provisions, etc. With the spy-glass we watched her returning, beating
against the head wind. The day was bright, but there had been a storm
at sea, and the breakers rolled and roared about us. The process of
“beating” is so tedious that, though the boat had started in the
morning, the sun was sending long yellow light from the west before it
reached the island. There was no cessation in those resistless billows
that rolled from the Devil’s Rock upon the slip; but still the little
craft sailed on, striving to reach the landing. The hand at the tiller
was firm, but a huge wave swept suddenly in, swerving the boat to the
left of the slip, and in a moment she was overturned and flung upon
the rocks, and her only occupant tossed high upon the beach, safe
except for a few bruises; but what a moment of terror it was for us
all, who saw and could not save! All the freight was lost except a roll
of iron wire and a barrel of walnuts. These were spread on the floor
of an unoccupied eastern chamber in the cottage to dry. And they did
dry; but before they were gathered up came a terrible storm from the
southeast. It raved and tore at lighthouse and cottage; the sea broke
into the windows of that eastern chamber where the walnuts lay, and
washed them out till they came dancing down the stairs in briny foam!
The sea broke the windows of the house several times during our stay
at the lighthouse. Everything shook so violently from the concussion
of the breakers, that dishes on the closet shelves fell to the floor,
and one member of the family was at first always made sea-sick in
storms, by the tremor and deafening confusion. One night when, from
the southeast, the very soul of chaos seemed to have been let loose
upon the world, the whole ponderous “walk” (the covered bridge that
connected the house and lighthouse) was carried thundering down the
gorge and dragged out into the raging sea.
It was a distressing situation for us,--cut off from the precious light
that must be kept alive; for the breakers were tearing through the
gorge so that no living thing could climb across. But the tide could
not resist the mighty impulse that drew it down; it was forced to obey
the still voice that bade it ebb; all swollen and raging and towering
as it was, slowly and surely, at the appointed time, it sank away from
our rock, so that, between the billows that still strove to clutch
at the white, silent, golden-crowned tower, one could creep across,
and scale the height, and wind up the machinery that kept the great
clustered light revolving till the gray daylight broke to extinguish it.
I often wondered how it was possible for the sea-birds to live through
such storms as these. But, when one could see at all, the gulls were
always soaring, in the wildest tumult, and the stormy petrels half
flying, half swimming in the hollows of the waves.
Would it were possible to describe the beauty of the calm that followed
such tempests! The long lines of silver foam that streaked the tranquil
blue, the “tender-curving lines of creamy spray” along the shore,
the clear-washed sky, the peaceful yellow light, the mellow breakers
murmuring slumberously!
Of all the storms our childish eyes watched with delighted awe, one
thunder-storm remains fixed in my memory. Late in an August afternoon
it rolled its awful clouds to the zenith, and, after the tumult had
subsided, spread its lightened vapors in an under-roof of gray over
all the sky. Presently this solemn gray lid was lifted at its western
edge, and an insufferable splendor streamed across the world from
the sinking sun. The whole heaven was in a blaze of scarlet, across
which sprang a rainbow unbroken to the topmost clouds, “with its seven
perfect colors chorded in a triumph” against the flaming background;
the sea answered the sky’s rich blush, and the gray rocks lay drowned
in melancholy purple. I hid my face from the glory,--it was too much to
bear. Ever I longed to _speak_ these things that made life so sweet,
to speak the wind, the cloud, the bird’s flight, the sea’s murmur. A
vain longing! I might as well have sighed for the mighty pencil of
Michael Angelo to wield in my impotent child’s hand. Better to “hush
and bless one’s self with silence”; but ever the wish grew. Facing the
July sunsets, deep red and golden through and through, or watching the
summer northern lights,--battalions of brilliant streamers advancing
and retreating, shooting upward to the zenith, and glowing like fiery
veils before the stars; or when the fog-bow spanned the silver mist of
morning, or the earth and sea lay shimmering in a golden haze of noon;
in storm or calm, by day or night, the manifold aspects of Nature held
me and swayed all my thoughts until it was impossible to be silent any
longer, and I was fain to mingle my voice with her myriad voices, only
aspiring to be in accord with the Infinite harmony, however feeble and
broken the notes might be.
* * * * *
It has been my good fortune to witness but few wrecks at the Shoals.
The disasters of which we hear faintly from the past were many and
dreadful; but since the building of the lighthouse on White Island,
and also on Boone Island (which seems like a neighbor, though fifteen
miles distant), the danger of the place is much lessened. A resident
of Star Island told me of a wreck which took place forty-seven years
ago, during a heavy storm from the eastward. It blew so that all the
doors in the house opened as fast as they shut them, and in the night
a vessel drove against “Hog Island Head,” which fronts the village
on Star. She went to pieces utterly. In the morning the islanders
perceived the beach at Londoners heaped with some kind of drift; they
could not make out what it was, but, as soon as the sea subsided, went
to examine and found a mass of oranges and picture-frames, with which
the vessel had been freighted. Not a soul was saved. “She struck with
such force that she drove a large spike out of her forefoot” into a
crevice in the rock, which was plainly to be seen till a few years
ago. My informant also told me that she remembered the wreck of the
Sagunto, in 1813; that the beaches were strewn with “almond-nuts”
long after; and that she picked up curiously embroidered vests and
“work-bags” in all directions along the shores.
During a storm in 1839, while living at White Island, we were startled
by the heavy booming of guns through the roar of the tempest,--a sound
that drew nearer and nearer, till at last, through a sudden break in
the mist and spray, we saw the heavily rolling hull of a large vessel
driving by, to her sure destruction, toward the coast. It was as if the
wind had torn the vapor apart on purpose to show us this piteous sight;
and I well remember the hand on my shoulder which held me firmly,
shuddering child that I was, and forced me to look in spite of myself.
What a day of pain it was! how dreadful the sound of those signal-guns,
and how much more dreadful the certainty, when they ceased, that
all was over! We learned afterward that it was the brig Pocahontas,
homeward bound from Spain, and that the vessel and all her crew were
lost. In later years a few coasters and fishermen have gone ashore at
the islands, generally upon the hidden ledges at Duck. Many of these
have been loaded with lime,--a most perilous freight; for as soon as
the water touches it there is a double danger; and between fire and
water there is little chance of escape.
I wish I could recall the graphic language of a Star Islander who
described to me a wreck of this kind. The islanders saw at sunrise, one
bitter winter day, a schooner ashore among the dreadful ledges at Duck
Island, and, though the wind blew half a gale, they took their boats
and ran down toward her before the northwester. Smoke and steam and
spray and flame were rising from her and about her when they reached
the spot. Only one man was found alive. From the davits, hanging head
downward, was the lifeless body of a fair-haired boy of sixteen or
thereabouts. The breakers swept him to and fro, and, drawing away,
left his long yellow hair dripping with the freezing brine. The mate’s
story was that he had gone to unfasten the boat which hung at the
stern, that a sea had struck him, and he had fallen headforemost with
his feet entangled in the ropes of the davits. He was the only son of
his mother, who was a widow. They carried his body home to that most
unhappy mother. The vessel was a total loss, with all on board, except
the mate.
One winter night at Appledore when it was blowing very hard northwest,
with a clear sky, we were wakened by a violent knocking at the door.
So unaccustomed a sound, at that time of night too, was enough to
startle us all, and very much amazed we were. The door was opened to
admit four or five shipwrecked men, whose hands, feet, and ears were
all frozen stiff,--pitiable objects they were indeed. Their vessel had
struck full on York Ledge, a rock lying off the coast of Maine far east
of us, and they had taken to the boat and strove to make a landing on
the coast; but the wind blew off shore so fiercely they failed in their
attempt, their hands became useless from the cold, they dropped their
oars, and, half steering with one of the seats of the boat, managed
to reach Appledore, more dead than alive. They were obliged to remain
there several days before finding an opportunity of going on shore, the
gale was so furious. Next morning, in the glare of the winter sunshine,
we saw their vessel, still with all sail set, standing upright upon
the ledge,--a white column looming far away. One of the most hideous
experiences I have heard befell a young Norwegian now living at the
Shoals. He and a young companion came out from Portsmouth to set their
trawl, in the winter fishing, two years ago. Before they reached the
island, came a sudden squall of wind and snow, chilling and blinding.
In a few moments they knew not where they were, and the wind continued
to sweep them away. Presently they found themselves under the lee of
White Island Head; they threw out the road-lines of their trawl, in
desperate hope that they might hold the boat till the squall abated.
The keepers at the lighthouse saw the poor fellows, but were powerless
to help them. Alas! the road-lines soon broke, and the little boat was
swept off again, they knew not whither. Night came down upon them,
tossed on that terrible black sea; the snow ceased, the clouds flew
before the deadly cold northwest wind, the thermometer sank below zero.
One of the men died before morning; the other, alone with the dead man,
was still driven on and on before the pitiless gale. He had no cap nor
mittens; had lost both. He bailed the boat incessantly, for the sea
broke over him the livelong time. He told me the story himself. He
looked down at the awful face of his dead friend and thought “how soon
he should be like him”; but still he never ceased bailing,--it was all
he could do. Before night he passed Cape Cod and knew it as he rushed
by. Another unspeakably awful night, and the gale abated no whit. Next
morning he was almost gone from cold, fatigue, and hunger. His eyes
were so swollen he could hardly see; but afar off, shining whiter than
silver in the sun, the sails of a large schooner appeared at the edge
of the fearful wilderness. He managed to hoist a bit of old canvas on
an oar. He was then not far from Holmes’ Hole, nearly two hundred miles
from the Shoals! The schooner saw it and bore down for him, but the
sea was running so high that he expected to be swamped every instant.
As she swept past, they threw from the deck a rope with a loop at the
end, tied with a bow-line knot that would not slip. It caught him over
the head, and clutching it at his throat with both hands, in an instant
he found himself in the sea among the ice-cold, furious waves, drawn
toward the vessel with all the strength of her crew. Just before he
emerged, he heard the captain shout, “We’ve lost him!” Ah the bitter
moment! For a horrible fear struck through him that they might lose
their hold an instant on the rope, and then he knew it would be all
over. But they saved him. The boat with the dead man in it, all alone,
went tossing, heaven knows where.
The great equinoctial gale of September 8, 1869, was very severe at the
islands. One schooner went ashore on Cannon Point at Appledore, and
was a complete wreck, though no lives were lost. She was lying in “The
Roads,” between Star and Appledore, safely moored, her crew supposed;
but she dragged moorings, anchors, everything with which they strove
to save her, and crashed on the rocks, breaking up like an eggshell.
Various buildings were blown down; windows at Appledore were blown in,
in some cases sash and all, in others the glass was smashed as if the
wind had thrust an arm through.
At about seven o’clock in the evening a great copper-colored arch
spanned the black sky from west to east. The gale was then at its
height. After that lurid bow dissolved, flying northward in wild,
scattered fragments, the wind abated, and we began to take breath
again. A man at Star, on the edge of the storm, rowed out in his dory
to make more secure a larger boat moored at a little distance. Down
came the hurricane and caught him, and whirled him away like a dead
leaf on the surface of the sea. He gave himself up for lost, of course;
so did his friends. But he fastened himself with ropes to the inside of
the boat, and, tossing from billow to billow, bailed for dear life the
whole night long. Toward morning, the wind lulling very considerably,
he was carried along the coast of Maine, and landed in York, a short
distance from his father’s home, and quietly walked into the house and
joined the family at breakfast; then took the cars for Portsmouth, and
astounded the whole Shoals settlement by appearing in the steamer
Appledore in time for dinner. Everybody supposed him, without a shadow
of doubt, to be at the bottom of the sea.
Boone Island is the forlornest place that can be imagined. The Isles of
Shoals, barren as they are, seem like Gardens of Eden in comparison. I
chanced to hear last summer of a person who had been born and brought
up there; he described the loneliness as something absolutely fearful,
and declared it had pursued him all through his life. He lived there
till fourteen or fifteen years old, when his family moved to York.
While living on the island he discovered some human remains which
had lain there thirty years. A carpenter and his assistants, having
finished some building, were capsized in getting off, and all were
drowned, except the master. One body floated to Plum Island at the
mouth of the Merrimack; the others the master secured, made a box for
them,--all alone the while,--and buried them in a cleft and covered
them with stones. These stones the sea washed away, and, thirty years
after they were buried, the boy found the bones, which were removed
to York and there buried again. It was on board a steamer bound to
Bangor, that the man told his story. Boone Island Light was shining
in the distance. He spoke with bitterness of his life in that terrible
solitude, and of “the loneliness which had pursued him ever since.”
All his relatives were dead, he said, and he had no human tie in the
wide world except his wife. He ended by anathematizing all islands,
and, vanishing into the darkness, was not to be found again; nor did
his name or any trace of him transpire, though he was sought for in the
morning all about the vessel.
One of the most shocking stories of shipwreck I remember to have heard
is that of the Nottingham Galley, wrecked on this island in the year
1710. There is a narrative of this shipwreck existing, written by
“John Deane, then commander of said Galley, but for many years after
his Majesty’s consul for the ports of Flanders, residing at Ostend,”
printed in 1762. The ship, of one hundred and twenty tons, carrying
ten guns, with a crew of fourteen men, loaded partly in England and
partly in Ireland, and sailed for Boston on the 25th of September,
1710. She made land on the 11th of December, and was wrecked on that
fatal rock. At first the unhappy crew “treated each other with kindness
and condolence, and prayed to God for relief.” The only things saved
from the wreck were a bit of canvas and half a cheese. The men made
a triangular tent of the bit of canvas, and all lay close together
beneath it, sideways; none could turn without the general concurrence:
they turned once in two hours upon public notice. They had no fire,
and lived upon kelp and rockweed, and mussels, three a day to a man.
Starvation and suffering soon produced a curious loss of memory. The
fourth day the cook died. When they had been there upwards of a week,
they saw three sails in the southwest, but no boat came near them.
They built a rude boat of such materials as they could gather from
the wreck, but she was lost in launching. One of the men, a Swede, is
particularly mentioned; he seems to have been full of energy; with
help from the others he built a raft; in launching this they overset
it. Again they saw a sail, this time coming out from the Piscataqua
River; it was soon out of sight. The Swede was determined to make
an effort to reach the shore, and persuaded another man to make the
attempt with him. At sunset they were seen half-way to the land; the
raft was found on shore with the body of one man; the Swede was never
seen more. A hide was thrown on the rocks at Boone Island by the sea;
this the poor sailors ate raw, minced. About the end of December the
carpenter died, and, driven to madness by hunger, they devoured the
flesh of their dead comrade. The captain, being the strongest of the
party, dragged the body away and hid it, and dealt small portions of it
daily to the men. Immediately their dispositions underwent a horrible
change. They became fierce and reckless, and were the most pitiable
objects of despair, when, on January 4th, 1711, they were discovered
and taken off. It was evening when they entered the Piscataqua River,
and eight o’clock when they landed. Discovering a house through the
darkness, the master rushed into it, frightening the gentlewoman and
children desperately, and, making his way to the kitchen, snatched
the pot wherein some food was cooking off the fire, and began to eat
voraciously. This old record mentions John Plaisted and John Wentworth
as being most “forward in benevolence” to these poor fellows.
When visiting the island for the first time, a few years ago, I was
shown the shallow gorge where the unfortunates tried to shelter
themselves. It was the serenest of summer days; everything smiled and
shone as I stood looking down into that rocky hollow. Near by the
lighthouse sprang--a splendid piece of masonry--over a hundred feet
into the air, to hold its warning aloft. About its base some gentle
thought had caused morning-glories to climb and unfold their violet,
white, and rosy bells against the smooth, dark stone. I thought I had
never seen flowers so beautiful. There was hardly a handful of grass
on the island, hardly soil enough to hold a root; therefore it seemed
the more wonderful to behold this lovely apparition. With my mind full
of the story of the Nottingham Galley, I looked at the delicate bells,
the cool green leaves, the whole airy grace of the wandering vines, and
it was as if a hand were stretched out to pluck me away from the awful
questions never to be answered this side the grave, that pressed so
heavily while I thought how poor humanity had here suffered the utmost
misery that it is possible to endure.
The aspect of this island from the Shoals is very striking, so lonely
it lies on the eastern horizon, its tall lighthouse like a slender
column against the sky. It is easily mistaken for the smokestack of a
steamer by unaccustomed eyes, and sometimes the watcher most familiar
with its appearance can hardly distinguish it from the distant white
sails that steal by it, to and fro. Sometimes it looms colossal in the
mirage of summer; in winter it lies blurred and ghostly at the edge of
chilly sea and pallid sky. In the sad, strange light of winter sunsets,
its faithful star blazes suddenly from the darkening east, and sends a
friendly ray across to its neighbor at the Shoals, waiting as it also
waits, ice-bound, storm-swept, and solitary, for gentler days to come.
And “winter’s rains and ruins” have an end at last.
In the latter part of February, after ten days perhaps of the
northwester, bringing across to the islands all the chill of the
snow-covered hills of the continent, some happy evening it dies into
a reasonable breeze, and, while the sun sets, you climb the snowy
height, and sweep with your eyes the whole circle of the horizon, with
nothing to impede the view. Ah! how sad it looks in the dying light!
Star Island close by with its silent little village and the sails of
belated fishing-boats hurrying in over the dark water to the moorings;
White Island afar off “kindling its great red star”; on every side the
long, bleached points of granite stretching out into the sea, so cold
and bleak; the line of coast, sad purple; and the few schooners leaden
and gray in the distance. Yet there is a hopeful glow where the sun
went down, suggestive of the spring; and before the ruddy sweetness
of the western sky the melancholy east is flushed with violet, and up
into the delicious color rolls a gradual moon, mellow and golden as in
harvest-time, while high above her the great star Jupiter begins to
glitter clear. On such an evening some subtle influence of the coming
spring steals to the heart, and eyes that have watched the winter skies
so patiently grow wistful with the thought of summer days to come.
On shore in these last weeks of winter one becomes aware, by various
delicate tokens, of the beautiful change at hand,--by the deepening
of the golden willow wands into a more living color, and by their
silvery buds, which in favored spots burst the brown sheaths; by the
reddening of bare maple-trees, as if with promise of future crimson
flowers; by the sweet cry of the returning bluebird; by the alders at
the river’s edge. If the season is mild, the catkins begin to unwind
their tawny tresses in the first weeks of March. But here are no trees,
and no bluebirds come till April. Perhaps some day the delightful
clangor of the wild geese is heard, and looking upward, lo! the long,
floating ribbon streaming northward across the sky. What joy they bring
to hearts so weary with waiting! Truly a wondrous content is shaken
down with their wild clamors out of the cloudy heights, and a courage
and vigor lurk in these strong voices that touch the listener with
something better than gladness, while he traces eagerly the wavering
lines that seek the north with steady, measured flight.