Lord Sheffield, at sea, Dec. 31.
At length we are at sea! the convoy sailed from Spithead and St. Helens,
the day after I sent my last letter, and I now lift my pen to you upon
the bosom of the wide Atlantic. From the time of the ever-memorable
attempt of the fleet to proceed upon the voyage, in the month of
November, the adverse winds, which had driven it back, in so shattered
and disastrous a condition, detained it, in harbour, until the 9th
instant; when it again put to sea under a serene sky, and propitious
breezes; but, notwithstanding these favorable appearances, we have,
since, had a most perilous succession of storms, one having, scarcely,
subsided before it has been followed by another; and I have now so lost
my confidence in the weather, that, although I am sitting in tolerable
quietness to write to you, at this moment, I dare scarcely hope to
finish my letter before I shall be tossed from my chair by a renewal of
the gale.
This is the last day of the old year, and, whichsoever way I look, my
eye surveys only an unbounded ocean. When we may again see land, it were
difficult to conjecture, but my pen shall prepare for you some _notes_
of our proceedings, occasionally, when the sea will permit me to guide
it; and I will send them by any vessel we may chance to meet on the
passage, or by the earliest packet, after we reach the West Indies.
On the first morning of our being at sea, the weather was clear and
mild, and the whole fleet, consisting of nearly three hundred vessels,
of various magnitude, was assembled in compact form, occupying a certain
circle of the ocean’s surface, and gliding smoothly on its passage. It
formed one of the grandest spectacles ever beheld. Never shall I forget
climbing up the shrowds, as high as the main top, to enjoy it in all its
perfection. The sun shone; the sea was smooth and undisturbed; the air
serene. All sails were set, and the vessels being near to each other,
the white canvass seemed spread, in crowded continuation, throughout the
wide space covered by the fleet. Looking down upon the multitude of
ships, it created the idea of an entire nation moving upon the waters.
It was an emblem of Britain’s glory. We appeared to command the whole
empire of the main; and the prospect, being calculated to excite
flattering hopes of victory and success, could not fail to be viewed, by
every Briton, with delight. But, alas! how delusive were these
auspicious dawnings! We had advanced very little on our passage, before
a dire reverse succeeded. The sun was now obscured; a thick fog
overspread the ocean; and all the fleet was shut from our sight. Clouds
gathered around; and the heavens scowled in terrific blackness. At
length burst forth a roaring storm! the waters broke into huge billows;
and the ships, struggling against the wild and furious waves, were, at
one moment, tossed on a pinnacle, and, the next, plunged into a gloomy
deep, surrounded by disordered mountains. In an instant they were again
amidst the clouds, and again as suddenly sunk in the dark valley of
liquid hills: thus, alternately, threatening us with the danger of being
hurled from a summit, or swallowed up in a frightful gulf of the
unfathomable ocean. Nor had we, barely, to encounter the common dangers
of the sea, but, from being amidst a crowded fleet, were, every instant,
liable to the additional peril of running aboard some neighbouring ship,
and being dashed in pieces, or driven suddenly to the bottom: to this we
were likewise exposed by the darkness of night, or by a heavy fog. The
terror of these critical moments is necessarily augmented by the lively
apprehensions of those who are but little accustomed to the sea: nor is
this wonderful, for, where every motion, and every sound is calculated
to excite alarm, he must be more than a philosopher, he must be a
sailor, who can regard even the less imminent perils with unconcern.
During a storm, the deep rollings of the ship, her deeper lurches, the
thundering concussion of heavy seas against her sides, the hollow dreary
sound of the wind howling in her sails and rigging, the hurry and
clamour of the ship’s company, and the dismal creakings of the masts,
bulkheads, and other parts of the vessel, all conspire to create tumult
and confusion, and to keep alive the most trembling apprehensions. At
one moment the ship is upset, the next you feel her strike upon a rock:
suddenly she is shattered to atoms; or, foundering, sinks to the bottom;
and, while you are absorbed in these sensations, a sea, or heavy spray
breaks over the deck, a threatening wave beats in the quarter gallery,
or a rolling mountain dashes the stern windows into the cabin. The water
now pouring upon you from every opening, your fears are confirmed, and
you feel that the vessel is positively sinking. Quickly, the accident is
repaired, and, in the moment of despair you are greeted with tidings of
safety.
Often, in the midst of alarming appearances, and manifold disquietudes,
you are visited by the carpenter, with the “dead-lights,” who, fixing
them in the stern windows, nails you up in darkness, as in a coffin, and
with as much _sang froid_ as men of his calling screw up the bodies of
those who are actually dead: replying, at the same time, to your anxious
and fearful inquiries regarding the necessity for that step being taken,
that it is “_only to keep the spray from breaking the windows_!” But I
am fatiguing you with a detail of what every one knows; and most who
have been at sea, have felt: let me, therefore, return to our voyage.
What shall I say to you of our armada—our unfortunate fleet! Ere this
can meet your hand, you will have had many, alas! too many melancholy
proofs of the disasters which have befallen it. Did ever the seas: did
the heavens ever fight so cruelly against an expedition! were ever the
elements so decidedly hostile to the great and flattering efforts of
man!
After the violence of the first gale, most of our scattered fleet, owing
to the attention and exertions of Admiral Christian and his officers,
was again assembled, and we felicitated ourselves in the hope of
proceeding to our place of destination without further interruption: but
the turbulent mountains of a disordered sea were scarcely reduced to a
more tranquil surface, before the storm was renewed with additional
violence. Quickly we were more scattered than before. Many of the ships,
unable to resist this second shock, were, now, much injured, and obliged
to put back into port. Some, we suppose, again joined the admiral, and
others wholly lost the convoy. We were among the latter, but, when the
weather cleared, we fell in with a small division of the fleet, with
which we sailed in company, for several days. Further repetitions of the
storm again separated us, and we were tossed about, seeing no more than
three, sometimes but two, and often only a single ship, until, at
length, we found ourselves quite alone upon the broad ocean.
Previous to our final separation we witnessed a scene of a most
melancholy nature; having observed a neighbouring ship in the utmost
danger of being lost, without possessing the power of affording her any
relief. She hoisted a flag, and fired guns of distress; but the gale was
so strong, and the sea running so frightfully high, that it was
impossible to give her assistance. We stood towards her, and anxiously
kept her in view, in the hope of administering aid, if she should be
supported upon the surface until the weather became moderate. Unhappily
the tempest continued increasing rather than diminishing in violence. We
looked fearfully on the ship, expecting every instant to see her go to
the bottom. She repeated signals of distress. We heard them, and saw
them, but were unable to obey them. It was a most awful crisis. We
regarded her with dismal forebodings, examining her, both with the eye
and the telescope, again and again. Her masts were standing; her sails
entire; and the rigging, apparently, perfect; but these circumstances,
which to landsmen would have seemed favorable, we discovered to be the
very reverse; for, hence it was that our best sailors formed the fatal
conclusion that her situation was hopeless, and that she must have
sprung a leak!
We watched the heavens, and the waters in painful solicitude, but saw no
relaxation of the storm. Tremendous mountains at one moment concealed
the wretched ship from our view: at another we appeared to be enveloped,
together, in the same frightful gulf. You will conceive our sensations
upon feeling that, in one instant more, this deep pit of the ocean might
be the grave of every soul on board. Signals, denoting the extreme of
danger, were repeated: the sea rolled in terrific disorder: we bent our
eyes in vain towards the vessel, deploring her threatened fate, and our
own inability to prevent it! Night came on. We lost her in darkness,
and—beheld her no more!
Heaven grant that she may be in safety! But we all fear she cannot have
withstood the violence of the gale, which continued until morning, and
throughout the whole of the following day, with unremitted fury. Our
anxiety was also much augmented, from having seen masts, spars, and
other pieces of wreck, float by the side of our ship, when the storm
abated. Until now I had regarded the sailing in company with a fleet as
a kind of social protection; but henceforth I shall feel no desire to
move in crowded society on the ocean. Being alone, we are exposed to the
risk of falling into the hands of the enemy; but, compared to our late
suffering, even the vilest of French prisons loses its horrors; for,
what can be so truly afflicting as to see a number of our
fellow-creatures plunged into the deepest distress, and to feel withheld
from tendering them relief! Our solitary situation must prevent a
repetition of such a scene: it also removes the peril of our being
injured or destroyed, by other ships; of which we had much dread, while
we were amidst the fleet.
It is not only during a storm that there is danger of one ship running
foul of another: it is equally, perhaps more likely to happen when the
wind abates, particularly if this occur suddenly, for then the ship, not
being supported by the resistance of the gale, gives way to the heavy
seas, and, from disobeying the helm, is liable to be driven aboard other
vessels. Often, at this moment, as well as during the storm, the ships
appear to have no weight, nor depth of purchase in the water, but they
toss and roll about at the mercy of the waves, like empty barrels
floating upon the surface.
At the period of separating from the fleet we knew not our place of
destination: it became expedient therefore to open the sealed
instructions; from which we discovered that Carlisle Bay, in Barbadoes,
was fixed as the general rendezvous of the fleet. Here, therefore, all
our attractions lie, and to this port we are endeavouring to steer; but
adverse winds and violent tempests perpetually oppose our progress. It
is now more than three weeks from the date of our departure, and we are
yet beating about much nearer to you than you imagine, having, hitherto,
advanced, on our passage, only twelve degrees of longitude, and three of
latitude. But in whatever latitude or longitude, amidst whatever storms
or dangers, I am always
Yours.