A WRECK IN THE NORTH SEA.
One December afternoon in the year 1875, just as night was closing in,
the steam-tug _Liverpool_, which had left Harwich at six o'clock in the
morning, was seen steaming into the harbour with flag half-mast high.
It was quite dark when she reached the quay, but there was light
enough for the crowd collected to see rows of figures laid in the
stern of the little steamer, the faces covered with blankets. These
figures, as it presently was made known, were twelve dead bodies, the
flotsam of the wreck of the _Deutschland_. When the tug arrived at the
wreck she found her much as she had been left when the survivors had
been brought off the previous day. The two masts and the funnel were
all standing, the sails bellied out with the wind that blustered across
the sandbank. The wind was so high and the sea so rough that Captain
Corrington could not bring his tug alongside; but a boat was launched,
under the charge of the chief mate and Captain Brickerstein, of the
_Deutschland_. The chief officer and the engineer, with some sailors
from the tug, rowed out and made fast to the wreck. It was low water,
and the deck was dry. There were no bodies lying about the deck or near
the ship; but on going below, in the saloon cabin there were found
floating about eight women, a man, and two children. These were taken
on board the boat, and further search in the fore-cabin led to the
discovery of the dead body of a man, making twelve in all. One of the
bodies was that of a lady who, when the wreck was first boarded, had
been seen lying in her berth. She had since been washed out, and had
she floated out by the companion-way or through the skylight might
have drifted out to sea with others. Like all the bodies found, she
was fully dressed. Indeed, as fuller information showed, there was an
interval between the striking of the ship and her becoming water-logged
sufficiently long to enable all to prepare for what might follow.
According to the captain's narrative, the ill-fated vessel steamed out
of Bremenhaven on Sunday morning with a strong east wind blowing and
snow falling thickly. This continued throughout Sunday. All Sunday night
the lead was thrown every half-hour, the last record showing seventeen
fathoms of water. At four o'clock on Monday morning a light was seen,
which the captain believed to be that of the _North Hinderfire_ ship, a
supposition which tallied with the reckoning. The vessel was forging
slowly ahead, when, at half-past five, a slight shock was felt. This
was immediately succeeded by others, and the captain knew he had run
on a bank. The order was passed to back the engines. This was
immediately done, but before any way could be made the screw broke
and the ship lay at the mercy of wind and waves. She was bumping
heavily, and it was thought if sail were set she might be carried
over the bank. This was tried, but without effect. The captain then
ordered rockets to be sent up and a gun fired.
In the meantime the boats were ordered to be swung out, but the sea was
running so high that it was felt it would be madness to launch them. Two
boats were, however, lowered without orders, one being immediately
swamped, and six people who had got into her swept into the sea.
Life-preservers were served out to each passenger. The women were
ordered to keep below in the saloon, and the men marshalled on deck to
take turns at the pumps. At night, when the tide rose, the women were
brought up out of the cabin; some placed in the wheel-house, some on the
bridge, and some on the rigging, where they remained till they were
taken off by the tug that first came to the rescue of the hopeless folk.
The whole of the mail was saved, the purser bringing it into the cabin,
whence it was fished out and taken on board the tug.
The passengers were all in bed when the ship struck, and were roused
first by the bumping of the hull, and next by the cry that rang fore and
aft for every man and woman to put on life-belts, of which there was a
plentiful store in hand. The women jumped up and swarmed in the
companion-way of the saloon, making for the deck, where they were met by
the stewardess, who stood in the way, and half forced, half persuaded
them to go back, telling them there was no danger. After the screw had
broken, the engines also failed, and the sails proved useless.
The male passengers then cheerfully formed themselves into gangs and
worked at the pumps, but, as one said, they "were pumping at the North
Sea," and as it was obviously impossible to make a clearance of that,
the task was abandoned, and officers, crew, and passengers relapsed into
a state of passive expectancy of succour from without. That this could
not long be coming happily seemed certain. The rockets which had been
sent up had been answered from the shore. The lightship which had helped
to mislead the captain was plainly visible, and at least two ships
sailed by so near that till they began hopelessly to fade away, one to
the northward and the other to the southward, the passengers were sure
those on board had seen the wreck, and were coming to their assistance.
Perhaps it was this certainty of the nearness of succour that kept off
either the shrieking or the stupor of despair. However that be, it is
one of the most notable features about this fearful scene that, with a
few exceptions, after the first shock everybody was throughout the first
day wonderfully cool, patient, and self-possessed. There was no regular
meal on Monday, but there was plenty to eat and drink, and the
opportunity seems to have been generally, though moderately, improved.
The women kept below all day, and, while the fires were going, were
served with hot soup, meat, bread, and wine, and seemed to have been
inclined to make the best of a bad job.
Towards night the horror of the situation increased in a measure far
beyond that marked by the darkness. All day long the sea had been
washing over the ship, but by taking refuge in the berths and on the
tables and benches in the saloon it had been possible to keep
comparatively dry. As night fell the tide rose, and at midnight the
water came rushing over the deck in huge volumes, filling the saloon,
and making the cabins floating coffins. The women were ordered up and
instructed to take to the rigging, but many of them, cowed by the
wildness of the sea that now swept the deck fore and aft, and shuddering
before the fury of the pitiless, sleet-laden gale, refused to leave the
saloon.
Then happened horrible scenes which the pen refuses to portray in their
fulness. One woman, driven mad with fear and despair, deliberately hung
herself from the roof of the saloon. A man, taking out his penknife, dug
it into his wrist and worked it about as long as he had strength, dying
where he fell. Another, incoherently calling on the wife and child he
had left in Germany, rushed about with a bottle in his hand frantically
shouting for paper and pencil. Somebody gave him both, and, scribbling a
note, he corked it down in a bottle and threw it overboard, following it
himself a moment later as a great wave came and swept him out of sight.
There were five nuns on board who, by their terror-stricken conduct,
seem to have added greatly to the weirdness of the scene. They were deaf
to all entreaties to leave the saloon, and when, almost by main force,
the stewardess (whose conduct throughout was plucky) managed to get them
on to the companion-ladder, they sank down on the steps and stubbornly
refused to go another step. They seemed to have returned to the saloon
again shortly, for somewhere in the dead of the night, when the greater
part of the crew and passengers were in the rigging, one was seen with
her body half through the skylight, crying aloud in a voice heard above
the storm, "Oh, my God, make it quick! make it quick!" At daylight, when
the tide had ebbed, leaving the deck clear, some one from the rigging
went down, and, looking into the cabin, saw the nuns floating about face
upwards, all dead.
There seems to have been a wonderful amount of unselfishness displayed,
everybody cheering and trying to help every other body. One of the
passengers--a cheery Teuton, named Adolph Herrmann--took a young
American lady under his special charge. He helped her up the rigging
and held her on there all through the night, and says she was as
brave and as self-possessed as if they had been comfortably on shore.
Some time during the night an unknown friend passed down to him a
bottle of whisky. The cork was in the bottle, and as he was holding
on to the rigging with one hand and had the other round the lady,
there was some difficulty in getting at the contents of the bottle.
This he finally solved by knocking the neck off, and then found
himself in the dilemma of not being able to get the bottle to the
lady's mouth.
"You are pouring it down my neck," was her quiet response to his first
essay. In the end he succeeded in aiming the whisky in the right
direction, and after taking some himself, passed it on, feeling much
refreshed.
Just before a terrible accident occurred, which threatened death to
one or both. The purser, who had fixed himself in the rigging some
yards above them, getting numbed, loosed his hold, and falling headlong
struck against the lady and bounded off into the sea. But Herrmann kept
his hold, and the shock was scarcely noticed. On such a night all the
obligations were not, as Herrmann gratefully acknowledges, on the one
side; for when one of his feet got numbed, his companion, following his
direction, stamped on it till circulation was restored.
From their perilous post, with waves occasionally dashing up and
blinding them with spray, they saw some terrible scenes below. A man
tied to the mast nearer the deck had his head cut off by the waves,
as Herrmann says, though probably a rope or a loose spar was the agent.
Not far off, a little boy had his leg broken in the same manner. They
could hear and see one of the nuns shrieking through the skylight, and
when she was silenced the cry was taken up by a woman wailing from
the wheelhouse,--
"My child is drowned, my little one, Adam!"
At daylight a sailor, running nimbly down the rigging, reached the poop,
and, bending over, attempted to seize some of the half-drowned people
who were floating about. Once he caught a little child by the clothes;
but before he could secure it a wave carried it out of his grasp, and
its shrieks were hushed in the roar of the waters. At nine o'clock, on
the second morning of the wreck the tide had so far ebbed that the deck
was clear, and, coming down from the rigging, the battered and shivering
survivors began to think of getting breakfast. A provident sailor had,
whilst it was possible, taken up aloft a couple of loaves of black
bread, a ham, and some cheese. These were now brought out and fairly
distributed.
An hour and a half later all peril was over, and the gallant survivors
were steaming for Harwich in the tug-boat _Liverpool_.