'A telegraphic despatch has reached us as we are going to press,
announcing the loss, on her way from Queenstown to Liverpool, of the
"Royal Charter," with over four hundred passengers on board, of
which number only about twenty are saved.'
The last news was so overwhelming--so unexpected and improbable after
the early telegram--that at first it was received with some amount of
incredulity. No other paper of that morning but the _Times_ contained
the intelligence; and from behind this fact there came a gleam of
hope. At about eleven o'clock, however, the journals issued as usual
their second editions, and then it was the statement in the _Times_
was confirmed, and that the mournfullest piece of news in connection
with marine disaster which ever reached this country was generally
accepted. The 'Royal Charter' was lost! Men passed the news from one
to another in whispers, shook their heads, and moved on to the
newspaper and telegraph offices for later items bearing upon the
calamity. The announcement in the first edition of the _Times_ was sad
enough. Such details, however, as that journal was enabled to give in
its second edition far more than confirmed the early telegram. Instead
of only four hundred persons being on board, it appeared there were
close upon five hundred, while the proportion of saved was not in the
slightest increased. Some of the circumstances grouped around the
wreck, too, were now supplied us. The vessel had, after a terrible
battle with the storm, in which masts were cut down and much noble
life was spent, struck upon the rocky coast of Wales, parted
amidships, and gone down not twenty yards from shore, and scarcely
four hours' sail from Liverpool.
I was in Sydney when the 'Dunbar' was lost. I remember, with painful
distinctness, the gloom cast upon the colony by that catastrophe. The
same cold sense of horror seemed on Thursday last to take possession
of the metropolis. At Lloyd's, at the Jerusalem, at the Baltic, men
moved silently about with white faces and knitted brows. As each new
telegram arrived and was posted in the rooms, groups would crowd
anxiously around it, and amongst them--thrust forward with a most
touching anxiousness--the face of many an old colonist could be seen.
There was an element of uncertainty in the disaster which added to its
painful and prostrating effect upon the public mind. The ship had
brought eleven days' later news; there was no list of its passengers
to be had in England; and who could tell but that his friends or
kinsmen were on board? We all knew here the splendid qualities of the
vessel: we all knew how high her colours stood in the colony. _I_ knew
I had travelled the six hundred miles of dangerous sea between Sydney
and Melbourne to make my journey home in her. Who then that had a
relative or connection in the colony could--or _can_ to this
hour--help the bleak conviction that in this vessel, which the cruel
rocks have battered, and the remorseless waves have beaten to
fragments, he or she was making a visit to the mother country? There
were many of course that Thursday morning at Lloyd's, and the colonial
coffee-houses, who by the last mail had received letters from friends
intimating their intention of coming home by the 'Charter.' To them
the intelligence of the wreck had terrible interest. Hour after hour
they hung about the City, and when, just before closing, a 'List of
the Saved' was received at Lloyd's, it was with difficulty the clerk
was enabled to keep them from tearing the document from his hands and
post it upon the walls. One gentleman, white-headed and bent with age,
who, I subsequently found, had a son on board, swooned the moment he
saw the list. _His boy was saved._
I endeavour to be brief in these introductory remarks; but somehow the
atmosphere of dejection which has rested upon us all since the evil
tidings first met us, reproduces itself as I write, and I find myself
calling up with mournful minuteness the earlier passages in the
History I have been requested to prepare. To that task let me now
compel myself.
While the news of the wreck was still being bandied from mouth to
mouth, I, who knew the ill-fated craft, and thought, without taking
upon myself to suggest a reason for the disaster, I could yet set down
many things which might enable others to do so, wrote the following
article for one of the newspapers:--
'The finest ship that ever left the port of Liverpool has gone down
with five hundred lives on board. I knew the ship--unhappily I knew
some of those who have perished. I purpose to tell my impressions of
the vessel, of the captain--everything I know that is likely to be
read with interest by the dread light of the calamity.
'Nearly this time two years I left Melbourne for Liverpool in the
vessel. She had--and, in most particulars, deserved it--the reputation
of being the finest ship that ever came to Hobson's Bay. The "Great
Britain," belonging to the same line, was of larger burden, and of
much higher steam capacity; but among her splendid performances there
was no record of a passage from England to Australia in fifty-nine
days. This extraordinary run the "Royal Charter" had made, and a
reputation had in consequence attached to her which always filled her
cabins with home-bound colonists within ten days or a fortnight of her
arrival at Melbourne. As I am writing this I am in utter ignorance of
the details connected with the loss of the vessel; and it would be a
mere impertinence were I to suggest a cause for the catastrophe. This
I must say, however--I feel bound to say it, for the sake of all those
who go down to the sea in ships--that if the "Royal Charter" had not
made such rapid passages, lives lost on board _before_ this final
casualty would certainly not have been sacrificed. Let me, before
proceeding further, explain what I mean. It is a practice with more
than one large shipping firm, like that to which the "Charter"
belonged, to give very heavy rewards to those captains who are enabled
to make "the voyage"--that is, the passage out and home--within a
specially limited time; let us say five months. Captain Taylor, of the
"Royal Charter," told me himself that his owners had promised him five
hundred pounds whenever he made the journey from Liverpool to
Melbourne and back in one hundred and fifty days. The consequence of
this arrangement was, that _speed_ rather than _safety_ became the
characteristic of Captain Taylor's command. It would be cruel to make
this statement if I were not prepared to prove it; but when I add
that the "Charter" never made a voyage without an accident of some
kind or other occurring--that when I came from Melbourne in her, her
gear was so defective that a yard-arm fell, killing one man and
wounding others, the very day we left Hobson's Bay, and that
throughout the passage her rudder was so faulty that we had to slacken
sail whenever the ship attained a speed of twelve knots,--the veracity
(or taste) of my assertion cannot be questioned. Everything was
sacrificed to speed: a quick passage seemed to be the sole aim of the
captain--_was_, in fact, the sole aim, as, to conclude these prefatory
remarks, one little circumstance will show. When I came home in the
ship, she happened, from a stress of foul winds, to make an
extraordinarily long run. Well, a month before we arrived in port, we
were placed on short allowance of food. Rapidity was so relied on that
only sixty or seventy days' provisions (instead of, as the Shipping
Act provides, one hundred and twenty) had been put on board when we
left Melbourne!
'But, with all, she was a noble vessel; and the captain was a noble
sailor. If he was a little reckless, the "Liverpool System" is rather
to blame than he. He had risen, I believe, from before the mast, and
was a man of a certain rough amiability, of seafaring energy, and
dogged determination. A slight anecdote fits in here as an
illustration. Once he was commanding a ship which had sprung a leak,
and a number of the sailors, for some reason or other, refused to
work. Captain Taylor ordered all the refractory men in irons, and
then, fitting up a windmill, pumped out the vessel without any manual
assistance whatever.
'The "Royal Charter" was a magnificent specimen of shipbuilding. She
was some thirty feet longer than the "Great Britain;" could, without
her "auxiliary screw," sail eighteen knots an hour; and was, in
matters of internal appointment, more like a West-end hotel than a
ship which had to brave the seas and storms of Cape Horn. Her
principal saloon was one hundred feet long, was fitted up with stained
glass, rich hangings, velvet couches, candelabra, bookcases, piano,
and all the other elegancies which have of late been made so much of
in the reporters' descriptions of the "Great Eastern." There were
about forty cabins at the sides of the saloons, beside some twenty or
thirty first-class berths on the deck immediately under. The
"intermediate" and "steerage" accommodation was very large--capable, I
should say, of receiving from four hundred and fifty to five hundred
passengers--while in the forecastle and "cock-pit" there were, when I
came from Australia, about one hundred men, consisting of officers,
pursers, midshipmen, crew, etc., etc. Along the main-deck there was a
row of shops--a wine-store, a grocery-store, a meat-store, and a
bakery, together with two or three kitchens. (I may add here that the
ship carried a score of stewards and cooks.) In the centre of the
vessel a large space was devoted to the engine and engineers'
apartments, and just on one side were the cow and sheep pens.
Altogether a noble craft--_so_ noble that I never looked at it without
thinking, "Great God! will this vessel ever be swallowed by the
waters!"
'Why was this Thought always uppermost as I walked about the ship? I
can scarcely tell. I used to think it arose from the gloomy influence
of the accident which occurred as we left Hobson's Bay; but then for
weeks after I arrived in England I seldom went to sleep without
dreaming I was perishing in a wreck, and that that wreck was the
"Royal Charter." There are those who will be inclined to smile at this
portion of my communication; but as I hope never to meet with such a
fate as that which has befallen those poor souls whose bodies now lie
rotting on the coast of Wales, I solemnly declare that, from the hour
I placed my foot on board the vessel until the moment when the news
reached me that she had gone to pieces, I had a presentiment some dire
calamity would overtake her. Some of those who were on board with me
will, doubtless, recognize the hand that pens this memoir.
Henceforward, the most stolidly sceptical of these must admit that
_feeling_ is sometimes higher than _reason_, and that there are more
things under heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our material
philosophy. I should not waste space to chronicle these
presentiments--which the majority of readers will, I am aware, regard,
and perhaps naturally so, as idle--had they not arisen with me in a
manner so utterly unaccountable, and been fulfilled in a manner so
utterly disastrous.
'And at this point, as bearing somewhat upon these forebodings, I may
as well state that, from first to last--from her birth to her death,
as it were--the "Royal Charter" was, except in the all but uniform
swiftness of her voyages, an unfortunate vessel. _Imprimis_, she was
originally built as a sister boat to the unfortunate "John Tayleur."
It will be in the recollection of the reader that, some years ago,
this "John Tayleur" was wrecked not very far distant from the spot
where the "Charter" went ashore, and with about as many passengers as
the "Charter" had on board. There was a great deal written and said at
the time about the negligence of the captain, but on inquiry he urged
that the wreck had been occasioned through a deviation--the ship was
of iron--in the compasses. This explanation was accepted; but it had
so much weight with the owners of the "Tayleur" that they at once sold
the iron hull of the sister ship they were engaged in building,
determining never to have anything more to do with other than wooden
vessels. This hull was bought by Messrs. Gibb and Brights, and, as it
was originally intended merely for a second-class ship of a thousand
or eleven hundred tons, it was, I was told, _lengthened amidships_ by
the new owners until it was thirty feet longer than the "Great
Britain," or nearly one-half the length of the "Great Eastern." It is
unnecessary to add that while this extension of the craft from stem to
stern was going on, her beam could never be increased. She was, in
fact, more like a long iron arrow than a ship. Her extreme length,
coupled with her extraordinary narrowness, rendered her a splendid
sailer; but it is a grave question with me whether her peculiarity of
build may not have had something to do with the accident. In a heavy
sea she rolled tremendously, and _would only "wear" on one tack_. But
to continue my record of her calamitous career, the very first time
the sister ship of the unfortunate "Tayleur" went to sea (and, let us
note, a year had been spent in trying to launch her) she had to put in
at Plymouth owing to bad weather, and--I think--some slight injury to
her machinery. On arriving at Melbourne, an accident happened on
board, and several men were killed. On returning to Liverpool, she ran
foul of a vessel just leaving that port, took away her anchor in her
bows (fortunately above water-mark), and carried it with her into
dock. On the next passage out to Melbourne, the unfortunate ship, soon
after crossing the line, was found to be on fire, and it was with
great difficulty the conflagration was extinguished. It was on the
same run, too, that her rudder was first discovered to be faulty in
its working--that is, it shook the vessel to such an extent that
sleepers were sometimes thrown from their bunks at night. On her
return to England, the yard-arm fell, and--as I have already
mentioned--one man was killed, and several were injured. On this
passage it was that the ship found itself short of food; moreover, the
coal had run out long before we had reached the tropics. In
consequence of the last fact, the journey home occupied ninety-seven
days; and I was subsequently told great was the anxiety throughout the
country for the safety of the vessel. And, apart from the long
passage, there was special cause, although unsuspected on shore, for
this anxiety. For three days before we made Cork, we had been unable
to get a sight of the sun, and, consequently, no observations had been
taken. On the eve of the last day a stiffish gale was blowing, and a
thick fog floated on the water. At about midnight the gale increased,
and the captain, not knowing exactly where we were, ordered the ship
to be laid to. Next morning we found we were about twelve miles from
the coast. Another hour's run overnight, and we should all have been
landed in eternity.
'My narrative is now brought down to about eighteen months ago. I know
little of the "Royal Charter" since then. She made, it seems, her last
run out to Australia in fifty-nine days, and in a Melbourne paper I
received by the last mail, I saw it stated that "an able band of
musicians had been engaged to proceed with the vessel home!" Ah!
jollity enough was there on board, I doubt not, as the barque neared
port! Fifty-eight days from Melbourne to Cork! Splendid winds must she
have had all the way home; high must have been the spirits of captain,
crew, and passengers! Where is the merry company now? It is a sad, sad
story. Women must wring their hands, and strong men must weep, as they
read that after a haven had been actually reached--after some of the
passengers had even landed in Ireland, and set the telegraph in motion
to tell their friends in distant places that they were safe on British
soil--the ship should have been dashed to pieces by the merciless
sea-spume, and that of the five hundred souls on board, four hundred
and seventy should have perished!
'I could write more. I knew so many of the brave officers and crew
who have perished. I knew the bluff, honest, daring captain. But of
what avail is it to speak of them now? They have all gone. May they
rest in peace until that day when even the sea shall render up its
dead!'
That was written on Thursday afternoon. The evening papers of that day
contained nothing very new. On the Friday morning, however, there was
sufficient in the daily journals to show me that I had--without
presuming to expressly state--rightly indicated the cause of the
ship's destruction. _Not a life need have been lost if the "Charter"
had not broken her back._ What a strange light that sentence sheds
upon what I have written concerning the build of the ship--of her
scant beam and startling length.... Of the setting aside, in fact, of
the normal conditions of the Thing!
How the vessel came upon the coast is a question running parallel with
the foregoing, and the character of the captain, as set forth in that
newspaper communication of mine, comes in here with answer. That
answer, we all desire, should carry due amount of weight with other
commanders of ships with precious freight of human souls on board.
There are a few iron plates, rolled up like shrivelled parchment, on
the rocks of Molfre Bay. They are all that is left to us of the wreck
of the "Royal Charter," auxiliary screw, thousands of tons burthen,
fire-proof bullion-room, patent reefing topsails, and the rest. What
precious warning in those crumpled iron plates! Will sea-captains read
of them and still go steaming up channel on nights piteously dark with
fog and mist? Unhappily, experience says they will.
If shrivelled iron plates fail, as perhaps they may, to carry caution,
then let our sea-captains read deeply of the narratives of the saved,
which I must now, assuming my proper duty as compiler, proceed to set
forth. And at the onset, the bitterest narrative lies in the fact that
of near five hundred souls--passengers and crew--on board the vessel,
the following mournfully scant catalogue contains the name of every
survivor[A]:--
_Saloon Passengers._
W. H. Morse.
F. Grundy.
H. C. Taylor.
_Saloon Passengers landed at Queenstown._
Mr. Gardner.
Mr. M'Evoy.
Mrs. Nahmur and child.
_Third-Class Passengers (including those landed at Queenstown)._
C. M'Phiel.
John Judge.
W. J. Ferris.
James M'Clappon.
W. Russell.
J. Bradbury.
Samuel Granfell.
Carl Bertal.
N. Hegan.
John Loome.
S. E. Gapper.
W. Bowden.
_Crew._
William Foster.
John O'Brien.
Thomas Griffiths.
William M'Arthur.
George Irisher.
George Suaicar.
E. Wilson.
Thomas Tims.
Henry Evans.
John Richards.
James Rogers.
David Stroman.
William Hughes.
Thomas Ellis.
George M'Givrin.
Owen Williams.
William Draper.
Thomas Cormick.
John Stannard.
[A] A list of the riggers who were saved will be found at p. 32.
We are anxiously awaiting the next mail, in order to learn the names
of those who are lost. At present the lists that have been published
are limited, contradictory, and hypothetical. Each survivor has
supplied the newspaper reporters with the names of just as many of his
lost fellow-passengers as he could remember. You in the colony,
however, will be able, with your files of papers, to complete this
section of the story of the Lost Ship.[B]
[B] The following is from the _Times_ of November 1st. It is
only a sample of a class of advertisements that are daily
appearing in the papers:--
TO the SURVIVING PASSENGERS of the ROYAL CHARTER.--Could any
one inform the under-mentioned whether among the saloon
passengers of that ill-fated vessel there was one named
HENRY LAFARGUE, age 26? They would greatly relieve the
anxious minds of that gentleman's relatives. There appeared
in the Times of Thursday, in the list of the lost, the name
of La Fargur; in Friday's, M. La Forgue; and in Saturday's,
La Fargol, which might all have been intended for Lafargue.
Address, Miss Lafargue, No. 2 Clarges-street, Piccadilly, W.
The narrative which is at once the completest and most touching is
that of Mr. Russell, which takes the following historical form:--
'On entering the saloon, Mr. Allen, the head steward of the second
cabin, came and told the passengers they had better not go on deck,
as it might cause confusion. The order was implicitly obeyed. Time
passed anxiously and wearily: the storm still raged. Suddenly the
vessel struck, not violently--not even with sufficient force to
throw the passengers off their seats. Water then came pouring down
into the cabin. A voice shouted for the second-class passengers to
go into the lower saloon, as the mainmast was going to be cut away.
The passengers nearest to the entrance doors attempted to open them
(they were hinged in the ceiling), and finding some difficulty, they
were immediately smashed. Still there was no hurrying or crushing;
all silently took their seats. On deck, sailors and officers,
stripped to the waist, laboured to cut away the mainmast. The vessel
rolled and thumped so heavily that in delivering their blows, the
men were many times thrown on to the deck, but the motion of the
vessel assisted the work; the waves, too, lent their aid, and soon
the mast tottered, then fell with a crash overboard. Immediately
afterwards the raging sea threw the vessel still higher up upon the
rocks. The foremast was then cut away, and almost at the same time
the mizenmast broke off at the mizenmast-head. Boats were lowered,
but the moment they touched the waves they were carried with
irresistible force against the rocks, and their inmates were either
crushed or drowned in the sea. No boat could live in such a storm.
There appeared scarcely any need of boats, so close upon the shore
was the vessel. Having struck, the vessel slewed round port side to
the rocks. When in the lower saloon, about this time, an apprentice
boy, Charley, entered, telling the passengers from the captain that
they were to keep up their hearts, all was well, they were only on
a sand-bank. The passengers still remained quietly in the cabin. Mr.
Cowie, the second mate, accompanied by the purser and two men, came
down; they were stripped, having on only their shirt and trousers.
They passed through the saloon to the powder-magazine--as they went
bidding the passengers keep up their hearts, as they were not far
from the shore. The water entered the saloon at the same time, and
the waves striking more heavily, the vessel thumped harder. Those in
the lower saloon then passed into the upper one. There they found
assembled some of the first and third class passengers. No words
were spoken, hope and fear struggled for the mastery in their
countenances; by this alone was it seen that life and death were in
the balances. The stillness of the assembly was at length broken: a
young lady, about twenty, Miss Murray, who was on board with her
father, mother, and brother, fainted, and was immediately carried to
her cabin, from whence she never emerged. Daylight now began to
dawn. They had been tossing on the sea and labouring on the rocks
all night. Shortly after daylight, a third-class passenger came
down; he had on only his trousers, and had been in the bows of the
vessel for several hours. He said the forepart of the vessel and the
bows touched the land--every one could wade ashore. All hopes of
saving the vessel having disappeared, and the boats having been
rendered unserviceable, the captain ordered a hawser to be got
ready. A seaman, named Joseph Rogers, volunteered to swim ashore
with it. The line was made fast to his body, and the noble fellow
gallantly dropped overboard and breasted the waves with the
resolution of a sailor. For a time he was lost to sight, as wave
after wave dashed over the vessel and broke upon the rocks; then the
line tightened, and the man was seen clambering up the rocks.
'The villagers (brought by the signal-lights) crowded round, the
hawser was hauled ashore and made fast to a rock, a boatswain's
chair was slung on to the rope, and a number of sailors ordered
ashore to work it. Every order was obeyed without confusion. Amongst
others landed were two brave fellows--George Suaicar, Malta,
boatswain's mate, and William Foster, Liverpool, carpenter. Word was
passed down to the saloons that the ladies were to come on deck.
There was a movement immediately towards the staircase. At the same
time the ship's sides began to creak: then there were two heavy
thumps experienced; and the ship broke in two across the main hatch.
A great number of passengers were standing amidships, and when the
vessel parted they disappeared for ever. At the same time a boat
abaft the fore rigging fell. The chief officer, Mr. Stevens, and the
chief engineer, Mr. Rogers, were standing under it, and both were
killed. A second line was attempted to be carried on shore from the
poop, but failed. Mr. Russell, his wife, and children, on gaining
the deck found that they were on the stern part of the vessel,
separated from the fore part by a yawning chasm, into which every
moment human beings were dropping, or being driven by the waves. It
was a moment of the intensest anguish. As each clung to the rail at
the top of the stairs, a hurried farewell was spoken; then they
awaited death calmly. Mr. Russell had several times essayed to get a
rope. So close were they to the shore, he imagined he might fasten
the rope around his family, cast the rope ashore and save them. In
vain were his efforts. They were still clinging to each other, when
a huge wave came and separated them. When the wave had passed, Mr.
Russell's eldest girl was missing; and when she was found, a box had
been washed on to her leg. Mr. Russell moved the box and liberated
her. Again for a few minutes they were united. Another wave
came--they lost hold of the rail; Mrs. Russell and the two girls
were washed against the side of the vessel, Mr. Russell overboard.
As the water returned, Mr. Russell sprang at a piece of iron which
hung from the side, seized it, then caught a rope; in another moment
he was on deck. His youngest daughter was nearest him; he attempted
to lay hold of her, had his hands just on her, when another wave
came, broke over the ship, poured down with irresistible force, and
washed him overboard again. For a time he was struggling in the
waves convulsively; he clutched at something which he felt against
his body; it was only a piece of canvas; another moment and he felt
seaweed under his feet. A wave came, he was almost insensible, yet
he saw a man standing before him. Was it a dream, or a reality? He
stretched out his hand, he grasped another hand--yet another wave
came, and the hand unloosed--he was borne back again--a mightier
wave broke, and the hand was again grasped--it held him--he was
saved. In a moment or two he recovered his senses, he was lying on a
rock; he turned his eyes seaward, there was no living creature left
on the stern of the vessel. He then became insensible again, and was
borne by the villagers to the hospitable cottage of Mr. and Mrs.
Lewis, in the neighbourhood.
'There were one or two scenes before Mr. Russell was finally washed
off the wreck, which imprinted themselves on his memory; words
uttered which no time can ever obliterate. They were the last
glimpses caught of fellow-voyagers; the dying expressions of old
companions. Mr. Henderson, a merchant of Melbourne, on his way to
London, was holding on to the binnacle with a gentleman named
Watson, one of the firm of Watson, Passmore, and Co., of Melbourne,
and he exclaimed, "Oh! Watson, all is gone." A Jewess, named Markes,
was jammed in near a place where the vegetables were kept: and her
husband, in vainly endeavouring to release her, tore all her clothes
to rags. They had two children on board, and came from Ballarat. A
gentleman named Welsh, while in the lower saloon, tied two black
canvas bags full of gold around his neck. He was lost. Several other
passengers fastened money about their persons; all were lost. Mr.
Taylor, one of the saved, had 35_l._ in his pockets when he jumped
into the sea: on reaching shore he had 10_l._ remaining. Mr. Gapper,
another saved, lost about 50_l._ out of his pockets while he was
being carried ashore by the waves. A gentleman named Bradbury, who
was on his way to Manchester, dislocated his right ankle on board,
and in endeavouring to free himself broke his leg. He afterwards
lowered himself overboard into the sea, exchanged one piece of wood
for another, shared it with a gentleman named Lewis, who was not
hurt at all, was dashed against the rocks several times, was saved,
and his companion was lost.'