On the 17th of June, 1816, the Medusa, French frigate, commanded by
Captain Chaumareys, and accompanied by three smaller vessels, sailed
from the island of Aix, for the coast of Africa, in order to take
possession of some colonies. On the 1st of July, they entered the
tropics; and there, with a childish disregard to danger, and knowing
that she was surrounded by all the unseen perils of the ocean, her crew
performed the ceremony usual to the occasion, while the vessel was
running headlong on destruction. The captain, presided over the
disgraceful scene of merriment, leaving the ship to the command of an M.
Richefort, who had passed the ten preceding years of his life in an
English prison--a few persons on board remonstrated in vain; though it
was ascertained that they were on the banks of Arguise, she continued
her course, and heaved the lead, without slackening the sail. Every
thing denoted shallow water, but M. Richefort persisted in saying that
they were in one hundred fathoms. At that very moment only six fathoms
were found; and the vessel struck three times, being in about sixteen
feet water, and the tide full flood. At ebb-tide, there remained but
twelve feet water; and after some bungling manoeuvres, all hope of
getting the ship off was abandoned.
When the frigate struck, she had on board six boats, of various
capacities, all of which could not contain the crew and passengers; and
a raft was constructed. A dreadful scene ensued. All scrambled out of
the wreck without order or precaution. The first who reached the boats
refused to admit any of their fellow-sufferers into them, though there
was ample room for more. Some, apprehending that a plot had been formed
to abandon them in the vessel, flew to arms. No one assisted his
companions; and Captain Chaumareys stole out of a port-hole into his own
boat, leaving a great part of the crew to shift for themselves. At
length they put off to sea, intending to steer for the sandy coast of
the desert, there to land, and thence to proceed with a caravan to the
island of St. Louis.
The raft had been constructed without foresight or intelligence. It was
about sixty-five feet long and twenty-five broad, but the only part
which could be depended upon was the middle; and that was so small, that
fifteen persons could not lie down upon it. Those who stood on the floor
were in constant danger of slipping through between the planks; the sea
flowed in on all its sides. When one hundred and fifty passengers who
were destined to be its burden, were on board, they stood like a solid
parallelogram, without a possibility of moving; and they were up to
their waists in water.
The desperate squadron had only proceeded three leagues, when a faulty,
if not treacherous manoeuvre, broke the tow-line which fastened the
captain's boat to the raft; and this became the signal to all to let
loose their cables. The weather was calm. The coast was known to be but
twelve or fifteen leagues distant; and the land was in fact discovered
by the boats on the very same evening on which they abandoned the raft.
They were not therefore driven to this measure by any new perils; and
the cry of "_Nous les abandonons_!" which resounded throughout the line,
was the yell of a spontaneous and instinctive impulse of cowardice,
perfidy, and cruelty; and the impulse was as unanimous as it was
diabolical. The raft was left to the mercy of the waves; one after
another, the boats disappeared, and despair became general. Not one of
the promised articles, no provisions, except a very few casks of wine,
and some spoiled biscuit, sufficient for one single meal was found. A
small pocket compass, which chance had discovered, their last guide in a
trackless ocean, fell between the beams into the sea. As the crew had
taken no nourishment since morning, some wine and biscuit were
distributed; and this day, the first of thirteen on the raft, was the
last on which they tasted any solid food--except such as human nature
shudders at. The only thing which kept them alive was the hope of
revenge on those who had treacherously betrayed them.
The first night was stormy; and the waves, which had free access,
committed dreadful ravages, and threatened worse. When day appeared,
twelve miserable wretches were found crushed to death between the
openings of the raft, and several more were missing; but the number
could not be ascertained, as several soldiers had taken the billets of
the dead, in order to obtain two, or even three rations. The second
night was still more dreadful, and many were washed off; although the
crew had so crowded together, that some were smothered by the mere
pressure. To soothe their last moments, the soldiers drank immoderately;
and one, who affected to rest himself upon the side, but was
treacherously cutting the ropes, was thrown into the sea. Another, whom
M. Correard had snatched from the waves, turned traitor a second time,
as soon as he recovered his senses; but he too was killed. At length the
revolted, who were chiefly soldiers, threw themselves upon their knees,
and abjectly implored mercy. At midnight, however, they rebelled again.
Those who had no arms, fought with their teeth, and thus many severe
wounds were inflicted. One was most wantonly and dreadfully bitten above
the heel, while his companions were beating him upon the head with their
carbines, before throwing him into the sea. The raft was strewed with
dead bodies, after innumerable instances of treachery and cruelty; and
from sixty to sixty-five perished that night. The force and courage of
the strongest began to yield to their misfortunes; and even the most
resolute labored under mental derangement. In the conflict, the revolted
had thrown two casks of wine, and all the remaining water, into the sea;
and it became necessary to diminish each man's share.
A day of comparative tranquillity succeeded. The survivors erected their
mast again, which had been wantonly cut down in the battle of the night;
and endeavored to catch some fish, but in vain. They were reduced to
feed on the dead bodies of their companions. A third night followed,
broken by the plaintive cries of wretches, exposed to every kind of
suffering, ten or twelve of whom died of want, and awfully foretold the
fate of the remainder. The following day was fine. Some flying fish were
caught in the raft; which, mixed up with human flesh, afforded one
scanty meal.
[Illustration]
A new insurrection to destroy the raft, broke out on the fourth night;
this too, was marked by perfidy, and ended in blood. Most of the rebels
were thrown into the sea. The fifth morning mustered but thirty men
alive; and these sick and wounded, with the skin of their lower
extremities corroded by the salt water. Two soldiers were detected
drinking the wine of the only remaining cask; they were instantly thrown
into the sea. One boy died, and there remained only twenty-seven; of
whom fifteen only seemed likely to live. A council of war, preceded by
the most horrid despair, was held; as the weak consumed a part of the
common store, they determined to throw them into the sea. This sentence
was put into immediate execution! and all the arms on board, which now
filled their minds with horror, were, with the exception of a single
sabre, committed to the deep. Distress and misery increased with an
accelerated ratio; and even after the desperate means of destroying
their companions, and eating the most nauseous aliments, the surviving
fifteen could not hope for more than a few days' existence. A butterfly
lighted on their sail the ninth day, and though it was held to be a
messenger of good, yet many a greedy eye was cast upon it.
Three days more passed over in inexpressible anguish, when they
constructed a smaller and more manageable raft, in the hope of directing
it to the shore; but on trial it was found insufficient. On the
seventeenth day, a brig was seen; which, after exciting the vicissitude
of hope and fear, proved to be the Argus, sent out in quest of the
Medusa. The inhabitants of the raft were all received on board, and were
again very nearly perishing, by a fire which broke out in the night. The
six boats which had so cruelly cast them adrift, reached the coast of
Africa in safety; and after many dangers among the Moors, the survivors
arrived at St. Louis.
After this, a vessel was dispatched to the wreck of the Medusa, to carry
away the money and provisions; after beating about for eight days, she
was forced to return. She again put to sea, but after being away five
days, again came back. Ten days more were lost in repairing her; and she
did not reach the spot till fifty-two days after the vessel had been
lost; and dreadful to relate, three miserable sufferers were found on
board. Sixty men had been abandoned there by their magnanimous
countrymen. All these had been carried off except seventeen, some of
whom were drunk, and others refused to leave the vessel. They remained
at peace as long as their provisions lasted. Twelve embarked on board a
raft, for Sahara, and were never more heard of. Another put to sea on a
hen-coop, and sunk immediately. Four remained behind, one of whom,
exhausted with hunger and fatigue, perished. The other three lived in
separate corners of the wreck, and never met but to run at each other
with drawn _knives_. They were put on board the vessel, with all that
could be saved from the wreck of the Medusa.
The vessel was no sooner seen returning to St. Louis, than every heart
beat high with joy, in the hope of recovering some property. The men and
officers of the Medusa jumped on board, and asked if any thing had been
saved. "Yes," was the reply, "but it is all ours now;" and the naked
Frenchmen, whose calamities had found pity from the Moors of the desert,
were now deliberately plundered by their own countrymen.
A fair was held in the town, which lasted eight days. The clothes,
furniture, and necessary articles of life belonging to the men and
officers of the Medusa, were publicly sold before their faces. Such of
the French as were able, proceeded to the camp at Daceard, and the sick
remained at St. Louis. The French governor had promised them clothes and
provisions, but sent none; and during five months, they owed their
existence to strangers--to the British.