It is a common and no less apposite remark that truth is stranger than
fiction, and the longer we live, the more are we convinced of the
force of the above axiom.
The story which we are about to relate is one of the most remarkable
incidents in a sailor's life, and, as a tale of horror, cannot be
exceeded even in the pages of romance.
In the year 1826, the Magpie, a small schooner under the command of
Lieutenant Edward Smith, had been despatched in search of a piratical
vessel, which had committed serious depredations on the western shores
of the Island of Cuba.
In the prosecution of this object, she was cruizing on the 27th of
August, off the Colorados Roads, at the western extremity of the
Island. The day had been extremely sultry, and towards the evening the
schooner lay becalmed, awaiting the springing up of the land breeze, a
blessing which only those can appreciate who have enjoyed its
refreshing coolness after passing many hours beneath the burning rays
of a tropical sun.
About eight o'clock a slight breeze sprung up from the westward, and
the vessel was standing under reefed mainsail, whole foresail, and
topsail, and jib. Towards nine, the wind shifted to the southward, and
a small dark cloud was observed hovering over the land. This ominous
appearance, as is well known, is often the precursor of a coming
squall, and seems as if sent as a warning by Providence.
The lurid vapour did not escape the practised eye of the mate of the
watch, who immediately reported the circumstance to Mr. Smith. All
hands were turned up, and in a few minutes the schooner was placed in
readiness to encounter the threatened danger.
In the meantime, the cloud had gradually increased in size and
density. The slight breeze had died away, and a boding stillness
reigned around. Suddenly a rushing, roaring sound was heard, the
surface of the water, which a moment before was almost without a
ripple, was now covered with one white sheet of foam, the schooner was
taken aback; in vain her commander gave the order to cut away the
masts--it was too late, and in less than three minutes from the first
burst of the squall, the devoted vessel sunk to rise no more.
At this fearful juncture, a vivid flash of lightning darted from the
heavens, displaying for a moment, the pale faces of the crew
struggling in the water; the wind ceased as suddenly as it had begun,
and the ocean, as if unconscious of the fearful tragedy that had so
lately been enacted upon its surface, subsided into its former repose.
At the moment of the vessel going down, a gunner's mate, of the name
of Meldrum, struck out and succeeded in reaching a pair of oars that
were floating in the water,--to these he clung, and having divested
himself of a part of his clothing, he awaited in dreadful anxiety the
fate of his companions.
Not a sound met his ear, in vain his anxious gaze endeavoured to
pierce the gloom, but the darkness was too intense. Minutes appeared
like hours, and still the awful silence remained unbroken; he felt,
and the thought was agony, that out of the twenty-four human beings
who had so lately trod the deck of the schooner, he alone was left.
This terrible suspense became almost beyond the power of endurance,
and he already began to envy the fate of his companions, when he heard
a voice at no great distance inquiring if there was any one near. He
answered in the affirmative, and pushing out in the direction from
whence the sound proceeded, he reached a boat, to which seven persons
were clinging; amongst whom was Lieutenant Smith, the commander of the
sloop.
So far this was a subject of congratulation; he was no longer alone;
but yet the chances of his ultimate preservation were as distant as
ever.
The boat, which had been placed on the booms of the schooner, had
fortunately escaped clear of the sinking vessel, and if the men had
waited patiently, was large enough to have saved them all; but the
suddenness of the calamity had deprived them of both thought and
prudence. Several men had attempted to climb in on one side,--the
consequence was, the boat heeled over, became half filled with water,
and then turned keel uppermost; and when Meldrum reached her, he
found some stretched across the keel and others hanging on by the
sides.
Matters could not last long in this way, and Mr. Smith, seeing the
impossibility of any of the party being saved, if they continued in
their present position, endeavoured to bring them to reason, by
pointing out the absurdity of their conduct. To the honour of the men,
they listened with the same respect to their commander, as if they had
been on board the schooner; those on the keel immediately relinquished
their hold, and succeeded, with the assistance of their comrades, in
righting the boat. Two of their number got into her and commenced
baling with their hats, whilst the others remained in the water,
supporting themselves by the gunwales.
Order being restored, their spirits began to revive, and they
entertained hopes of escaping from their present peril; but this was
of short duration, and the sufferings which they had as yet endured,
were nothing in comparison with what they had now to undergo.
The two men had scarcely commenced baling, when the cry was heard
of--'A shark! a shark!' No words can describe the consternation which
ensued: it is well known the horror sailors have of these voracious
animals, who seem apprised by instinct when their prey is at hand. All
order was at an end, the boat again capsized, and the men were left
struggling in the waters. The general safety was neglected, and it was
every man for himself; no sooner had one got hold of the boat, than he
was pushed away by another, and in this fruitless contest more than
one life was nearly sacrificed.
Even in this terrible hour, their commander remained cool and
collected; his voice was still raised in words of encouragement, and
as the dreaded enemy did not make its appearance, he again succeeded
in persuading them to renew their efforts to clear the boat. The night
had passed away--it was about ten o'clock on the morning of the 28th;
the baling had progressed without interruption; a little more
exertion, and the boat would have been cleared, when again was heard
the cry of--'The sharks! the sharks!' But this was no false alarm; the
boat a second time capsized, and the unhappy men were literally cast
amongst a shoal of these terrible monsters.
The men, for a few minutes, remained uninjured, but not untouched; for
the sharks actually rubbed against their victims, and, to use the
exact words of one of the survivors, 'frequently passed over the boat
and between us, whilst resting on the gunwale,' This, however, did not
last long; a shriek soon told the fate of one of the men; a shark had
seized him by the leg, dying the water with his blood; another shriek
followed, and another man disappeared.
But these facts are almost too horrible to dwell upon; human nature
revolts from so terrible a picture; we will therefore hurry over this
part of our tale.
Smith had witnessed the sufferings of his followers with the deepest
distress; and although aware that in all probability he must soon
share the same fate, he never for a moment appeared to think of
himself. There were but six men left, and these he endeavoured to
sustain by his example, cheering them on to further exertions. They
had once more recommenced their labours to clear out the boat, when
one of his legs was seized by a shark. Even whilst suffering the most
horrible torture, he restrained the expression of his feelings, for
fear of increasing the alarm of the men. But the powers of his
endurance were doomed to be tried to the utmost; another limb was
scrunched from his body, and uttering a deep groan, he was about to
let go his hold, when he was seized by two of his men, and placed in
the stern sheets.
Yet when his whole frame was convulsed with agony, the energies of his
mind remained as strong as ever, his own pain was disregarded, he
thought only of the preservation of his crew. Calling to his side a
lad of the name of Wilson, who appeared to be the strongest of the
remaining few, he exhorted him, in the event of his surviving, to
inform the admiral that he was going to Cape Ontario in search of the
pirate when the unfortunate accident occurred; 'Tell him,' he
continued, 'that my men have done their duty, and that no blame is
attached to them. I have but one favour to ask, and that is, that he
will promote Meldrum to be a gunner.'
He then shook each man by the hand, and bade them farewell. By degrees
his strength began to fail, and at last became so exhausted, that he
was unable to speak. He remained in this state until the sunset, when
another panic seized the men, from a reappearance of the sharks. The
boat gave a lurch, and the gallant commander found an end to his
sufferings in a watery grave.
Thus perished an officer, who, if it had pleased Providence to
preserve, would, in all probability, have been one of the brightest
ornaments of the service. His character combined the three great
qualities which are essential for an officer and a seaman--courage,
coolness, and decision: opportunity only was wanting to display these
parts. If he had succeeded in capturing the pirate, promotion would
without doubt have followed, and a bright and honourable career have
been open to him. But the ways of Providence are inscrutable; it was
ordained that he should undergo sufferings from which the bravest
would have shrunk with horror. Had he fallen in battle, his name would
have been recorded in history. We hope that our feeble efforts to
rescue the memory of this brave seaman from sinking into oblivion will
not have been in vain, and that his name may find an honourable place
with others who have died in the performance of their duty.
The death of their commander was sensibly felt by all, for they had
long known his kindness and courage, and when his body sank below the
waves, their hopes sank also. Mr. Maclean, a mate, and now the
commanding officer, took upon himself to direct the efforts of his
comrades, and did all that lay in his power to revive their spirits;
he assured them that if they once succeeded in righting the boat, that
there was every chance of falling in with some vessel. But twenty
hours of constant fatigue, hunger, and thirst had made fearful ravages
upon the strength of the men. Night was again approaching, and Maclean
could not conceal from himself, that when darkness came on, the
chances of their being seen by any vessel passing near were further
removed than ever. The sharks had for a time taken their departure,
but they might return at any moment; for having once tasted blood,
they were not likely to be debarred from making another attack. Two
more of the men, either worn out from fatigue, or anxious to escape
from further suffering, threw themselves from their support, and were
drowned.
The burning sun again set beneath the horizon, but as yet no sail had
been seen upon the waters. Again the land-breeze passed over the
ocean, but it brought no refreshing coolness; it only reminded them of
the weary hours that had elapsed since it was so anxiously expected,
though its results were then far different from what they had hoped.
There were but four men left--Maclean, Meldrum, (the gunner's mate,)
Wilson, and another man. These had, by their united efforts, almost
managed to clear the boat of water, when, about three o'clock in the
morning, the two latter became delirious, sprung overboard, and were
either seized by the sharks or drowned. It will be remembered, that it
was Wilson who was selected by poor Smith to convey his last message
to the admiral.
The two survivors for a time forgot their own sufferings in the
horrible scene which they had just witnessed; but this did not last
long; their thoughts soon returned to the necessity of preserving
their own lives. They once more resumed their labours, and, though
nearly exhausted, did not desist until the boat was almost dry. They
then lay down to rest, in comparative security, and, let us hope, with
their hearts filled with gratitude for the mercies which had already
been vouchsafed to them, and remembering those words of our beautiful
Liturgy: 'That it may please Thee to succour, help, and comfort all
that are in danger, necessity, or tribulation.'
It is said that sometimes the criminal, the night before his
execution, forgets the fate that awaits him in a deep and refreshing
slumber. These two men, in spite of the horrors they had undergone,
fell into a sound sleep, from which they did not awake until the sun
was high in the heavens; when the horrors of their situation broke
upon them, rendered doubly painful by the temporary oblivion of the
last few hours.
The sun darted its scorching rays upon the two solitary beings, who
had planted themselves, one in the bows, and the other in the stern of
the boat, with neither oars, mast, sail, nor provisions of any kind.
In vain they strained their gaze in every direction; nothing was to be
seen but a boundless expanse of waters. Their eyes met, but it needed
no words to tell the hopeless despair which was gnawing at their
hearts. No longer was the loss of their companions regarded with
horror; they envied the fate which had spared them the torture which
they themselves were doomed to suffer:--
Famine, despair, cold, thirst, and heat had done
Their work on them by turns. BYRON.
Death at that moment would have been welcome.
Hour after hour passed away, but still the boat remained motionless on
the waters. Neither spoke; their hearts were too full for utterance:
in rapid succession, every thought and action of their lives passed
across their minds; home, kindred, friends, all would be remembered,
only again to be banished by the pangs of hunger and thirst.
Towards eight o'clock in the morning, the energies of Maclean and his
companion had almost sunk under the accumulated load of suffering; it
was more in despair than with any expectation of success, that they
once again cast their eyes around. But this time it was not in vain; a
white speck was seen in the distance: both exclaimed, 'A sail! a
sail!' and the extravagance of joy was now equal to their former
despair. Still the vessel was several miles distant, and unless those
on board kept a vigilant look-out, it was more than probable that they
would escape observation.
Of all the ills to which the human frame is liable, the agony of
suspense is the most intolerable. Hope and fear rose alternately in
their breasts; at one moment, the ship appeared to be nearing, at
another, she seemed further off than ever. The vessel sped slowly on
its course, but to their excited minds the time seemed interminable.
First the white canvas was seen, then the dark hull became visible;
but as yet no signs gave token that those on board were aware of their
proximity.
The brig, for such she now appeared, could not have been above half a
mile distant, when she suddenly altered her course. In vain they both
hailed at once, and waved their jackets as a signal, but no notice was
taken; then, indeed, every hope was dispelled, and the bitterness of
despair returned with redoubled force.
At this juncture, Meldrum resolved, at all hazards, to attempt to swim
to the vessel. If he remained in the boat, certain death would be the
fate of himself and his companion: on the other hand, he might perish
in the sea, but if he reached the brig, both would be saved. Without a
moment's hesitation, he communicated his design to Maclean, and then,
committing himself to the pretection of the Almighty, sprang
overboard.
The idea of solitude is so repugnant to human nature, that even death
would be preferable. It can be therefore easily imagined that it was
with feelings almost amounting to agony that Maclean saw himself
separated from his last friend. His first impulse was to follow his
companion, but better judgment prevailed, and he determined to await
the result. Never for a single instant did his eyes turn from the bold
swimmer: they followed his every stroke. At one time, he thought he
had sunk; at another, the ripple of a wave appeared to his distorted
imagination like the fin of a shark. Anxiety for the fate of his
companion kept his mind on the stretch until distance rendered the
object no longer visible. 'Then, indeed, did he feel that he was
alone.'
Meldrum was naturally a good swimmer, and every nerve was strained in
this last struggle for life; buoyed up by hope, he had accomplished
about two-thirds of his weary task when his strength began to fail,
his dying eyes turned towards the brig, and with one last effort he
raised his voice. He was heard: a boat was lowered from the brig, and
he was taken on board. The perilous situation of his comrade was made
known; and thus by his gallant exertions were preserved the lives of
the two survivors, of the ill-fated Magpie.
This tale might almost be discredited, but the facts from which it was
taken bear the signature of the officers composing the court-martial
who sat upon the two remaining men. Mr. Maclean is at the present
moment alive, and is now serving as a lieutenant in the coast-guard.
Meldrum was promoted for his gallantry to the rank of gunner, and died
two years ago.