UNCLE THOMAS TELLS ABOUT THE WRECK OF THE ALBION NEW YORK PACKET.
Many of the tales of shipwrecks which have happened on our shores, are
extremely distressing; none more so, perhaps, than that of the Albion
packet, which was wrecked on the Irish coast, in 1822.
The Albion was one of the first-class packet ships between New York
and Liverpool, and sailed from the former place on the first of April,
having on board twenty-three cabin and six steerage passengers, her
crew consisting of twenty-five persons; making the entire number
who embarked fifty-four. For the first twenty days the voyage was
prosperous and pleasant. About two o'clock on Sunday the 21st, they
made Cape Clear, and the weather, which had, during the earlier part of
the voyage, been moderate and favorable, now became thick and foggy,
the wind blowing fresh, with heavy squalls from the southward. The ship
had been carrying all her canvass, but as the gale increased they were
obliged to shorten sail. At four o'clock, they were under double-reefed
topsails, foresail, and mainsail, when a sudden squall carried away the
fore-yard and split the fore-topsail. They therefore got the broken
yard down, and prepared to replace it by another.
As night came on, the decks were cleared for working the ship; the
wind, however, lulled, and it was supposed that the storm of the day
was over. As they were near the coast, all hands flattered themselves
they should, in a short time, reach their destined harbor, and be once
more secure from the dangers of the deep. About nine o'clock, the ship
was struck by a tremendous sea, which threw her on her beam-ends, and
carried away the mainmast by the board, the heads of the mizenmast
and fore-topmast, sweeping the deck clear of everything, including
boats, caboose-house, and bulwarks, and staving in all the hatches, and
state-rooms, and nearly filling the cabin with water. It also carried
away six of the crew and one of the cabin passengers, and, in short, so
destructive was its influence, that it left the Albion in the state of
a wreck.
As the ship now became unmanageable, and the sea continued to make a
complete breach over her, both crew and passengers were obliged to
lash themselves to the pumps, in order to keep themselves from being
washed away while working them. All who were unnecessary or unable to
afford assistance on deck retired below, but the water was knee-deep in
the cabin, and the furniture floating about rendered their situation
dangerous and dreadful. On deck they were in total darkness, and having
no correct compasses, they could not tell how the ship's head lay.
About one o'clock in the morning of the 22d, they made the light of
the Old Head of Kinsale, a light-house on the Irish coast, but could
not ascertain its bearing, and at two o'clock they found the ship
embayed. All night long the wind had blown directly on shore, towards
which the vessel was drifting at the rate of about three miles an
hour. The complete hopelessness of their situation was known to few
on board; but to Captain Williams the coast was familiar, and he must
have seen, in despair and horror, throughout the night, the certainty
of their fate. At length the noise of the ocean roaring and dashing
upon the rocky and precipitous shore, spoke too plainly of the fate
that awaited them. The captain, seeing that the crisis was now close
at hand, and that the wreck of the vessel was inevitable, summoned all
the passengers on deck, and briefly told them that each must prepare
to save himself, as the ship must soon strike--it was impossible to
preserve her. The scene was one of the most touching description; many
of them had received considerable injury when the sea first struck the
ship, and were scarcely able to come on deck; others were completely
exhausted from having been incessantly assisting at the pumps; and one
gentleman, who had been extremely ill during the voyage, Mr. William
Everhart, of Chester, Pennsylvania, was too feeble to crawl to the
deck without assistance, though, strange to say, he was the only cabin
passenger who was saved.
The situation of the passengers on board the Albion was, at this
moment, one of peculiar agony, as they watched, without the power
of resistance, the deadly and relentless blast impelling them to
destruction--the ship a wreck--and the raging of the billows against
the precipice on which they were driving, sending back from the
rocky caverns the hoarse and melancholy warnings of death. In such a
situation, the stoutest heart must have quailed with utter despair.
As the morning dawned, the Albion struck on a reef, her upper-works
beat in over the rocks, and in about half an hour she parted midships,
her quarter-deck drifting on the top of the inside ledge, immediately
under the cliffs. The perpendicular precipice of rocks, under which the
unfortunate vessel struck, is nearly two hundred feet in height, in
the base of which, the sea beating for ages, has worn large caverns,
into which the waves rush violently, sending back a deep and hollow
sound; after striking against the rock, they are thrown back in various
directions, forming whirlpools of great violence. For some distance
from the precipice, rocks rise out of the water, broad at bottom, and
sharp at top: on one of these the Albion first struck; the next wave
threw her farther on the rock, the third farther still, until, nearly
balanced, she swung round, and her stern was driven against another,
closer in shore.
In this perilous situation, every wave making a complete breach over
her, many of the passengers and crew were drowned on deck. Captain
Williams, worn out with the extraordinary exertions which, up to the
last moment, he continued to make for the preservation of the lives of
the unfortunate passengers and crew, was, with several others, swept
away soon after the vessel struck.
A short time before she parted, the mate and six of the crew managed to
gain a rock, but so exhausted were they by their previous exertions,
and by the dashing of the waves, which every instant washed over
them, that the mate was washed off; fortunately, however, he regained
his position before the return of the sea. So exhausted was he,
that before he could attempt to climb the rock, which was nearly
perpendicular, he was obliged to lie down to recover strength from
the severe bruises and contusions which he had received. One of the
passengers also reached the rock alive, but, together with one of the
stewards, he was washed off and drowned.
Perceiving that the stern was higher out of water than the fore part
of the wreck, and the sea had less power in its sweep over it, Mr.
Everhart went aft. He now saw that the bottom had been broken out
of the ship. The heavy articles must have sunk, and the cotton and
lighter articles were floating around, dashed by every wave against the
rocks. Presently the ship broke in two, and all who remained near the
bow were lost. Several had got on the side of the precipice from the
stern of the ship, and were hanging by the crags. Although weakened by
previous sickness and present suffering, Mr. Everhart made an effort
and got upon the rock, and stood upon one foot, which was the only
hold he could obtain. He saw several of his fellow-sufferers around
him, and, among the rest, Colonel Prevost, who, on seeing him take his
station, remarked, "Here is another poor fellow," But the waves rolling
heavily against them, and often dashing the spray fifty feet above
their heads, gradually swept them away, one after another. One of the
sailors, losing his hold, attempted to grasp Mr. Everhart's leg, and
nearly pulled him from his place. Weak and ill as he was, however, he
contrived to retain his position, and stood for several hours on one
foot on a little crag, the billows dashing over him, and quite benumbed
with cold.
By day-light, the wreck having been discovered, as soon as the ebbing
of the tide rendered it practicable, the country people descended the
rocks as far as they could, and dropped Mr. Everhart a rope, which he
fastened round his body, and was drawn up to a place of safety. Of
twenty-three cabin passengers he alone escaped.
Many of the passengers who were lost in this melancholy shipwreck, held
distinguished stations in society. The most eminent sufferer was Gen.
Lefebvre Desnouettes, who, during a long series of years, had braved
death in the field of battle, and escaped to perish at last in this
catastrophe, when his mind was, perhaps, less than at any other period
of his life, reconciled to the stroke of fate. His situation was every
way peculiar. It is well known that he had been one of the favorite
and most distinguished of Napoleon's military generals, and that he
took part in the combination against Louis XVIII. On the landing of
his old commander from Elba, with headlong enthusiasm he joined him
in his last campaign, and being proscribed by the royal government,
took refuge in the United States. Here his misfortunes, reputation,
intelligence, and manly, unexceptionable deportment, rendered him an
object of universal esteem. To escape, as he used to remark, pity
and curiosity, and to gratify the natural activity of his mind, he
retired to the territory granted to the French exiles in the State of
Alabama, where he labored in the fields, under the burning sun, with
a reckless exertion, which proved very injurious to his health. His
wife, an amiable and accomplished woman, remained behind in France to
look after his interests there. Having begun his agricultural toil, he
never quitted it until his final departure from the country, except to
visit Washington on business. At length, he addressed a petition to the
French government, praying to be allowed to return home. He received
directions to proceed to Holland, and there wait the final pleasure of
the king; and, on his way to Liverpool, met with a watery grave on the
Irish coast.
It is a very affecting tale indeed, Uncle Thomas! How shocking to think
that, after crossing the Atlantic ocean in safety, they should perish
when almost within sight of home!