The Drake, a small schooner, under the command of Captain Charles
Baker, had been despatched by the commander-in-chief on the
Newfoundland station, upon special duty to Halifax.
Having accomplished the object of her mission there, she set sail
again to return to St. John's, on the morning of Thursday, the 20th of
June, 1822. The weather was unusually fine, the wind favourable, and
everything promised a short and prosperous voyage.
Nothing occurred to retard the progress of the vessel until Sunday
morning, when the increasing thickness of the atmosphere betokened the
approach of one of those heavy fogs which so frequently hover over the
coast of Newfoundland.
There are few things more perplexing to the mariner than to find
himself suddenly enveloped in one of these thick mists: it is
impenetrable gloom; night and day are both alike; the sails, saturated
with the watery vapour, hang heavily, and flap against the masts with
a sad foreboding sound, whilst every heart on board feels more or less
oppressed by the atmospheric influence, and every countenance
expresses languor or discontent. But these discomforts are minor evils
compared with other attendants upon a Newfoundland fog. It often
happens that, in spite of every precaution on the part of the men on
the look-out, the bows of the vessel run across some unfortunate
fishing boat; and before a single voice can be raised in warning, a
sudden shock, a smothered cry, a gurgling of the waves, tell the sad
tale! One moment, and all is silent; the ship pursues her course, and
no trace is left of the little vessel and her crew, for whom many days
and nights will anxious love keep watch; but those objects of a
mother's tenderness and of a wife's affection will never more gladden
the eyes of the watchers, till 'the sea shall give up her dead.'
Would that such calamities were of less frequent occurrence. There is
one curious characteristic of these fogs, which in some degree
mitigates the evil of them: they sometimes do not extend beyond a few
miles, having the appearance of a huge wall of dense cloud or mist. A
vessel, after beating about for hours, will suddenly emerge from
almost total darkness, the clouds break away, and all hearts are
gladdened by finding themselves once more beneath the rays of the
glorious sun.
Captain Basil Hall gives an amusing instance of such an occurrence.
The Cambrian 'had run in from sea towards the coast, enveloped in one
of these dense fogs. Of course they took it for granted that the
light-house and the adjacent land--Halifax included--were likewise
covered with an impenetrable cloud of mist; but it so chanced, by what
freak of Dame Nature I know not, that the fog on that day was confined
to the deep water, so that we who were in the port could see it at the
distance of several miles from the coast, lying on the ocean like a
huge stratum of snow, with an abrupt face fronting the shore.
'The Cambrian, lost in the midst of this fog-bank, supposing herself
to be near land, fired a gun. To this the light-house replied; and so
the ship and the light-house went on pelting away gun for gun during
half the day, without seeing one another.
'The people at the light-house had no means of communicating to the
frigate, that if she would only stand on a little further, she would
disentangle herself from the cloud, in which, like Jupiter Olympus of
old, she was wasting her thunder. At last, the captain, hopeless of
its clearing up, gave orders to pipe to dinner; but as the weather, in
all respects except this abominable haze, was quite fine, and the ship
was still in deep water, he directed her to be steered towards the
shore, and the lead kept constantly going. As one o'clock approached,
he began to feel uneasy, from the water shoaling, and the light-house
guns sounding closer and closer; but being unwilling to disturb the
men at their dinner, he resolved to stand on for the remaining ten
minutes of the hour. Lo and behold! however, they had not sailed half
a mile further before the flying gib-boom end emerged from the wall of
mist, then the bowsprit shot into daylight, and lastly, the ship
herself glided out of the cloud into the full blaze of a bright and
'sunshine holiday.' All hands were instantly turned up to make sail:
and the men, as they flew on deck, could scarcely believe their senses
when they saw behind them the fog-bank--right ahead the harbour's
mouth, with the bold cliffs of Cape Sambro on the left--and further
still, the ships at their moorings, with their ensigns and pendants
blowing out light and dry in the breeze.'
But to return to our sad tale. Towards noon, the weather cleared up
for about a quarter of an hour, allowing just sufficient time to get a
good observation of the latitude, which, according to Captain Baker's
reckoning, made their position to be about ninety-one miles from Cape
Race, and fifty-one from Cape St. Mary's.
They continued to steer east till about six o'clock in the evening,
when the breeze rather freshening, and the ship having run sixty miles
since noon, she was hauled off to south-east.
The fog was then so dense that the men could not see more than twenty
yards beyond the ship, but as Captain Baker's orders were to use the
utmost dispatch, he determined to make the best of his way. Every
precaution was taken, by using the lead, and by keeping a vigilant
look-out from every part of the ship. In this manner they proceeded,
carefully feeling the way, until about half-past seven o'clock, when
the look-out man shouted, 'Breakers ahead! Hard a-starboard!' The ship
was instantly hauled to the wind, but not being able to clear the
danger on that tack, every effort was made to stay the vessel, but
from the heavy sea, and whilst in stays, her stern took the breakers,
and she immediately fell broadside on, the sea breaking completely
over her.
At the moment the ship struck, every man was on deck, and there was
such a universal feeling of confidence in the commander, that
notwithstanding their extreme peril, not the slightest confusion
ensued. Captain Baker's first order was to cut away the masts, so as
to lighten the vessel, and perhaps afford means of saving some of the
crew. The order was promptly executed, but unhappily without producing
the desired result, for in a few moments the ship bilged, and the
destruction of the whole crew appeared to be inevitable.
Captain Baker then ordered the cutter to be launched, but they had
scarcely got her over the gangway before she sank. It was a time of
terrible anxiety for both officers and men; for, from the denseness of
the fog, they could not form a conjecture as to their actual
position, whilst the crashing of the masts, the strain of the vessel
upon the rocks, and the roar of the waters, as they swept over the
decks, added to the horrors of the scene.
Captain Baker was as calm and self-possessed as if nothing unusual had
occurred, whilst the eyes of the men were fixed upon him, and they
were ready to obey every command with the same promptitude as when
performing the usual routine of ship's duty.
Fortunately a small rock was discerned through the mist, and as it
seemed to be at no great distance, it presented a means of escape from
the most pressing danger. Without a moment's hesitation, a man of the
name of Lennard sprang forward, and seizing a lead-line, jumped into
the sea; but the current setting directly against him to the
northward, his efforts were unavailing, and with difficulty he was
dragged on board again.
It might be supposed that Lennard's failure would have damped the
spirits of the men, and deterred them from a second attempt. But it
seems to have had a contrary effect, and to have stirred them up to
renewed exertion. A consultation was held as to the next steps to be
taken. The only hope that remained was in the gig, (the jolly-boat
having been washed away,) when Turner, the boatswain, as brave a
fellow as ever breathed, volunteered to make the attempt. He secured a
rope round his body, and was then lowered into the boat. The tackling
was let go, the men gave a cheer, and the boat, with its occupant, was
borne away by the current.
With intense anxiety the men on the wreck watched the progress of
Turner, who had been carried in the boat to within a few feet of the
rock; then the watchers saw it balanced upon the crest of a huge wave,
and the next moment it was dashed to pieces upon the rock; the
boatswain, however, retained his presence of mind; he kept hold of
the rope when dashed out of the boat, and succeeded in scrambling up
the cliff.
In the meantime, the waves were making heavy breaches over the ship;
the crew clung by the ropes on the forecastle; each succeeding wave
threatened them all with destruction; when a tremendous sea lifted her
quarter over the rock on which she had at first struck, and carried
her close to that on which the boatswain stood. The forecastle, which
up to this time had been the only sheltered part of the ship, was now
abandoned for the poop; and as Captain Baker saw no chance of saving
the vessel, he determined to remove the people from her if possible.
Calling around him his officers and men, he communicated to them his
intentions, and pointed out the best means of securing their safety.
He then ordered every man to make the best of his way from the wreck
to the rock. Now, for the first time, his orders were not promptly
obeyed; all the crew to a man refused to leave the wreck unless
Captain Baker would precede them. There was a simultaneous burst of
feeling that did honour alike to the commander and the men. To the
former, in that he had so gained the affection and respect of his
people; and to the latter, inasmuch as they knew how to appreciate
such an officer.
Never was good discipline displayed in a more conspicuous manner. No
argument or entreaty could prevail on Captain Baker to change his
resolution. He again directed the men to quit the vessel, calmly
observing that his life was the least, and last consideration. The
men, upon hearing this reiterated command, stepped severally from the
poop to the rock with as much order as if they had been leaving a ship
under ordinary circumstances. Unhappily, a few of them perished in the
attempt; amongst these was Lieutenant Stanley, who, being benumbed
with cold, was unable to get a firm footing, and was swept away by
the current, his companions, with every inclination, had not the power
to save him; he struggled for a few moments--was dashed with
irresistible force against the rocks, and the receding wave engulfed
its victim.
When he had seen every man clear of the wreck, and not till then, did
Captain Baker join his crew.
As soon as they had time to look about them, the ship's company
perceived that they were on an isolated rock, separated from the
mainland by a few fathoms. The rock rose some feet above the sea, but
to their horror they perceived that it would be covered at high-water.
It seemed as if they were rescued from one fearful catastrophe, only
to perish by a more cruel and protracted fate. They watched the waters
rise inch by inch around them, appalled by the feeling that those
waters must sooner or later close over them for ever, and that nothing
could save them except the outstretched arm of Him who could bid the
waves be stayed, and say to the stormy winds, be still. Every man is
more or less courageous under circumstances of danger, when it is
attended by excitement,--such as that of the battlefield. There is a
courage which springs from companionship in danger, and a courage
derived from the fear of shame; but the test of true valour is a scene
like that we have described. _There_ was no room for a display of the
adventitious bravery which often becomes in reality the thing it
strives to appear. No man _there_ could reproach his neighbour if his
cheek should blanch and his lip quiver; all are alike appalled, but
the well-regulated mind rises superior to the rest. Such was the case
with Captain Baker. Although he could not conceal from himself that
their condition was almost hopeless, he continued with his voice to
encourage the timid, and by his arm to support the weak.
By degrees the fog had partially dispersed, and as the dawn began to
break, a dreary prospect was displayed. The haggard countenances and
lacerated limbs of the men told the sufferings they had endured,
whilst the breakers, which they had only heard before, became
distinctly visible. Still the devoted crew, following the example of
their commander, uttered no complaint. They were ready to meet death,
yet they felt it hard to die without a struggle. The tide was rising
rapidly, and if anything was to be done, it must be done instantly.
The boatswain, who had never lost hold of the rope, determined at all
hazards to make another effort to save his comrades, or to perish in
the attempt.
Having caused one end of the rope to be made fast round his body, and
committing himself to the protection of the Almighty, he plunged into
the sea, and struck out in the direction of the opposite shore.
It was an awful moment to those who were left behind; and in
breathless suspense they waited the result of the daring attempt. All
depended upon the strength of his arm. At one moment he was seen
rising on the crest of the wave, at the next he disappeared in the
trough of the sea; but in spite of the raging surf, and of every other
obstacle, he reached the shore, and an inspiring cheer announced his
safety to his comrades.
As soon as he had recovered his breath and strength, he went to the
nearest point opposite the rock, and, watching his opportunity, he
cast one end of the line across to his companions. Fortunately it
reached the rock, and was gladly seized, but it proved to be only long
enough to allow of one man holding it on the shore, and another on the
rock, at arm's length. It may be imagined with what joy this slender
means of deliverance was welcomed by all. The tide had made rapid
advances; the waves, as if impatient for their prey, threw the white
surf aloft, and dashed over the rock.
Would that we could do justice to the noble courage and conduct
displayed by the crew of the Drake. Instead of rushing to the rope, as
many would have done under similar circumstances, not a man moved
until he was commanded to do so by Captain Baker. Had the slightest
hesitation appeared on the part of the commander, or any want of
presence of mind in the men, a tumultuous rush would have ensued, the
rope, held as it was with difficulty by the outstretched hand, would
inevitably have been lost in the struggle, and then all would have
perished.
But good order, good discipline, and good feeling triumphed over every
selfish fear and natural instinct of self-preservation, and to the
honour of British sailors be it recorded, that each individual man of
the crew, before he availed himself of the means of rescue, urged his
captain to provide for his own safety first, by leading the way. But
Captain Baker turned a deaf ear to every persuasion, and gave but one
answer to all--'I will never leave the rock until every soul is safe.'
In vain the men redoubled their entreaties that he would go; they were
of no avail; the intrepid officer was steadfast in his purpose. There
was no time for further discussion or delay. One by one the men
slipped from the rock upon the rope, and by this assistance forty-four
out of fifty succeeded in gaining the opposite shore. Unfortunately,
amongst the six who remained, one was a woman. This poor creature,
completely prostrate from the sufferings she had endured, lay
stretched upon the cold rock almost lifeless. To desert her was
impossible; to convey her to the shore seemed equally impossible. Each
moment of delay was fraught with destruction. A brave fellow, in the
generosity of despair, when his turn came to quit the rock, took the
woman in his arms, grasped the rope, and began the perilous transit.
Alas! he was not permitted to gain the desired shore. When he had made
about half the distance, the rope parted--not being strong enough to
sustain the additional weight and strain, it broke; the seaman and his
burden were seen but for an instant, and then swallowed up in the
foaming eddies. With them perished the last means of preservation that
remained for Captain Baker and those who were with him on the rock.
Their communication with the mainland was cut off; the water rose, and
the surf increased every moment; all hope was gone, and for them a few
minutes more must end 'life's long voyage.'
The men on shore tried every means in their power to save them. They
tied every handkerchief and available material together to replace the
lost rope, but their efforts were fruitless; they could not get length
enough to reach the rock. A party was despatched in search of help.
They found a farm-house; and while they were in search of a rope,
those who stayed to watch the fate of their loved and respected
commander and his three companions, saw wave after wave rise higher
and higher. At one moment the sufferers disappeared in the foam and
spray; the bravest shuddered, and closed his eyes on the scene. Again,
as spell-bound, he looked; the wave had receded--they still lived, and
rose above the waters. Again and again it was thus; but hope grew
fainter and fainter. We can scarcely bring our narrative to an end;
tears moisten our page; but the painful sequel must be told. The fatal
billow came at last which bore them from time into eternity--all was
over. When the party returned from their inland search, not a vestige
of the rock, or of those devoted men, was to be seen.
And is he dead, whose glorious mind
Lifts thine on high?
To live in hearts we leave behind,
Is not to die. CAMPBELL.
We feel how inadequate have been our efforts to depict the
self-devotion of Captain Baker, and the courage and constancy of his
crew. The following letter, addressed to Lieutenant Booth, formerly an
officer of the Drake, will go farther than any panegyric we can offer,
to display the right feeling of the ship's company, and their just
appreciation of their brave and faithful commander.
'SIR,--Your being an old officer of ours in a former ship, and
being our first lieutenant in H.M. ship Drake, leads us to beg
that you will have the goodness to represent to our Lords
Commissioners of the Admiralty the very high sense of gratitude
we, the surviving petty officers and crew of his Majesty's late
ship Drake, feel due to the memory of our late much lamented,
and most worthy commander, who, at the moment he saw death
staring him in the face on one side, and the certainty of escape
was pointed out to him on the other, most stanchly and
frequently refused to attempt procuring his own safety, until
every man and boy had been rescued from the impending danger.
Indeed, the manliness and fortitude displayed by the late
Captain Baker on the melancholy occasion of our wreck was such
as never before was heard of. It was not as that of a moment,
but his courage was tried for many hours, and his last
determination of not crossing from the rock, on which he was
every moment in danger of being washed away, was made with more
firmness, if possible, than the first. In fact, during the whole
business he proved himself to be a man whose name and last
conduct ought ever to be held in the highest estimation by a
crew who feel it their duty to ask from the Lords Commissioners
of the Admiralty that, which they otherwise have not the means
of obtaining, that is, a public and lasting record of the
lion-hearted, generous, and very unexampled way in which our
late noble commander sacrificed his life in the evening of the
23rd of June.'
The above letter was signed by the surviving crew of the Drake.
We need not add that their request was complied with; and a monument
erected to the memory of Captain Baker, in the chapel of the Royal
Dockyard at Portsmouth.
At the request of the author, a friend, to whom he related the
pathetic story of the captain of the Drake, composed the following
verses on his untimely and romantic fate:--