The Loss of the “Cospatrick.”
The Cospatrick sailed from London for Auckland on the 11th September, 1874, with general cargo, 429 passengers and a crew of 44 men under Captain Elmslie.
Tuesday, 17th November, found the ship to the south’ard of the Cape, the wind being very light from the nor’west. And here is the tragedy as it was given by Henry Macdonald, the second mate, one of the three survivors. He stated that after keeping the first watch, he had not been long below when he was aroused by the cry of “Fire!” Without stopping to dress, he rushed on deck and found that dense clouds of smoke were pouring up from the fore peak, a fire having broken out in the bosun’s locker, which was full of oakum, rope, varnish and paint.
The first thing to do was to get the ship’s head before the wind, at the same time the fire engine was rigged, and soon the fore part of the ship was being deluged with water. But somehow or other the ship was allowed to come head to wind, which drove the smoke aft in suffocating clouds. From this moment all discipline seems to have been lost; flames began to burst forth in the ’tween decks and out through every scuttle and air vent, and they were soon roaring up the tarred shrouds, so that within an hour and a half of the discovery of the fire the flames had got such a hold that the ship was doomed.
The emigrants now took panic, and, shouting and screaming, made a rush for the boats. The starboard quarter boat was lowered down, but immediately she touched the water such a crowd of demented emigrants swarmed down the ship’s side into her that she was capsized. Whilst the longboat was being swung out of her chocks, her bow caught fire, and in the end only the port and starboard lifeboats got safely away from the ship’s side, the one with 42 and the other with 39 people.
“CRUSADER.”
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“COSPATRICK.”
Photo by De Maus.
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The two boats stayed by the ship until the afternoon of the 19th, when she sank beneath the waves, a blackened, charred and smoking hull. One can scarcely imagine the horror of the scene during this weary waiting for the end of the ship. The people in the boats watched the main and mizen mast fall, and heard shrieks from the crowded after part of the ship, as many luckless wretches were crushed in their fall. Then the stern with its old Blackwall quarter galleries was blown out by the flames and smoke. Lastly the captain was seen to throw his wife overboard and spring after her himself.
But the tragedy was far from finished with the sinking of the ship. Owing to the panic and confusion the 81 survivors in the boats had only their night clothes and were without food or water, mast or sail, and the starboard lifeboat of which the second mate took command had only one oar. The rest of the horrible story is best told in Henry Macdonald’s own words, and the following is his statement, given at the inquiry afterwards:—
The two boats kept company the 20th and 21st, when it commenced to blow, and we got separated during the night. I whistled and shouted, but when daylight came we could see nothing of the other boat. Thirst began to tell severely on all of us. A man named Bentley fell overboard while steering the boat and was drowned. Three men became mad that day and died. We then threw the bodies overboard. On the 23rd, the wind was blowing hard and a high sea running. We were continually bailing the water out. We rigged a sea anchor and rode to it; but it was only made fast to the end of the boat’s painter, and we lost it. Four men died, and we were so hungry and thirsty that we drank the blood and ate the livers of two of them. We lost our only oar then. On the 24th, there was a strong gale, and we rigged another sea anchor, making it fast with anything we could get. There were six more deaths that day. She shipped water till she was nearly full. On the 25th there was a light breeze and it was awful hot. We were reduced that day to eight, and three of them out of their minds. We all felt very bad that day. Early on the morning of the 26th, not being daylight, a boat passed close to us running. We hailed but got no answer. She was not more than 50 yards off. She was a foreigner. I think she must have heard us. One more died that day. We kept on sucking the blood of those who died. The 27th was squally all round, but we never caught a drop of water, although we tried to do it. Two more died that day. We threw one overboard, but were too weak to lift the other.
There were then five left—two able seamen, one ordinary, myself and one passenger. The passenger was out of his mind. All had drunk sea water. We were all dozing, when the madman bit my foot, and I woke up. We then saw a ship bearing down upon us. She proved to be the British Sceptre, from Calcutta to Dundee. We were taken on board and treated very kindly. I got very bad on board of her. I was very nigh at death’s door. We were not recovered when we got to St. Helena.
So ends the second mate’s statement. The passenger and ordinary seaman both died a day or two after they were rescued, thus, out of 473 souls on the Cospatrick, only three men were saved, the second mate and the two able seamen.