Chapter XXII (1)

EARLY STEAMSHIP WRECKS AND THEIR LESSONS.

The _Rothsay Castle_—An Old Vessel, unfit for Sea Service—A Gay
Starting—Drifting to the Fatal Sands—The Steamer Strikes—A Scene
of Panic—Lost Within easy reach of Assistance—An Imprudent
Pilot—Statements of Survivors—A Father and Son parted and
re-united—Heartrending Episodes—The Other Side: Saved by an
Umbrella—Loss of the _Killarney_—Severe Weather—The Engine-fires
Swamped—At the Mercy of the Waves—On the Rocks—The Crisis—Half the
Passengers and Crew on an Isolated Rock—Spolasco and his
Child—Holding on for Dear Life—Hundreds Ashore “Wrecking”—No
Attempts to Save the Survivors—Several Washed Off—Deaths from
Exhaustion—“To the Rescue!”—Noble Efforts—Failure of Several
Plans—A Novel Expedient adopted—Its Perils—Another Dreary
Night—Good Samaritans—A Noble Lady—Saved at Last—The Inventor’s
Description of the Rope Bridge—The Wreck Register for One
Year—Grand Work of the Lifeboat Institution.

The _Rothsay Castle_ was a steamship built in 1812, and was little enough adapted for marine navigation. She was one of the first vessels of the kind on the Clyde, and was perhaps constructed for the ordinary wear and tear to which a river vessel is exposed, but certainly, at her age, should never have been allowed to leave Liverpool for Beaumaris in weather so bad that an American vessel which had been towed out that day had been compelled to return to port. She had been, it was said, at one time, condemned to be broken up, but other counsels had prevailed, and she had been patched up and repaired for continued service.

At ten o’clock on Wednesday morning, the 17th August, 1831, the vessel was appointed to sail from the usual place, George’s Pier-head, Liverpool; but there was a casual delay at starting, and she did not leave till an hour later. She was freighted heavily, and it was computed that hardly less than 150 persons (if the children carried free were counted) were on board. A majority were holiday seekers; the vessel was tricked out with colours, and as the vessel left a band struck up its gayest music. Among the pleasure parties on board was one from Bury, in Lancashire, consisting of twenty-six persons. They set out in the morning, joyous with health and pleasant anticipations, and before the next sun arose all of them, except two, had been swallowed up in the remorseless deep!(96)

The vessel proceeded very slowly on its course, making so little way that at three o’clock in the afternoon she had not reached a floating light stationed about fifteen miles from Liverpool. Arrived off the light, the sea was so rough that many of the passengers were greatly alarmed, and one, who had his wife, five children, and servant on board, went down to the captain and begged him to put back. The captain answered, with an oath, that he thought there was “a deal of fear on board, and very little danger.” The whole family was among the lost. The vessel drifted out of her course, and proceeded so slowly that the alarm on board became general.

One of the survivors stated that the leakage was so great that the fireman found it impossible to keep the fires up, two being actually extinguished, while the coals were so wet that it was with difficulty the others were kept in. Yet there were no attempts made to sound the well or ascertain what water was in the vessel. It was near twelve o’clock when they arrived at the mouth of the Menai Strait, about five miles from Beaumaris, and here her steam suddenly got so low that she drifted with the tide and wind towards the Dutchman’s Bank, on the spit of which she struck. Now came a time of awe and consternation. The crowded boat rolled in a frightful manner, and the worst fears of the passengers seemed to be on the point of realisation. The seas broke over her on either side. The engine had previously stopped for about ten minutes, the coals being covered in water, and the pumps were choked. On her striking, the captain said, “It is only sand, and she will soon float.” Only sand! More vessels have been lost on sands than ever were on rocks. In the meantime he and some of the passengers got the jib up. No doubt he did this intending to wear her round, and bring her head to the southward, but it did not, it proved, make the least difference which way her head was turned, as she was on a lee shore, and there was no steam to work her off. The captain also ordered the passengers first to run aft, in the hope, by removing the pressure from the vessel’s bow, to make her float.(97) This failing to produce the desired effect, he then ordered them to run forward. But all these exertions were unavailing; the ill-fated vessel stuck still faster in the sands, and all gave themselves up for lost. The terror of the passengers became excessive. Several of them urged the captain to make some signal of distress, which he is said to have refused to do, telling the passengers that there was no danger, and that the packet was afloat, and _on her way_, knowing well that she was irretrievably stuck in the treacherous sands, and that she was rapidly filling from her leaks. The unfortunate man was fully aware of the imminent danger they were in, and we may charitably suppose that he made such statements to prevent a panic. The great bell was now rung, with so much violence that the tongue broke, and some of the passengers continued to strike it for some time with a stone. The bell was heard at Beaumaris, for the night was clear, with strong wind; but it was not known from whence the sound came, and no trouble appears to have been taken. The tide began to set in with great strength, and a heavy sea beat over the bank on which the steam-packet was firmly and immovably fixed. It was the duty of the captain now to make every possible exertion, by signals, to procure assistance from shore. It is said that if a light had been shown on board the unlucky steamer, the boats from upwards of twenty vessels lying at Bangor would undoubtedly have saved the larger part of the unfortunate passengers. The masts should have been cut away, not merely to ease the vessel, but to afford some chance to the poor people. At Penmaen Point an establishment of pilots had been fixed by Lord Bulkeley, for the express purpose of rendering assistance in such cases. “The world,” says Lieut. Morrison, “will hardly credit the astonishing fact that their establishment is within little more than a mile and a half from the scene of wretchedness, and that, the wind being fair, the boats from thence could have reached the spot in about ten minutes. A single blue light burned, a single rocket fired, or even a solitary musket discharged, would have ensured this happy result.” The evidence showed that there was nothing of the kind. Probably no sea-going steamer, carrying 150 passengers, was ever left so utterly unprovided with proper appliances.

The scene that now presented itself baffles description. A horrible death seemed to be the doom of all on board, and the females in particular uttered the most piercing shrieks. Some locked themselves in each other’s arms, while others, losing all self-command, tore off their bonnets, caps, and other portions of clothing, in wild despair. The women and children gathered in a knot together, and kept embracing each other, uttering all the while the most dismal lamentations. “When tired with crying,” says Morrison, “they lay against each other, with their heads reclined, like inanimate bodies. It was a few minutes before that a Liverpool Branch pilot on board, William Jones, became aware in all its extent of their dreadful situation. He is reported to have exclaimed, ‘We are all lost!’ which threw down whatever hopes any on board had till now entertained, and induced them to give themselves up to bitter despair. This was sadly imprudent, and little like the conduct I should have expected from such a man. He ought to have set an example of preparing something in the nature of a raft, to save what lives could be saved; and as he must have known that it was low water, and the whole of the Dutchman’s Bank was dry within a few yards of them, and the tide just setting on to it, there can be no reason to doubt that he might have been by this means instrumental in saving many of the unhappy victims as well as himself.”

One of the survivors stated that after the vessel had struck several times his wife and some friends came to him, and asked if he thought they must be lost. “I thought,” said he, “we should, and they proposed going to prayer for the short time we had to live. We all went to prayer, myself and wife in particular, and when we got from our knees I saw four men getting upon the mast, and beginning to fasten themselves to it. I told my wife I would look out for a better situation for us. I took her towards the windlass, and began to fasten a rope to the frame where the bell hung; and when I had got the rope made fast, and looked back for my wife, she had again joined our friends near to the place at which we kneeled down. A great wave almost took me overboard, but I held by the rope; then came a second and a third wave before I could see my wife again; and when I looked—they were all gone.(98)

“I then prepared to die myself in the place I was at, and remained in that situation till daylight, at which time about fifty people remained on board. As the waves came the people kept decreasing, until all were gone except myself. I remained on the wreck until I saw a boat coming, which took me on board, and also rescued those on the mast, and afterwards others. We were then taken to Beaumaris, and treated with the greatest hospitality and kindness.”

Another survivor, after detailing the facts preliminary to the disaster, said: “The waves broke heavily on the vessel; the chimney became loose, and first reeled to leeward, then to windward, and tumbled over with a great crash. The mainmast then went overboard, and remained hanging to the vessel by the rigging. The captain still assured us we should be saved, and that assistance would shortly arrive. I requested him to fire a gun; he said he had none on board. A small bell was then rung, but its noise would probably be lost in the roar of the wind and waves. Some of the passengers asked the captain to hoist a light; he said he had none; but we knew he had a lantern, for one of the crew took it round when he collected the checks, about half an hour before the vessel struck. The confusion occasioned by the falling of the chimney and the mast, together with the cries and shrieks of the women and children, defies description. Men were seen taking leave of their wives; wives were clinging to their husbands; and persons were running about in all directions, uttering the most piteous and heartrending cries. From the weight of the chimney, the vessel continued lying to windward, and very soon after the mast went the weather boards gave way; and as the waves then swept the deck the passengers stationed themselves on those parts of the vessel which lay highest. Several climbed up the mast which was left standing; others got on the poop. The weather boards on the leeward side were then washed away, taking with them more than thirty people, who were clinging to them. The cries were now more dreadful than before, every succeeding wave sweeping numbers from the wreck. I took a situation beside one of the paddle-boxes, and whilst there a young man came to me with a large drum, and said it would save both of us, if I held on one side and he on the other. Some females came and clung round us, but the young man stuck to the drum, and told them to get hold of the first piece of timber they could.... Of what further happened I have but a confused recollection, and it appears to me like the traces of a horrible dream. It seemed as if I had been in the water many days, when I heard the welcome sound of a human voice shout ‘Holloa!’ to which I also shouted ‘Holloa!’ Soon after I was lifted out of the water, and placed in a boat belonging to R. Williamson, Esq., who, when he was informed of the calamity which had befallen us, manned two boats, and came out to pick up the sufferers. On being taken up I asked my deliverers when it would be daylight, and they told me it was broad day—it was about ten o’clock in the forenoon. I was stone blind. Mr. Williamson and the boat’s crew were most kind to me. I was kept on board until I was sufficiently restored to meet my sister and the other survivors at Beaumaris. I cannot omit to express my most grateful thanks to my deliverers and benefactors. Their noble humanity has left an impression on my heart which will never be effaced but with my existence.”

“Amidst these almost overwhelming distresses,” says the Rev. Mr. Stewart, in one of his letters to a friend, “involving in one general calamity men, women, children, and even tender infants, it is a rest to the heart to turn for a moment to some special marks of divine mercy. I am sure, my very dear friend, the following incident, related to me by the father of the boy, will deeply affect you. He was near the helm with his child, grasping his hand, till the waves, rolling over the quarter-deck, and taking with them several persons who were standing near them, it was no longer safe to remain there. The father took his child in his hands and ran towards the shrouds, but the boy could not mount with him. He cried out, therefore, ‘Father! father! do not leave me!’ But finding that his son could not climb with him, and that his own life was in danger, he withdrew his hand. When the morning came, the father was conveyed on shore with some other passengers who were preserved, and as he was landing he said within himself, ‘How can I see my wife without having our boy with me?’ When, however, the child’s earthly parent let go his hand his Heavenly Father did not leave him. He was washed off the deck, but happily clung to a part of the wreck on which some others of the passengers were floating. With them he was almost miraculously preserved. When he was landing, not knowing of his father’s safety, he said, ‘It is of no use to take me on shore now I have lost my father.’ He was, however, carried, much exhausted, to the same house where his father had been sent, and actually placed in the same bed, unknown to either, till they were clasped in each other’s arms.”

Among the victims was that of a lady entirely _unknown_. The body of this poor creature had been picked up near Conway, and it was evident that she had been one of fortune’s favourites, though destined to a death so cruel. She was elegantly and fashionably attired, wearing rich earrings, gold chain and locket, three valuable rings in addition to her wedding-ring, and so forth. In a day or two she was buried in a common deal shell, and followed to a nameless grave by strangers.

It appears, by the pilot’s statement, that early in the afternoon he had been invited by the steward to take some refreshment with him, and in the course of conversation a very strong opinion was given by the steward that Captain Atkinson never _intended_ to reach Beaumaris, and that the voyage he was now making would be his last. By the expression “intended” he explained was meant _expected_, and the result proved the opinion to be too fatally correct. Tired by what he had gone through before entering the packet, the pilot lay down in the forecastle to sleep. He was aroused by a sensation beyond all others most dreadful—he felt the vessel strike, and his experience told him all was over. Hastily rushing upon deck, his courage and coolness were for a moment quite overcome. “I saw,” said he, “the quality huddled together in the waist of the vessel; and the praying and crying was the most dreadful sight to witness. The waves broke over on both sides, and took away numbers at once. They went like flights, sometimes many, sometimes few; at last the bulwark went, and none were left.”

The vessel had scarcely struck when the two stays of the chimney broke. These, after many ineffectual efforts, were again made fast; but they soon gave way a second time, and the chimney fell across the deck, bringing the mainmast with it. The mast, it is stated, fell aft along the lee or larboard side of the quarter deck, and struck overboard some of the unfortunate creatures who had there collected. The steward of the vessel and his wife lashed themselves to the mast, determined to spend their last moments in each other’s arms. Several husbands and wives seem to have met their fate together, whilst parents clung to their little ones. Several mothers, it is said, perished with their little ones clasped in their arms. The carpenter and his wife were seen embracing each other and their child in the extreme of agony. The poor woman asked a young man, Henry Hammond, to pull her cloak over her shoulders, when a tremendous wave came and washed off, in a moment, twelve persons, and her among them.

Soon after the crash the captain’s voice was heard for the last time. He and the mate appear to have been the very first that perished, and the conclusion is that they must have been dragged overboard by the wreck of the mainmast. It is true that an absurd report was spread in Beaumaris that both captain and mate reached land safely in the boat, part of which was found on shore early in the morning. This is unlikely; but it is quite possible many lives might have been saved in the boat, _if she had been provided with oars_. The absence of these, however, shows in a glaring manner the utter recklessness of human life which marked the whole affair. It was stated by Mr. Henry Hammond, ship-carver, of Liverpool, one of the persons saved, that it was not true that a party of the passengers got into the boat soon after the vessel struck, and were immediately swamped. The statement he gave was that the boat was hanging by the davits over the stern, nearly filled with water in consequence of the spray; when the vessel struck, he and the wife and child of the carpenter got into the boat, but left it again, being ordered out by the mate, who told them it was of no use, as no boat could live in such a sea. The boat soon after broke adrift and was lost, but there was no person in her.

“For above a mile and a half to the spit-buoy in the Friar’s Road,” says Morrison, “the sand is dry at half ebb, and as the Dutchman’s Bank is dry at low water, I have no hesitation in affirming that there was dry land within half a mile of the wreck when she struck; and that if they had _been informed_ of the fact, many of them on board might have swam or been drifted over the Swash, and within two hundred yards of the vessel would have found themselves in not more than three or four feet of water.”

The Swash is very few feet wide, and was easily passed by one individual, who, being a resident in Bangor, knew the locality, and escaped, according to Mr. Whittaker’s narrative, who states as follows:—“At this time a gentleman from Bangor left the vessel, with a small barrel tied beneath his chin, and an umbrella in his hand, which he unfurled when he got into the water, in the hope of being drifted ashore in time to send some aid to his fellow-sufferers.” This was Mr. Jones of Bangor. Now, if Mr. Jones, the pilot, or the captain or mate, or any other person on board, who knew of the vicinity of the dry sand, on which people walk at low water, had explained to the persons who could swim the state of the case, many others might have been saved as well as Mr. Jones.

A Mr. Tarry, who was exceedingly apprehensive during the passage, kept his wife and children in the cabin; on the vessel striking he made immediate inquiries respecting their probable fate; and Jones, the pilot, having indiscreetly said that there was no hope of safety, he became at once calm, and said in a tone of resignation, “I brought out my family, and to return without them would be worse than death; I’ll, therefore, die with them.” He then went down into the cabin and embraced his wife and children. It would appear that they afterwards, impelled by a sense of self-preservation, came on deck; one at least of his little girls was seen afterwards in a state of pitiable helplessness. Mr. Duckworth, of Bury, who survived the catastrophe, says that while sustaining his wife he saw her on the quarter-deck. She was about ten years old. Each wave that broke down on one side of the vessel hurled her along with impetuous force, and dashed her against the gunwale on the other side; and then it would recede, and draw her back again, a ready victim for another similar shock. The poor innocent, bruised and half choked with the waves, sent forth the most piteous cries for her father and mother between each rush of the waters. Her shrieks were piercing beyond description, and she screamed “Oh! won’t you come to me, father? Oh, mamma!” &c., till the narrator says his heart yearned to save her; and though he dared not quit his wife, he called to a fellow-passenger to make the effort; but he believes she was washed away soon afterwards.

“A schooner, belonging to a nephew of Alderman Wright, was lying off Beaumaris Green; the persons on board heard the bell ring in the _Rothsay Castle_, but in consequence of no light being displayed, which the captain refused to allow, they could not tell in what direction to go to render assistance. They eventually saved several persons who had been seven hours in the water. Such was the state of anxiety of the poor creatures, who had been so long hanging to the wreck, that they imagined, when taken up at seven o’clock in the morning, that it was noon.”

Lieutenant Morrison speaks highly of the humanity and honesty of the Welshmen of the coast on which the unfortunate vessel was wrecked, and contrasts their conduct with that of the people of certain other places. He remembered, in the year 1816, witnessing the wreck of a vessel near Appledore, in the Bay of Barnstaple, when the country people came down in crowds to plunder the wreck, and they drove the poor seamen back into the surf when they attempted to rescue a part of their property. In the winter of 1827 he recalled the case of a crowd surrounding the mate of a Welsh sloop wrecked on the coast of Waterford, whom they knocked down and robbed of a small bundle of clothes, all that he had saved from the wreck.

The wreck about to be described occurred in January, 1838, and has been recorded in a graphic though somewhat verbose pamphlet,(99) which it is very unlikely has reached the eyes of many of our readers. It has often struck the writer that the most fascinating and interesting descriptions of wrecks have not been written by sailors, and there is a sufficient reason for this. Many of the episodes which strike a landsman forcibly, and add greatly to the picturesque _ensemble_ of his narration, are taken by the seaman as mere matters of course. Several of the more detailed and interesting narratives already given have been taken from accounts recorded by the members of other professions, clergymen and military men more particularly. The present account is compiled from the narrative furnished by a medical man.

The _Killarney_ sailed from Cork on the 19th January of the above year, with about fifty on board, passengers and crew. The weather was very severe, the wind blowing hard from the east, accompanied by snow and hail squalls; and the captain, after vainly endeavouring to make headway, turned the vessel round and returned to Cove Harbour. The weather moderating, the _Killarney_ again got under weigh for her port of destination, Bristol. Again a storm rose, and the mist became so dense that they could scarcely see the vessel’s length ahead of them. During the night 150 pigs—about a fourth of the number on the vessel—were washed overboard; the cabin was a wreck of furniture and crockery; and Dr. Spolasco’s gig had been forced from its lashings, broken up, and partly washed away. The engine stopped for some time, and the vessel lay to, the captain not knowing his position. A suspicious circumstance, showing that the men were disheartened and greatly fatigued, was that they came down to the cabin and asked for bottles of porter, &c.—a most unusual request, of course. Lieut. Nicolay, a military passenger, remarked, “I don’t like to see these men getting porter in this way; I was once at sea in great danger, and the sailors through desperation commenced to drink.” If the sailors were doubtful of the vessel’s safety, there can be little wonder that the passengers generally were in a state of grave alarm. Baron Spolasco had his boy, a helpless child of nine years of age, on board, and between his care, giving advice to passengers, and setting the leg of the under-steward, who had broken it in a violent fall caused by the lurching of the ship, he had enough to do. At noon of Saturday it was whispered that the captain intended to try for land, but no one on board appeared to know whether they were twenty or fifty miles from it. The weather increased in severity.

In these trying moments, the captain, mate, and crew, endeavoured to perform their duties, and used every exertion in their power to weather the dreadful storm; but the water gained incessantly on the pumps, and the vessel continued to fill, and, being almost on her broadside, the deck was nearly perpendicular. The sea broke over her continually, and the passengers crawled about on hands and knees. Spolasco inquired of M‘Arthur, the chief engineer, entreating him to let him know how the water stood in the engine-room. He seemed much exhausted, and said, “We’re getting the water down to the plates of the engines; the fires are re-kindled, and we’ll soon have steam on.” For a time this was successfully done.

Lieut. Nicolay was the first to announce “Land at last!” to the passengers, and all hearts beat with joy at the welcome news. But they were greatly puzzled, and indeed mortified, that they were unable to ascertain what land it was. Some said that it was Poor Head, others that it was Kinsale, and others that it was Youghal, and others again that it was Cork Harbour. But the vessel was now utterly unmanageable.

The captain again did his best to re-make Cork Harbour, but it was out of his power, the sails having been blown to ribbons, and the fires put out owing to the repeated shipping of the seas. The engines went on pretty well when they commenced working a second time, but they shortly became less and less powerful from the cause just assigned. About three o’clock in the afternoon she had drifted near some rocks, the vessel being then nearly on her beam ends. It was all that the passengers or crew could do to hold on the bulwarks or ropes, and from the terror depicted on every countenance it was evident that the crisis was at hand. The vessel struck, and a simultaneous thrill of horror passed through every breast. Two gentlemen were, it was believed, washed overboard at this time.

A heavy sea then struck abaft the paddle-box, carrying off all before it. The doctor descried poor Nicolay on the top of a wave, like a mountain over them, as it were riding on, and buffeting in vain with his gigantic enemy. An awful and terrific scene was witnessed while grasping his child and the companion. “I believe,” says he, “it was the same sea, or one instantaneously succeeding it, that struck the companion, and carried me and my dear little charge across the deck. Had it not been for the remnant of the bulwarks, viz., two uprights, across which a deck-form was forced, which proved the simple means of saving our lives at that period—were it not for this circumstance, my child and myself must have perished with Nicolay and others. Several fragments of deck-rigging fell upon us—such as ropes, spars, splinters, &c.; and it was with the utmost difficulty that I was enabled to extricate myself and child from them, in doing which I lost a shoe. It is worthy of remark that I had not worn shoes for more than six months before, having put them on that morning, considering that they would contribute to my ease while on board. My little boy also lost a shoe and cap owing to this circumstance. I now ought to remark, before I proceed further with this painful narrative, that immediately, or rather before, the engines stopped the second time from the vessel filling with water, the engineers and firemen came upon deck, from the impossibility of their remaining any longer below, the steam gradually going down, and the engines consequently decreasing in power till they came to a stand. All further efforts on their part being unavailing, and destruction being inevitable, all rushed upon deck, leaving the engines in order to save their lives.”

Matters for some time continuing thus, the sailors and some of the deck passengers exerted themselves, and were engaged in endeavouring with buckets to lighten the vessel of some of the water in the hold; and, after several hours’ hard work, they so far succeeded (the pumps all the while kept going) as to be able early on Saturday afternoon to get up steam again.

A passenger pointed out a bay, which he said was Roberts’ Cove, and recommended the captain to run the vessel in there, as there was a boat harbour in it, and beach her. The captain said that he did not think there was a harbour there—that, at all events, it would be impossible to make it. The vessel was all this time drifting nearer the rock on which she ultimately struck; and in about an hour after the passenger had given the recommendation alluded to, the captain got the vessel round, and endeavoured to make Roberts’ Cove. Just as he had got her before the wind, however, she was pooped by a tremendous sea, which carried away the taffrail, staunchions, the wheel (and two men who worked it), the companion, the binnacle, and the breakwater. The two steersmen fortunately caught part of the rigging, and were saved; but the sea which did the damage carried away the bulwarks, with some of the steerage passengers, who were standing near the funnel, and cleared the deck of all the pigs that were on it.

In consequence of all the hands having endeavoured to save themselves, the vessel was left to herself, and continued to strike piecemeal on several minor rocks, as she was driven before the fury of the waves over them with a clap—a crash resembling thunder—carrying off at each stroke one or more human beings, together with some portion of deck, deck furniture, deck trimmings, rigging, &c. To hear the wrenching of the vessel, now between the roaring billows and the rock, together with the cries of the sufferers, was soul-piercing in the extreme.

It was absurd to think, even for a moment, of lowering the quarter-boats, the tempest raged so furiously. Previously to the vessel striking on the rock which rent her asunder, and upon which she went to pieces, passengers and seamen all ran up for self-preservation on the quarter-deck. A terrible rush was then made for this, their last resource; and catching his child, Doctor Spolasco held him in his arms, and he clung close round his neck with all the strength of his little embrace, looking imploringly in his face for protection, and, as if foreseeing his fate, said, “Papa, kiss me! Papa, kiss me! We are all lost!”

The last moment approached. The crisis was at hand. Struggling on with his beloved charge, the doctor sprang forward with him, clasping him closely to his breast, and, creeping on his hand and knees, dragged his child along under one arm, while he held by the fragments of the bulwarks, shifting his hand from splinter to splinter, until he slowly and gradually reached the stern, the heavens lowering, the tempest raging, and the billows washing over them, drenched to the skin, and every instant gasping for breath, the waves suffocating them, the billows every instant beating against them.

Some time previously to this both passengers and crew knew not how to act or what to attempt to secure their safety, such was the distraction of their minds. The direction of the vessel was no longer thought of or attended to; each individual holding on by anything that he could possibly grasp for temporary safety with one hand, while he was seen pulling off his clothes with the other, in readiness to be freed from the encumbrance of them, that he might be enabled to make a last, a desperate effort to swim ashore.

This was indeed a struggle for life and death, but bordering so nearly on the latter; some dressing again, and again undressing; again hesitating, frantic and desperate, till not another moment was left for deliberation. Crash! crash! crash! came in awful quick succession, mingled with the piteous, the soul-harrowing cries, “For pity’s sake, help! help! help!”

More than half an hour previously to the vessel’s striking on that Saturday, between three and four in the afternoon, although instantly expecting to go down, ten or twelve persons were seen on the neighbouring mountainous promontory, and it afforded them some glimmering of satisfaction—some faint ray of hope that they would not perish in sight of land. They were observed as early as three o’clock on Saturday, but no efforts were made to rescue them till long after. A part of them gained the rock on which the vessel struck previously to the night’s setting in, where they remained all Sunday and part of Monday, wet, cold, and nearly starved.

“I desired my child,” says Spolasco, “as he loved me, to cling close, while I went to render assistance to others, who were loudly imploring for aid. The darling child, who was evidently sick and exhausted, obeyed; and I, alas! trusted to his puny strength to hold on.

“I sat for a moment on the rock, kissing him, till I looked round and reflected on the awful scene before me, and beheld (with what emotion I leave you to guess) the dreadful destruction which was going on.

“Previously to my jumping on the rock I observed Mrs. Lawe on the quarter-deck on her knees, frantic, without her cap, her hair dishevelled all around her shoulders, in dreadful anguish, striking the deck with one hand, while she held on with the other. Mr. Lawe, her husband, was at this time drowned.

“About this period the midships of the vessel were thrown by the terrific sea and raging storm into a position favourable for those yet on board to make their escape upon the rock; thus it was with comparative ease the surviving remnant on board now forsook the vessel.

“In short, if the sufferers could have anticipated and waited for this opportunity, the lives of many who were lost might have been saved. They would, at least, have been fortunate enough to have reached the rock, and would have had the same chance of existence as others, provided their constitution were sufficiently strong to bear the dreadful privations that there awaited them.

“I stretched forth my hand and assisted several as they approached, taking hold of the first that presented, making, of course, no distinction of persons, and continued to act thus till I saw a female in the last gasp, still holding by the rock after the receding of a wave—it was Mrs. Lawe. Then, with all the force I could command, I dragged her forwards one or two paces. She was, indeed, poor good lady! in the last stage of exhaustion, and fell on my arm, and her weight caused me to slip, by which we were both precipitated towards a frightful chasm; but luckily I again seized the rock ere the wave retired, or we might both have been swept away, and I held fast by one hand, while with the other I supported the lady, during which two or three waves washed over us. Neither she nor I could breathe.

“I collected all my remaining strength for this the last effort I was equal to in order to save her, and folding her in my arms, I crept up the rock quite above the surge, where the spray only could reach us.

“She was speechless, but sufficiently sensible to acknowledge my attention with looks of fervent gratitude. I then left her, anxious to return to my child. But judge of my sensations—I found him not! He, alas! was gone! I could not tell where, or what had become of him.” The poor boy had been drowned, and no traces of him were ever discovered.

Their sufferings on the rock are well described:—“To such dreadful shifts were we driven that during the night I was obliged to hold on with one hand, while with the other I grasped the hand of a fellow-sufferer, in order that each might receive some portion of vital heat; this we did alternately with right and left hand. But we were all so depressed in spirits and suffering so grievously from the cold and the rain as the night advanced, that we did little else than turn our thoughts to the Most High, and calmly await the approach of day, and with it some hope of relief. My face, nose, and particularly the inside of my mouth, were dreadfully mangled, and my teeth loosened, being so repeatedly forced by the billows against the rock to which I was clinging. In short, I think no human endurance equalled ours; for towards morning, when my fingers became so benumbed from wet and cold that I lost the use of them, and I found that it was impossible to hold on longer, I twice felt resigned to commit myself to the deep, and was on the point of doing so, invoking Heaven to receive my spirit.

“The very lacerated state of my nose, mouth, and feet,” says the doctor, “when I was borne from the rock, were indicative of the sufferings I had endured. Poor M‘Arthur seemed either quite regardless of, or insensible to, my repeated warnings of his danger. He at last put his hands into the pockets of his trousers, in spite of my remonstrances to the contrary. The point of the rock on which he stood affording him a better foothold, or standing, than mine, and that portion of the rock immediately before him not being so perpendicular as that before me, allowed him to bend forward. This last advantage, coupled with that of his better footing and his being overpowered with sleep, induced him to be so careless of his safety. But almost instantly a fearful and tremendous sea struck the rock just below the slight shelves or openings which supported our toes, and immediately rebounded over us many feet in height; then breaking and falling with great force on our heads, it had the effect of hurling off on the instant poor M‘Arthur. O gracious God, I never can be sufficiently grateful for Thy bountiful goodness and singular preservation in protecting me through so many imminent perils, so many hair-breadth escapes! For of all the passengers with whom I dined on Friday in the steamer _Killarney_ I am the only survivor! The cook who prepared the dinner, and the steward, steward’s brother, and the stewardess that served it, are all in eternity!”

It was not till about ten o’clock on the morning of Sunday that the poor sufferers on the rock endeavoured to change their positions, which was a matter of some difficulty. One of the passengers, during the early part of the night, having been unable to attain a position as comfortable as that of some of the rest, had hung on to Dr. Spolasco’s legs, in order to save himself from dropping into the sea. Later a heavy wave struck him; he relinquished his hold, and was swept into the sea never to rise again. “On gaining the summit,” says the doctor, “I perceived with horror that many had disappeared during the night, and among them the lady whom I had rescued at the loss, I may indeed fairly say, of my dear boy.” There was a general hope among the survivors that they would be rescued early that morning (Sunday), and their disappointment that no effort was made to save them was great indeed. They saw at an early hour hundreds of peasants on the beach and cliff, some of them busily engaged at the wreckage or in bearing away parts of the pigs which had formed part of the cargo, but all intent upon gain. Not the slightest effort was made for the poor wretches on the rock, although Spolasco at intervals waved his purse in one hand and his cap in another in order to induce the peasantry to afford assistance.

The doctor endeavoured by signs to indicate that a raft could be easily constructed from the wreckage, and that the drift of the current would bring it to the rock, but he was not understood. Again their hopes fell to zero. Poor M‘Arthur, the engineer, who had been nearly drowned before, had managed to struggle to a higher position on the rock, but he died from exhaustion early on Monday morning. Some time after, two men, and a little later two boys, fell headlong into the sea, being nearly dead from starvation and exposure. Of twenty-five who got safely on the rock, thirteen died before they could be rescued; and yet it was so near the coast that those mounting the nearest cliff had to bend over its edge to see it. Meantime the storm beat on violently, and no boat could have approached the rock. Sea-weed and salt water was all the food (!) they could get from dinner hour on board the steamer on Friday, about five o’clock, till Monday afternoon. All this within almost a stone’s throw of land!

“To return,” says the narrator, “to Sunday. I have in a previous page stated that during the whole of the morning of that day, indeed up to the afternoon, all we saw was a crowd of peasants on the beach, each carrying his or her burden from the spoils of the wreck of the steamer _Killarney_; and on the cliff above us, numbers—altogether amounting to some hundreds. It was in vain we looked for some respectable person among them who would be likely to tender us the desired assistance, till ... we hailed the presence of a respectable gentleman, by whose kind gestures we could understand (for it was impossible to hear his voice) that we yet should be saved. After waving his hat, and doing all in his power to cheer us, he retired, and ascended the lofty cliff, and in a reasonable time afterwards again returned, with several other gentlemen.

“Several descended with him to the edge of the precipice—a dangerous declivity—bringing with them ropes, slings, &c., and indeed every other requisite that the short period of their absence allowed them to procure, or whatever appeared to them necessary for the object they had in view. Having arrived at the brink of the precipice, somewhat in a direct line (though still above us) with the rock upon which we were—the distance I would compute to be from a hundred and fifty to two hundred feet—they commenced throwing stones to which were attached small lines, several in their turn; one having failed, another tried, and so on, till they were sufficiently convinced that all such efforts were altogether fruitless—the strongest of them not being able to pitch such stone more than half way towards us.

“Some one then suggested the propriety of trying slings, which they immediately prepared—in turn taking off their cloaks, coats, &c., having first tied round their waist a strong rope as a prudent precaution of security for their safety in making the bold attempt, viz., of slinging a stone, having attached to it a line, to us unfortunate expectants upon the rock. These efforts, too, like the former, were attended with want of success.

“Mr. John Galwey, with whom was Mr. Edward Hull and other gentlemen, apparently in a most perilous position confronting us, formed a footing with crowbars, &c. Mr. Galwey was then observed several times to try to pass a duck with a small line fastened to its leg, but without effect. We also discerned him coiling a wire or line into the barrel of a musquet, with the view of firing off the ball to which it was connected, hoping that when the ball should have passed the rock the line might fall upon it. This expedient too was ingenious, but unsuccessful.

“The next attempt for our rescue was thought of and entered upon by a brave young gentleman, Richard Knolles, Esq.—son of the worthy Captain Knolles of that neighbourhood—by which he nearly lost his life. He had with him a favourite dog, well trained to the water, and apparently to his command, with which fine animal he descended as nearly to the edge of the beach as the billows, breakers, and foaming spray would allow him, and rather farther, for, being young, brave, and anxious to be the means of saving us, he ventured somewhat too far for his safety, being met by a tremendous surf, which struck him, and dashed him above some twenty feet or more with such violence, that he was not only wetted to the skin, but had the narrowest escape that man could well have of being lashed into the furious sea and yawning gulf below him.”

The news of their cruel sufferings having ere this spread around the country—this being Sunday, and rather more favourable than the previous days—thousands of both sexes assembled from miles around to witness the awful scene. They could clearly distinguish among the vast assemblage upon the cliffs a great number of ladies by their veils, drapery, &c., who doubtless had been attracted to the fatal spot through sympathy for their peculiar hardships. The shore appeared so near, and the day was so fine, that through the greater part of it they did not think, nor could bring themselves to believe it possible, that they were cruelly doomed to suffer another night upon the desolate rock; and it was thought by some (seeing that the distance to the cliff on the mainland was not very great) that a brave plunge into the waves would bear them on shore.

Hunger was keen indeed; it was piercing; and perceiving the people upon the cliff apparently unable to give them relief, one resolute but unfortunate man volunteered, and attempted to swim to shore, and, creeping down the rock, bade them farewell. They wished him, with all their hearts, success, each meaning to follow his example, if successful, rather than remain to perish on the rock. He rushed boldly into the surf; they all awaited his re-appearance with breathless anxiety, but he was rapidly hurried into the deep below, and they could discern him no more. All such attempts, or hope of such, to gain the shore by these means were then abandoned.

The second night was now closing fast upon them, and having observed that some preparations were being made on shore to extend ropes from promontory to promontory—a distance of from half a mile to a mile—they were all hovering between hope and fear. A deathless silence reigned among them. Their gallant captain at length exclaimed, “I have it! They are carrying one end of the line to yon jutting promontory (east), and are running with the other end to the other promontory (west); the two ends of the line being drawn tight in opposite directions, the centre will overhang the rock, and be within our reach.” As the sequel proved, his judgment was well founded.

“We now,” says the narrator, “placed our whole reliance on the success of the efforts of those on shore with the ropes; but the apparatus employed was imperfect—time passing rapidly, and the night quickly approaching. Just at the commencement of dusk the rope reached us, which we were enabled to seize by a small tripping line that hung pendent from it when it was stretched over our heads, being drawn tight at each promontory by the many assembled.” The captain, or some one of the men, caught the line and drew it downwards, when all seized it, and there was a wild huzza! The captain had been right in his conjecture. The line was extended from headland to headland.

“When the rope was conveyed to us,” writes the doctor, “we all cheered, as if re-animated by a new existence; and although it reached us too late to be of any service on that night, such was our eagerness to be delivered from the rock, that one man volunteered, and immediately descended to the base of it, and by a triangular knot made himself fast to the hawser, which had been conveyed to us by means of the small lines already alluded to. The rope, or hawser, although not a new one, I think was sufficiently strong to bear one at a time to shore, and, indeed, up the lofty cliff, in safety; but a boy who had been in care of the pigs, unfortunately, through over-anxiety to escape from the rock, descended, and most imprudently attached himself also at the same time to it, notwithstanding our earnest remonstrances to the contrary; and when they said ‘all was ready’—meaning that they were secured to the rope—at the same time directing us to shout to those on the mainland ‘to pull them ashore,’ we did so, and they immediately drew them towards the cliff, upon which we heard a splash, but could see nothing, it being at this time dark.

“During the night, when we occasionally conversed—for we had but little to say, each being wrapped up in his own gloomy meditations—we felt a glow of satisfaction that at last a contrivance had been resorted to by which two of us at least were rescued from spending another night upon the rock, we not at this time at all considering that both had met a watery grave, for we could see nothing—it was dark—neither could we hear anything, from the howling of the storm and roaring of the tempest.

“In the morning, however, in consequence of the rope having broken, we entertained a melancholy surmise of their unhappy fate; but upon landing, in the afternoon of Monday, we ascertained the piteous fact. It was rumoured, but it proved to be untrue, that the peasants, during the second night (Sunday) of our dreadful suspense upon the rock, had cut the rope. This arose in consequence of its having been found divided early on Monday morning.”

Next morning the good Samaritans ashore repaired to the scene, and eagerly scanned the rock, to see whether any still survived. Among them was Lady Roberts, who came with thirty of her men, with a car laden with ropes and other materials necessary for their deliverance. The first plan attempted early on Monday morning was with Manby’s apparatus—_i.e._, firing a two-pound shot with a line attached from a howitzer. After many fruitless attempts this plan was relinquished. Slings, &c., were then tried, but with the same result.