our ill-omened craft. Her
hull, sails, and rigging were reflected against that fearful blaze with a
blackness of shadow that appeared to render still deeper the depth of our
calamity, and which the morning’s light helped not to lessen, for the
barque had disappeared. After the barque had departed, we fancied we saw a
boat, somewhat like our own, close to us, and we hailed her, with all the
power of our united voices, for oars; but she either heeded or heard us
not, and quickly disappeared, and the impression was that she had been
swamped. Our frail tenement was still knocked about as I have stated,
still within sight of the burning ship; and at about five o’clock on
Sunday morning, when the powder on board caught light, she blew up,
presenting to our terror-stricken gaze a most awful and sublime spectacle.
Vast beams of flaming timber were hurled about in the air, and seemed
suspended there for a moment, and then disappeared with a hissing noise in
the roaring waters. A moment after, and all that remained unconsumable by
fire of that once noble specimen of our mercantile marine vanished like a
shot beneath the waves. And then came upon us that intensity of darkness
that lent an additional horror to our truly forlorn condition. However,
the merciful Ruler of our destinies had not deserted us; for as the
Sabbath morning’s light dawned the wind abated and the sea became
comparatively calm, except that there was still a heavy swell; but still,
there we were, thirteen human beings, in a frail, leaky boat, without an
atom of food of any sort, the vast ocean around us, and in a state of
perfect ignorance as to our geographical position, while our other
physical wants, such as of clothes, boots, &c., made our case truly
deplorable. By about twelve o’clock at noon, on Sunday, we had drifted, as
nearly as possible, to the spot where the Amazon had sunk; and upon the
then comparatively calm sea were strewn about but too many evidences of
the last night’s fearful devastation—immense spars, charred timbers,
barrels, bales, and boxes innumerable. We drew up one of the latter, got
it on board, forced it open, and found that it contained only a quantity
of shoes. To those each helped himself to a pair, and then threw the
remainder overboard.

“As the Sabbath morning advanced towards noon-day the glorious sun burst
forth, and appeared as a happy harbinger of the fortunate release in store
for us. The weather was fine, though there was a heavy swell in the sea,
and we were all up to our middle in water. William Angus, poor fellow, was
of no use in the boat. When leaving the ship, he had thrown himself
overboard, fell upon my back, and cut his head severely. He appeared in a
state of despondency for the loss of his brother; and another poor fellow
had part of the fingers of one of his hands chopped off. At two o’clock
the sun shone forth in all his splendour. By this time we had taken up
some of the bottom boards of the boat, and these we had converted into
paddles, rudder, and mast. Lieut. Grylls took from off his head his shirt,
which he had previously wrapped around it, and made a flag of it; and in
lieu thereof I tore off the skirts of my coat, one of which I tied around
his head, and with the other I made a cap for myself. The remainder of
that coat I still have, and will preserve as a memento; and so I ought,
for it served as a protection against the pouring rain, while our bodies
lay partially submerged in the water and the waves at times dashed over
us. This coat became most useful to me afterwards, during the eleven days
on board the galliot, for it served as a pocket-handkerchief, napkin, &c.

“There was a peculiar death-like feeling produced by being obliged to sit
in the water all night, while at the same time the whole body was
saturated with the rain and the billows poured their waters over us. At
one time, shivering with cold and wet, I strove to keep my back pressed
against another person to preserve the vital heat. Such cold I never felt
before. The casks which we found in the boat were of essential use. How
wonderful that they should have remained in the boat when she capsized and
threw out the oars, for without them she must have swamped.

“Dismal were the thoughts suggested on that day as to the future. Will a
storm arise? If so, our little vessel cannot live; she must be overwhelmed
by the raging billows! How long can we remain in the midst of the wide
extended ocean? Shall we starve—perish with hunger? Such were the gloomy
forebodings, when the thrilling, joyful exclamation of ‘A sail!’ burst
from the lips of one of the crew. Then followed the exclamation of, ‘Oh, I
hope she sees us! Does she hear us? Is she coming this way?’ She was then
on the very verge of the horizon, and—disappeared! Mute despair was then
plainly perceptible in every face. I had made up my mind to die of
starvation, but thought I could exist without food for a long time, for
having once been ill in Paris for three weeks without even having tasted
food of any sort during the whole of the time, I felt now prepared to go
through the same ordeal. But again the joyful sound was uttered by Lieut.
Grylls, ‘I see another sail!’ We then commenced tearing up the boards from
the bottom of the boat, and converting one of them into a mast, upon which
we attached a shirt as a signal of distress, and breaking the rest of them
into paddles and a helm, we determined, as our lives depended upon it, to
make a desperate effort to approach the welcome visitor. Hour after hour
was passing away—our progress through the waves was slow, and the sailors
were beginning to relax their efforts at the paddles in utter
hopelessness. The sun was fast fading away, and the horrors of another
night at sea in an open boat stared us in the face. I begged, prayed, and
entreated the men to continue their exertions, that with the light of day
we still had hope; an hour—perhaps a few minutes—may bring us near enough
to be seen. Alas! there were four out of the thirteen quite helpless—viz.,
poor Angus, the man who had lost his fingers, a boy, and a Spanish
gentleman, who appeared to have become quite paralysed. The sun was just
about to shed his last ray of light upon our eyes and hope in our hearts,
when those on board the vessel saw us, heard us, bore down upon us, and
took us on board. Had not the great God sent us this timely succour, no
account of our fate could have ever been made known, for any one of the
storms which prevailed during the following eight or nine days must have
destroyed us. We were hauled on board by means of ropes, and stowed in a
little cabin, 6 feet by 4½ only; but yet, what a palace compared to the
horrors from which we had just been rescued! This vessel was a small Dutch
galliot, and had a cargo of sugar from Amsterdam, consigned to Leghorn;
and was, therefore, desirous of landing at Gibraltar, it being on her
course. However, adverse winds set in; the captain of the galliot knew not
his position; he was unable to take an observation; and was, in
consequence, knocked about for nine days with this serious addition to his
crew. I had been visiting the house of a noble friend but a few weeks
before, but what was it compared to our present little home?” They were at
length safely landed at Plymouth.

Among so many gloomy incidents, one of another nature may well be
recorded. The name of Lieutenant Grylls has been mentioned as one of the
survivors. But the _Cornwall Gazette_ of January 8th had the following
announcement:—“Lost, on board the _Amazon_, mail steam-packet, on Sunday,
the 4th inst., in which vessel he had taken his passage to join H.M.S.
_Devastation_, to which ship he had been appointed as first lieutenant,
Lieutenant Charles Gerveys Grylls, R.N., aged twenty-five, eldest
surviving son of the Rev. Henry Grylls, vicar of St. Neots.” But early in
the morning of Friday a special messenger arrived at St. Neots, bearing a
letter to the good vicar from his son, stating that he was alive and safe,
and that he hoped to be with him in the evening. The news soon spread; all
the neighbouring hamlets turned out their inhabitants, the village bells
were rung, and a party of about 150 persons set off on the road to
Plymouth to draw him home by hand. This the gallant lieutenant would not
allow, being too anxious to return to his friends. A triumphal procession
was, however, formed, escorted by which this witness from the dead was
restored to his bereaved father. One can imagine the joy in the household,
and the strong revulsion of feeling there!

“On taking a review of this overwhelming catastrophe,” says the Rev. C. A.
Johns, “the reader will rise from a perusal of the narrative having his
mind painfully impressed with the fearful loss of human life; and as he
endeavours to picture to himself the incidents as they severally occurred,
he will be more inclined to doubt that any one was possessed of nerve
sufficiently strong to stand the first half-hour’s ordeal rather than to
wonder that so few escaped. A vessel, constructed of the best material
employed in ship-building—oak, teak, and Dantzic pine—but, nevertheless, a
structure of wood, bearing, in addition to cargo, crew, and passengers,
1,000 tons of inflammable coal, and a framework of massive iron,
unceasingly grinding with the force of 800 horses—sixteen furnaces and as
many huge boilers, all employed in generating the most powerful instrument
of usefulness or destruction (as the case may be) which man has reduced to
his will—a store-room in the vicinity of the boilers, plentifully stocked
with oil and tallow—well might the lip quiver and the cheek blanch at the
bare idea of FIRE being allowed to creep with but a flickering light
beyond its prescribed limits. But, besides all this, he will remember that
to this concatenation of perils—themselves too terrible to dwell on—must
be added contingencies which aggravated the danger in a tenfold degree.
The ship was new, her timbers were dry and resinous—not, as is the case
with sea-worn vessels, saturated with salt, and therefore less
inflammable, but converted into rapid fuel by the unusual heat, which from
some cause, explained or unexplained, was perceptible at a great distance
from her boilers; the crew, though young and efficient, and more than
one-half of them practised servants of the Company, were yet strange to
the ship, not even having had their various duties assigned to them, nor
familiar with the persons of their officers, as became evident afterwards
from the discrepancies in their statements of names; the wind was blowing
a gale in the direction which would most readily extend a conflagration
from the probable source of fire to the stern, where the majority of
passengers were congregated; the time was midnight; many of the officers,
weary with their previous exertions, were recruiting their strength by a
brief repose; most of the seamen and all the passengers were buried in
sleep; the sea was in a state of commotion; the place was the Bay of
Biscay, the dread of outward-bound mariners; the boats, though
unexceptionable as to number, capacity, and quality, were not stowed in
the usual simple way, but rested on brackets, from which it was necessary
for them to be lifted before they could be lowered even into that foaming
ocean. Suddenly the cry of Fire! is shrieked out; the bell is set
a-ringing—the death-knell—the knell of sudden, inevitable, agonising death
to many a stout heart on board that proud but perishing ship. He must
sleep soundly who failed to hear that piercing cry and the heartrending
shrieks which took it up. Some thought it of no consequence: ‘We will
dress, and hasten on deck, that we may help to extinguish it.’ But there
were some who knew better; they could look a hurricane in the face, they
could encounter a hailstorm of bullets in the execution of their duty, but
they knew that, with that enemy on board, the iron beams of the _Amazon_
could only be cooled by the water which rolled at the bottom of the ocean.
Those brave men did all they could—they gave their charge a brief space to
make their peace with God, if God were in their thoughts, and resigned
themselves to His keeping who alone could help them. Before the least
terrified could gain the deck the flames were soaring above the funnels. A
flight of fire was sweeping the deck; it extended from one side of the
vessel to the other; it separated those in the fore-part from those in the
stern; it shot forth from the port-holes; it singed the hair and scorched
the skin of those who were furthest from its reach; and the air of heaven
was one huge blast-pipe, fanning it into fury! Are the fire-engines of no
avail? They are themselves burning. Then stop the paddle-wheels, that the
boats may be launched. Alas! the engineers, half suffocated, have long
been driven from the engine-room, and the levers are beyond their reach.
But the ship yet answered her helm, and was put before the wind. And now
the flames were borne in an opposite direction, towards the bow, and the
gale seemed to be diminished. Now the captain cried, ‘Lower the larboard
lifeboat!’ ‘It is on fire!’ ‘Lower the starboard lifeboat!’ ‘It is on
fire!’ Other boats yet remain, and crew and passengers crowd into them.
Fatal haste! It was a work of time and difficulty to lift them from their
sockets before, with this addition to their weight it is next to
impossible. One after another they are tumbled, rather than lowered, into
a sea which, from the rapid motion of the vessel, appears to be rushing
from them. Some hang suspended, and their cargoes are swept away by the
boiling surge; one is swamped, another is stove in. Still the fire is
drawing nearer; it surrounds the boilers, and the water contained in them
is nearly exhausted. When that has happened they will burst, perhaps, and
then the engines will cease to work. Strange that success in effecting an
escape should be promoted by the bursting of a boiler—an accident which,
had it come alone, would have occasioned terror and dismay. No one knows,
amidst the overwhelming din of air, fire, water, steam, human shrieks, and
even the cries of dumb animals, whether this event happened or not. It was
not dreaded—it was hoped for. It could not have added to the dismay, so,
if it happened? it was unnoticed.

“However that may be, the ship could not free herself from her destroyer,
but moderated her speed. A few boats were put off—no living soul can say
how many—all, probably, that were left, and then, perhaps, the officers
embarked on a raft, and—we dare not carry our thoughts further in that
direction.

“The vessel lay a burning log on the waters for four or five hours, and
then, as if an evil demon had possessed her, or as if some gorgeous _fête_
had now reached its close, threw up a discharge of brilliant fireworks—and
the billows of the Atlantic swept unconcernedly over her hissing embers.”

The following example—the terrible loss of the _London_—presents a
striking contrast to that of the _Amazon_. She was literally _swamped_ at
sea, and there are no recorded parallels to the case on such a scale.
Vessels, indeed, are often lost by great leakage produced by collision,
but the cases are rare in modern days and in well-found ships, where
ordinary leakage and water “shipped” on deck makes any great difference,
and in steam-ships the pumps worked by the “donkey” engine, as a rule,
effectually prevent any danger from these sources.

                      [Illustration: THE “LONDON.”]

The _London_ was a first-class passenger steamship of her day. She was
nearly new, of 1,700 tons, and valued at £80,000. She belonged to a
distinguished firm, and had been constructed on the most approved
principles. Her commander, Captain Martin, was an officer of ripe
experience, and this was her third voyage. She had acquired a first-class
reputation; and for months before the time(92) of sailing, berths were so
eagerly engaged that it would have been difficult to accommodate, in the
roughest manner, many more, while in the saloon there were no vacancies.
One lady who was desirous of proceeding with her family from Plymouth to
Melbourne had made repeated applications to the owners’ agents, and the
captain had been consulted, but, fortunately for the applicant, had
declared that the cabins were so full that he could not possibly
accommodate her—a result that, at the time, caused her much
disappointment; afterwards she had reason to thank her good fortune. A
second-class male passenger was so alarmed at the rough weather which the
_London_ encountered on her way from the Thames to Plymouth, that on
arrival at the latter he went ashore, resigned his passage, and returned
to his home, thus unwittingly saving his life. A young man, as the result
of some family quarrel, had left his home, and taken a passage by the
_London_. He was advertised for in the _Times_, and importuned to return,
his friends being at first unaware of his whereabouts. Messengers were
sent down to Plymouth, his friends having later acquired some clue to his
movements, and an influential ship-broker in the town was employed to
intercept his flight should he attempt to sail thence. Fortunately, he was
detected among the passengers of the _London_, and the fact communicated
to his family by the broker, the result of which was that a brother of the
young man went down to Plymouth, and persuaded the would-be emigrant to
forego his voyage.

The _London_ left the East India Docks on December 29th, and on account of
the severity of the weather remained at anchor at the Nore during part of
the 30th and the whole of the 31st. This fact alone would indicate that
Captain John Martin, her commander, was a careful seaman. The weather
remained boisterous, and after getting out into the Channel the pilot
decided to take the vessel for shelter to Spithead. When the weather had
abated she proceeded to Plymouth, arriving there on the 5th of January.
Here an incident occurred, ominous in its nature, and particularly
distressing at the commencement of a voyage, more especially as many
passengers at such a time are nervous and fearful. The small boat from a
Plymouth pilot cutter, which had on board the pilot and his assistant, was
swamped. The latter was rescued by a boat from the _London_, but the pilot
was drowned. The remainder of the day was occupied in shipping an
additional number of passengers and filling up with coal. She sailed the
same evening. The weather is described as having been then moderate.

On the 6th and 7th of January the wind rose, accompanied by strong squalls
and a high sea, which caused the ship to roll considerably. Still the
weather was not so boisterous but that Divine service was held on the 7th,
it being the Sabbath. On Monday, the 8th, the wind freshened to a gale
from the south-west, and at 9 a.m. the captain ordered the engines to be
stopped, and to make sail. At 5 p.m. the weather improved, and all sails
were taken in, and steaming resumed. Early on Tuesday the wind increased
to a hard gale, with a very heavy sea, the ship going under steam only,
and at the reduced rate of two knots an hour. At this time she pitched
with terrible violence, taking whole seas over her bows. At 7 a.m. an
unusually heavy sea broke into the life-boat stowed on the port-quarter,
filled her completely, and carried her overboard with all her gear. At 9
a.m. the ship gave a tremendous pitch, so as to bury herself forward, when
the sea carried away the jib and flying jibbooms, and they took with them
the fore-top mast and fore-top gallant, the fore-royal and main-royal
masts, with all their spars, sails, and rigging. The masts fell in-board,
and hung suspended by the rigging, but the jibbooms remained under the
bows, fastened to the ship by their stays, which were of wire. Every
effort to get them clear failed till next morning, it having blown a
furious gale all night from the south-west, with a sea that kept
constantly washing all forward. On the morning of Wednesday, the 10th, the
gale continued without the least abatement, and at 3 a.m. the captain gave
orders to Mr. Greenhill, the engineer in charge, to get up full steam, as
he intended to put back to Plymouth, in order to refit. The ship’s course
was accordingly shaped for home, the fore and mizen stay-sails were set,
and she steamed along moderately at the rate of five or six knots. In the
course of the morning, the masts, which up to that time had been swinging
about aloft, were secured, and the wreck of the jibboom cleared away.
Observations taken that day indicated that she was about 200 miles from
the Land’s End. At 6 p.m. both the fore and mizen stay-sails were carried
away in a furious squall; another life-boat and the cutter were washed
clean overboard and lost. At 9 p.m. the wind increased to a perfect
hurricane from the north-west, the squalls blowing with a degree of fury
seldom paralleled. The engines were stopped, and the ship put under the
main top-sail only, which was soon blown away in shreds. The captain once
more ordered the engines to be set in motion. Up to this time,
notwithstanding the heavy seas she encountered, it does not appear that
the vessel had shipped much water.

                 [Illustration: THE “LONDON” GOING DOWN.]

At half-past 10 p.m. a terrific sea broke upon the ship over the weather
or port gangway, and an immense mass of water, the crest of a mighty wave,
descended almost perpendicularly over the hatch of the engine-room,
smashing it right in, admitting tons upon tons of water, washing from the
deck into the engine-room two men, a seaman and a passenger. There being
nothing to obstruct the influx of sea, the engine-room began to fill with
water. The fires were extinguished at once, and in about eight minutes the
engines ceased to work. The engineers remained below till the water was
above their waists, and they could work no more. The large bilge-pumps
also proved useless, and the condition of the ship became utterly
helpless, often rolling into the trough of the sea, rolling gunwale under,
and labouring heavily. The captain called on those who were baling, “Men,
put down your buckets, and come and try to secure the engine-room hatch,
for that’s our only chance of saving the ship! Secure that, and we may
keep her afloat yet.” Every endeavour, however, to replace the hatch
proved unavailing. Efforts were made to stop the opening with sails,
mattrasses, and spars, but without success; and although the donkey-engine
and pumps were kept at work, yet the water quickly gained upon them, and
all their efforts were fruitless. It was then that the captain uttered
words of which he knew the full meaning, and which must have thrilled
through many of the passengers’ bosoms who had hitherto been hoping
against hope—“Boys, you may say your prayers!” All was over with them.

At 4 a.m of the 11th a tremendous sea struck the ship abaft, which stove
in four windows, or stern-ports, of the upper or poop cabin. Through the
breaches thus made the sea rushed into the ship in such quantities that
the ’tween decks were soon half full of water. The ship at this time was
settling fast; the captain went into the engine-room, and, with the
engineer, took soundings, when it was found that there was fourteen feet
of water in her. The captain then told Greenhill that he had abandoned all
hope of saving her, and shortly afterwards made a similar communication to
the passengers. At about 10 a.m. the captain ordered the boats to be got
ready, which was done, and the starboard pinnace, which was of iron, was
lowered into the water, but was almost immediately upset by the sea, and
lost. Shortly after this the captain entered the saloon, and said,
“Ladies, there is no hope for us, I’m afraid. Nothing short of a miracle
can save us!”

During the hours of agony and horror which had preceded this announcement
the Rev. Mr. Draper,(93) a Wesleyan minister on board, was incessant in
administering religious comfort to his fellow-sufferers; and we are told
by the survivors that the women (all of whom perished in the sequel) sat
about him reading their Bibles, with their children grouped around; “and
occasionally some man or woman would step up to him and say, ‘Pray with
me, Mr. Draper’—a request that was always complied with.” What a scene
must have been presented at that last prayer-meeting in the cabin, the
ship labouring and tossing the while; the waves, with their ominous roar,
breaking over her and dashing against her; while by half-extinguished
lights little groups of earnest, pale-faced people huddled together,
shivering and trembling, before the doomed _London_ took her last leap
into the dark waters!

After the announcement by the captain that they must prepare for the
worst, Mr. Draper is stated to have stood erect, and with a clear, firm
voice, the tears streaming from his eyes, said, “The captain tells us
there is no hope—that we must all perish; but I tell you there is hope for
_all_!” The reader will know what the good old man meant. Mrs. Draper is
said at the last moment to have handed her rug to one of the seamen who
was attempting to get off in a boat, and when asked what she would do
without it, she replied, “It will only be for a few moments longer.”

As there were so few survivors to tell the tale, the incidents which must
have occurred during this terrible time are necessarily somewhat meagre.
One passenger rushed on deck labouring with a heavy carpet-bag, which he
expected to save with his life. The captain could hardly forbear, even at
that terrible time, a melancholy smile at the absurdity of a man at such a
moment taking any thought about his property. When the only boat which got
off safely was about to leave the fated ship, a lady entreated to be taken
on board, offering a thousand guineas as a reward. But it was
impossible—millions could not have saved her. A passenger who was saved,
just before leaving in the boat, went into the cabin to persuade a friend
to join him. “No,” said the other; “I promised my wife and children to
stay by them, and I will!” His friend helped him to remove the children to
a drier part of the cabin, and then, with a sad good-bye, ran up to the
deck. When last seen, the man was still standing with his wife and little
ones. Another passenger said to a friend, also one of the few saved,
“Jack, I think we are going to go.” “I think we are,” was the answer. “We
can’t help it,” rejoined the first; “but there’s one thing I regret:” and
he went on to explain how some £500 of his money was in the Bank of
Victoria, and he evidently feared some hitch in its recovery. “I should
have liked my poor father to have it.” He was a true son to the last.

As at the wreck of the _Amazon_ a distinguished author lost his life, so
on the _London_ a great actor, the celebrated G. V. Brooke, perished, but
perished nobly. The _Times_ (quoting the _Western Morning News_ of the
date) says:—

“Down into the waves, with 269(94) others, has sunk Gustavus V. Brooke,
the famed tragedian, who was bound for the country which had been the
scene of a reverse of fortune for him, but previously of many successes.
He was a tall man, of powerful build, and he is stated by the rescued
passengers to have exerted himself to the utmost in trying to keep the
ship afloat. The Dutch portion of the crew, twenty-one in number, refused
to work, and, according to the English sailors who were saved, these men
went to their berths and remained there, so that the passengers had to
work at the pumps for many hours with the English seamen. Mr. G. V. Brooke
exerted himself incessantly; attired only in a red Crimean shirt and
trousers, with no hat on, and barefooted, he went backwards and forwards
to the pumps, until working at them was found to be useless, and when last
seen, about four hours before the steamer went down, he was leaning with
grave composure upon one of the half-doors of the companion; his chin was
resting upon both hands, and his hands were on the top of the door, which
he gently swayed to and fro, while he calmly watched the scene. One of the
passengers who saw him said, ‘he had worked wonderfully—in fact, more than
any man on board the ship.’ To the steward, to whom Mr. Brooke made
himself known, he said, ‘If you succeed in saving yourself, give my
farewell to the people of Melbourne.’”

The last trace of the gifted tragedian is found in the following episode.
In the _Times_ of March 20, 1866, appeared the following letter from Mrs.
Brooke (Avonia):—

                      “To the Editor of the _Times_.

“Sir,—On Friday night I received the last written words of my dear
husband. They were found in a bottle on the Brighton beach, and forwarded
to me by Mr. C. A. Elliott, of Trinity College, Cambridge. They are
written in pencil on a torn envelope, and read as follows:—‘11th January,
on board the _London_. We are just going down. No chance of safety. Please
give this to Avonia Jones, Surrey Theatre.—Gustavus Vaughan Brooke.’

“Will you be kind enough to insert this fact in your valuable journal,
for, sad as the message is, he has many friends who will be glad once more
to hear from him, even though his words have come from his very grave.

                                                     “With respect, &c.,
                                                          “AVONIA BROOKE.”
“36, Albemarle Street, Piccadilly.”

At 2 p.m. there could not be a doubt—the vessel was sinking rapidly. The
captain then directed Greenhill that, as the port cutter was ready for
lowering, he had some chance of saving himself, and that he had better get
into her. The captain shook hands with him, and said, “There’s not much
chance for the boat; there’s none for the ship. Your duty is done, mine is
to remain here.” The boat was lowered, and four men, followed by others of
the crew, got into her. When asked to come into the boat, the captain
answered in the true spirit of a sailor-hero, “No, I will go down with the
passengers, but I wish you God speed, and safe to land!” Noble John Bohun
Martin!(95) But not, thank God! the only one on record; he was but one of
the noble army of sailor martyrs of whom Mrs. Hemans sung so touchingly:—

  “Yet more! the billows and the depth have more!
    High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast!
  They hear not now the booming waters roar;
    The battle thunders will not break their rest.
  Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave!
    Give back the true and brave!

  “Give back the lost and lovely! those for whom
    The place was kept at board and hearth so long,
  The prayer went up through midnight’s breathless gloom,
    And the vain yearning woke ’midst festive song!
  Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers or throne—
    But all is not thine own.

  “To thee the love of woman hath gone down;
    Dark flow the tides o’er manhood’s noble head,
  Or youth’s bright locks, and beauty’s flowery crown:
    Yet must thou hear a voice—Restore the dead!
  Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee!
    Restore the dead, thou sea!”

            [Illustration: GETTING OUT THE “LONDON’S” BOATS.]

The boat, into which the captain had thrown a compass, and to the
occupants of which he had shouted their course, “NNE. to Brest!” left the
sinking _London_ none too soon. The number in the boat consisted of
nineteen souls, all that were saved by any means, and comprised the first,
second, and third engineers, one midshipman, twelve of the crew, and
_three_ passengers (all second class; no first class or steerage
passengers whatever were saved). Shortly afterwards those who went in the
boat pushed off from the ship, seeing that she must immediately sink, and
apprehending that the boat might be sucked in as she went down. They had
hardly got eighty yards off, when the stern of the _London_ plunged
beneath the waves, with crew and passengers and all. Her bows stood
upright for a moment or two preceding the fatal plunge, exposing the keel
as far as the foremast. The wind was howling so fiercely that not a sound
could be heard of the shrieks and groans of over two hundred persons who
were going, in sight of the pitiful remnant in the boat, to their last
doom. They saw a whole group of passengers suddenly swept off the deck,
and they saw that the remaining boat, full of people, was drawn down into
the vortex made by the sinking ship. The third officer, Mr. Arthur Angel,
aged 20, with noble devotion to his duty, was observed still at his post
by the pumps as she went down. The next minute there was but a watery
waste over the grave of that devoted band, so full of hope and life but a
day before.

With but a few biscuits on board, and drenched to the skin by every wave,
the nineteen survivors in their open boat drifted about for twenty hours.
They fancied that they saw a ship through the gloom, and raised their
voices in one united shout. They were heard, and their hail returned; but
they were not seen, and had no light to show. The ship tacked again and
again in the hopes of finding them, and when their suspense was at its
highest, sailed away, and they saw her dim form disappearing in the
darkness. When day dawned another ship was sighted far in the distance. A
shirt was hoisted for a signal, and the oars were zealously plied. After
five hours they were rescued by this vessel, the Italian barque
_Marianople_, on board which they received a hearty welcome from the
captain and his men. They were eventually landed safely at Falmouth.

                              CHAPTER XXII.

                EARLY STEAMSHIP WRECKS AND THEIR LESSONS.

     The _Rothsay Castle_—An Old Vessel, unfit for Sea Service—A Gay
     Starting—Drifting to the Fatal Sands—The Steamer Strikes—A Scene
        of Panic—Lost Within easy reach of Assistance—An Imprudent
        Pilot—Statements of Survivors—A Father and Son parted and
       re-united—Heartrending Episodes—The Other Side: Saved by an
     Umbrella—Loss of the _Killarney_—Severe Weather—The Engine-fires
    Swamped—At the Mercy of the Waves—On the Rocks—The Crisis—Half the
         Passengers and Crew on an Isolated Rock—Spolasco and his
       Child—Holding on for Dear Life—Hundreds Ashore “Wrecking”—No
      Attempts to Save the Survivors—Several Washed Off—Deaths from
       Exhaustion—“To the Rescue!”—Noble Efforts—Failure of Several
        Plans—A Novel Expedient adopted—Its Perils—Another Dreary
     Night—Good Samaritans—A Noble Lady—Saved at Last—The Inventor’s
        Description of the Rope Bridge—The Wreck Register for One
               Year—Grand Work of the Lifeboat Institution.

The _Rothsay Castle_ was a steamship built in 1812, and was little enough
adapted for marine navigation. She was one of the first vessels of the
kind on the Clyde, and was perhaps constructed for the ordinary wear and
tear to which a river vessel is exposed, but certainly, at her age, should
never have been allowed to leave Liverpool for Beaumaris in weather so bad
that an American vessel which had been towed out that day had been
compelled to return to port. She had been, it was said, at one time,
condemned to be broken up, but other counsels had prevailed, and she had
been patched up and repaired for continued service.

At ten o’clock on Wednesday morning, the 17th August, 1831, the vessel was
appointed to sail from the usual place, George’s Pier-head, Liverpool; but
there was a casual delay at starting, and she did not leave till an hour
later. She was freighted heavily, and it was computed that hardly less
than 150 persons (if the children carried free were counted) were on
board. A majority were holiday seekers; the vessel was tricked out with
colours, and as the vessel left a band struck up its gayest music. Among
the pleasure parties on board was one from Bury, in Lancashire, consisting
of twenty-six persons. They set out in the morning, joyous with health and
pleasant anticipations, and before the next sun arose all of them, except
two, had been swallowed up in the remorseless deep!(96)

The vessel proceeded very slowly on its course, making so little way that
at three o’clock in the afternoon she had not reached a floating light
stationed about fifteen miles from Liverpool. Arrived off the light, the
sea was so rough that many of the passengers were greatly alarmed, and
one, who had his wife, five children, and servant on board, went down to
the captain and begged him to put back. The captain answered, with an
oath, that he thought there was “a deal of fear on board, and very little
danger.” The whole family was among the lost. The vessel drifted out of
her course, and proceeded so slowly that the alarm on board became
general.

              [Illustration: WRECK OF THE “ROTHSAY CASTLE.”]

One of the survivors stated that the leakage was so great that the fireman
found it impossible to keep the fires up, two being actually extinguished,
while the coals were so wet that it was with difficulty the others were
kept in. Yet there were no attempts made to sound the well or ascertain
what water was in the vessel. It was near twelve o’clock when they arrived
at the mouth of the Menai Strait, about five miles from Beaumaris, and
here her steam suddenly got so low that she drifted with the tide and wind
towards the Dutchman’s Bank, on the spit of which she struck. Now came a
time of awe and consternation. The crowded boat rolled in a frightful
manner, and the worst fears of the passengers seemed to be on the point of
realisation. The seas broke over her on either side. The engine had
previously stopped for about ten minutes, the coals being covered in
water, and the pumps were choked. On her striking, the captain said, “It
is only sand, and she will soon float.” Only sand! More vessels have been
lost on sands than ever were on rocks. In the meantime he and some of the
passengers got the jib up. No doubt he did this intending to wear her
round, and bring her head to the southward, but it did not, it proved,
make the least difference which way her head was turned, as she was on a
lee shore, and there was no steam to work her off. The captain also
ordered the passengers first to run aft, in the hope, by removing the
pressure from the vessel’s bow, to make her float.(97) This failing to
produce the desired effect, he then ordered them to run forward. But all
these exertions were unavailing; the ill-fated vessel stuck still faster
in the sands, and all gave themselves up for lost. The terror of the
passengers became excessive. Several of them urged the captain to make
some signal of distress, which he is said to have refused to do, telling
the passengers that there was no danger, and that the packet was afloat,
and _on her way_, knowing well that she was irretrievably stuck in the
treacherous sands, and that she was rapidly filling from her leaks. The
unfortunate man was fully aware of the imminent danger they were in, and
we may charitably suppose that he made such statements to prevent a panic.
The great bell was now rung, with so much violence that the tongue broke,
and some of the passengers continued to strike it for some time with a
stone. The bell was heard at Beaumaris, for the night was clear, with
strong wind; but it was not known from whence the sound came, and no
trouble appears to have been taken. The tide began to set in with great
strength, and a heavy sea beat over the bank on which the steam-packet was
firmly and immovably fixed. It was the duty of the captain now to make
every possible exertion, by signals, to procure assistance from shore. It
is said that if a light had been shown on board the unlucky steamer, the
boats from upwards of twenty vessels lying at Bangor would undoubtedly
have saved the larger part of the unfortunate passengers. The masts should
have been cut away, not merely to ease the vessel, but to afford some
chance to the poor people. At Penmaen Point an establishment of pilots had
been fixed by Lord Bulkeley, for the express purpose of rendering
assistance in such cases. “The world,” says Lieut. Morrison, “will hardly
credit the astonishing fact that their establishment is within little more
than a mile and a half from the scene of wretchedness, and that, the wind
being fair, the boats from thence could have reached the spot in about ten
minutes. A single blue light burned, a single rocket fired, or even a
solitary musket discharged, would have ensured this happy result.” The
evidence showed that there was nothing of the kind. Probably no sea-going
steamer, carrying 150 passengers, was ever left so utterly unprovided with
proper appliances.

The scene that now presented itself baffles description. A horrible death
seemed to be the doom of all on board, and the females in particular
uttered the most piercing shrieks. Some locked themselves in each other’s
arms, while others, losing all self-command, tore off their bonnets, caps,
and other portions of clothing, in wild despair. The women and children
gathered in a knot together, and kept embracing each other, uttering all
the while the most dismal lamentations. “When tired with crying,” says
Morrison, “they lay against each other, with their heads reclined, like
inanimate bodies. It was a few minutes before that a Liverpool Branch
pilot on board, William Jones, became aware in all its extent of their
dreadful situation. He is reported to have exclaimed, ‘We are all lost!’
which threw down whatever hopes any on board had till now entertained, and
induced them to give themselves up to bitter despair. This was sadly
imprudent, and little like the conduct I should have expected from such a
man. He ought to have set an example of preparing something in the nature
of a raft, to save what lives could be saved; and as he must have known
that it was low water, and the whole of the Dutchman’s Bank was dry within
a few yards of them, and the tide just setting on to it, there can be no
reason to doubt that he might have been by this means instrumental in
saving many of the unhappy victims as well as himself.”

                    [Illustration: THE MENAI STRAITS.]

One of the survivors stated that after the vessel had struck several times
his wife and some friends came to him, and asked if he thought they must
be lost. “I thought,” said he, “we should, and they proposed going to
prayer for the short time we had to live. We all went to prayer, myself
and wife in particular, and when we got from our knees I saw four men
getting upon the mast, and beginning to fasten themselves to it. I told my
wife I would look out for a better situation for us. I took her towards
the windlass, and began to fasten a rope to the frame where the bell hung;
and when I had got the rope made fast, and looked back for my wife, she
had again joined our friends near to the place at which we kneeled down. A
great wave almost took me overboard, but I held by the rope; then came a
second and a third wave before I could see my wife again; and when I
looked—they were all gone.(98)

“I then prepared to die myself in the place I was at, and remained in that
situation till daylight, at which time about fifty people remained on
board. As the waves came the people kept decreasing, until all were gone
except myself. I remained on the wreck until I saw a boat coming, which
took me on board, and also rescued those on the mast, and afterwards
others. We were then taken to Beaumaris, and treated with the greatest
hospitality and kindness.”

Another survivor, after detailing the facts preliminary to the disaster,
said: “The waves broke heavily on the vessel; the chimney became loose,
and first reeled to leeward, then to windward, and tumbled over with a
great crash. The mainmast then went overboard, and remained hanging to the
vessel by the rigging. The captain still assured us we should be saved,
and that assistance would shortly arrive. I requested him to fire a gun;
he said he had none on board. A small bell was then rung, but its noise
would probably be lost in the roar of the wind and waves. Some of the
passengers asked the captain to hoist a light; he said he had none; but we
knew he had a lantern, for one of the crew took it round when he collected
the checks, about half an hour before the vessel struck. The confusion
occasioned by the falling of the chimney and the mast, together with the
cries and shrieks of the women and children, defies description. Men were
seen taking leave of their wives; wives were clinging to their husbands;
and persons were running about in all directions, uttering the most
piteous and heartrending cries. From the weight of the chimney, the vessel
continued lying to windward, and very soon after the mast went the weather
boards gave way; and as the waves then swept the deck the passengers
stationed themselves on those parts of the vessel which lay highest.
Several climbed up the mast which was left standing; others got on the
poop. The weather boards on the leeward side were then washed away, taking
with them more than thirty people, who were clinging to them. The cries
were now more dreadful than before, every succeeding wave sweeping numbers
from the wreck. I took a situation beside one of the paddle-boxes, and
whilst there a young man came to me with a large drum, and said it would
save both of us, if I held on one side and he on the other. Some females
came and clung round us, but the young man stuck to the drum, and told
them to get hold of the first piece of timber they could.... Of what
further happened I have but a confused recollection, and it appears to me
like the traces of a horrible dream. It seemed as if I had been in the
water many days, when I heard the welcome sound of a human voice shout
‘Holloa!’ to which I also shouted ‘Holloa!’ Soon after I was lifted out of
the water, and placed in a boat belonging to R. Williamson, Esq., who,
when he was informed of the calamity which had befallen us, manned two
boats, and came out to pick up the sufferers. On being taken up I asked my
deliverers when it would be daylight, and they told me it was broad day—it