THE FUNERAL.
The procession moved from the dead-house at a little before five o'clock. There were seven hearses, preceded by two officers of the Mounted Police force. Each hearse was attended on its side by mounted policemen, under the command of Captain M'Lerie. The last hearse contained the remains of Captain Steine, a retired naval officer, and the coffin was wrapped in the Union Jack, and was followed by a company of sailors and two officers of her Majesty's ship Herald and Iris.
There were four mourning coaches and a long string of carriages, of which that of the Hon. Stuart A. Donaldson took the lead. One of the mourners attending the funeral was Captain Macbeth, uncle to the late Captain Green.
The band of the Artillery Companies formed a part of the procession, and played the "Dead March from Saul" with fine effect. A company of Artillery with two officers, between whom rode his Excellency the Governor's Aide-de-Camp followed. The footpaths throughout the streets of this city were literally walled with people. In proportion to the number of inhabitants, never can we recollect a scene in which the feeling of the people was so keenly and manifestly exhibited.
The shops were, with one or two exceptions, closed along the whole line of road, and the streets thronged with silent and awe-struck spectators, many of whom seemed much moved, while the knell, sounding from some of the church bells, and flags hoisted half mast high, added materially to the general gloom.
It was night before the funeral reached the Cemetery at O'Connell Town, where the last sad obsequies were performed. The Rev. C. C. Kemp read the service for the dead, in portions of which the large concourse joined reverently: and, having taken a last look at the grave, began slowly to disperse. It has been remarked that, although the time had not been specially chosen for the ceremony, the calmness of a dim moonlight seemed not unsuited to the close of one of the most painful tragedies which has yet taken its place in the annals of our Colony.
Opinions are of course somewhat divided as to the manner in which (judging from Johnson's evidence and other circumstances) the ill-fated Dunbar was commanded and manoeuvred on that dark and memorable night; as to the amount of censure (if any) to be attached to Captain Green, and as to numerous material facts, a large number of persons exonerate the captain altogether; others, although delivering themselves with moderation and delicacy, feel compelled to consider that much lamented gentleman to have been in some degree to blame for his orders and arrangements previous to the catastrophe. This latter view of the matter has found a forcible but temperate expression in the columns of the Sydney Morning Herald, on the 25th instant, in striking and eloquent language. The justice however of such a view has not been generally recognised, either by the public, or the friends of Captain Green. It is easy for landsmen and other self-constituted critics to pass sentence now on that brave man, whose cause must be judged in his absence—the inexorable King of Terrors having forbidden him to enter upon his defence, or even to hear his accusers. Nevertheless, it should be borne in mind that the land at Botany, seen at about 7 p.m. on Thursday night, was made by mere dead reckoning, the commander not having (as it would appear) seen the sun for several days; the time when it was so made being already night, the weather dark, tempestuous, and rainy. What if the land thus seen through the murky atmosphere were but so imperfectly observed that Captain Green might well be deceived as to its real distance, and reasonably suppose himself to be a mile or two nearer to, or farther off from it than he actually was? Would not that very probable circumstance interfere with the course to be pursued, and justify (nay even demand) measures, which have under adverse circumstances, been attended with such unhappy results? Dead upon a lee shore at an uncertain distance, and with a most uncertain light, the wind and sea both setting in fearfully towards the land, it may have been an awful fact, known only to one brave heart who fought it out to the last, that under all these conjunctures the sailing qualities of the Dunbar would not permit her to keep out to sea that night. Hour after hour, minute after minute, notwithstanding all careful steering she made a lee-way, which, no change of wind occurring, must at last have thrown her bodily somewhere upon the coast. This lee-way could not be securely calculated upon, even by him who knew the Dunbar so well, because his first idea of distance when he sighted Botany was, to say the least, uncertain, if not untrue. Captain Green shaped his course for the North Head (it was of that he spoke at the last), but he only fetched the fatal rocks at the Gap. It seems doubtful to many if he could have done anything more than what he did do, and thus his duty to the utmost performed, Green met his death with calmness, as a brave man should. The only particular pang that might then have shot through him would be this—that he would be more or less condemned unheard, carrying with him his own strong, unanswerable defence. God alone knows all he had to struggle against, and to weigh in his mind that night.
One good result of this will probably be that we shall at length have proper arrangements for lighting the rocky portal of our harbour, and for something less feeble and inefficient than our present Pilot system; crying defects for which it is ungenerous and unjust to blame a Government recently formed, and still struggling against a powerful Opposition. These two discreditable items are legacies for which, others are virtually, although no longer legally, responsible. The following practical remarks from a well known Colonial author on these matters appeared in the Sydney Morning Herald of the 26th instant, and seem to merit particular attention. "I begin," says the writer, "by denying the assertion often made, that Sydney Heads are safe to enter in any weather; still, let it be understood that I speak of nightwork only. With the wind off the land, smooth water, moon, stars, and all other assistances of that kind, it may be well enough, but even then it is fit to shake the nerves of a man coming off a long voyage, when he gets fairly in the entrance—for the light is then lost—and sees nothing but the towers of black rock in one unbroken line frowning defiance at him. If such be the coast when a weather-shore, what must it be when a lee one. The harbour is well enough to make, no one can contradict that, but with a strong wind blowing on the land—the ship scudding, and thick sudden showers of rain, the characteristic of our east winds, making the darkness impenetrable; there perhaps is not another port in the world more terribly confusing to a seaman to enter than the loudly-lauded one of Sydney. In most other ports, or estuaries, many mistakes may be made, and yet with little or no loss of life; here there only can be one made, but that is the final and fatal one. An error of a little half-mile, as in the case of the poor Dunbar, and all is lost; a single look from the most inexperienced eye reads on that rampart of cliffs nothing but rude and mangled death. If I have said anything to shake the general belief that Sydney is such a safe port to enter, let us now see what may be done to make it safer, and to prevent, if possible, by human means, the recurrence of two such shipwrecks as have slain their hundreds before our eyes. [Alluding to the wreck of the Edward Lombe in 1834.] Although with only an interval of some twenty-three years between them, methinks we have had time to think over the matter, and now to move ourselves.
Prevention the first.—More lights. Had I—or any other, a twelvemonth ago, written as much, we should have been "pooh poohed" for our pains; had we been able to advance the matter in the House of Parliament, we should have been told by the Opposition, or the Government, whichever had the economical perplexity at the time, that "the country could not afford any more lights." But "the country" can't, and the people won't afford any more losses like the last one, and therefore now it can be both boldly said and written, that something must and shall be done in the matter.