I now began to reflect on the small chance we had of being saved—twenty-two people in an open boat—upwards of three hundred miles from the land—in a boisterous climate, and the whole crew worn out with fatigue! The palms of the crew’s hands were already so flayed it could not be expected that they could do much execution with the oars—while thus reflecting on our perilous situation, one of our oldest seamen, who at this moment was standing near me, turned his head aside to wipe away a tear—I could not refrain from sympathizing with him—my heart was already full;—the captain perceiving my despondency bade me be of good cheer, and called me a young lubber.
The boat having been hoisted out, and such necessaries placed in her as were deemed requisite, one of the hands was sent aloft to lash the colors downwards to the main-top-mast shrouds; which having done, he placed himself on the crosstrees, to look around him, and almost instantly hallooed out,—“A sail.”—It would be impossible to describe the ecstatic emotions of the crew: every man was aloft, in order to be satisfied; though, a minute before, not one of the crew was able to stand upright.
The sail was on our weather-bow, bearing right down on us with a smart breeze. She soon perceived us, but hauled her wind several times, in order to examine our ship. As she approached nearer she clearly perceived our calamitous situation, and hastened to our relief.
She proved to be a Philadelphia schooner, bound to Cape Francois, in St. Domingo. The captain took us all on board in the most humane and friendly manner, and after casting our boat adrift, proceeded on his voyage. When we perceived our ship from the vessel on which we were now happily on board, her appearance was truly deplorable.
The captain of the schooner congratulated us on our fortunate escape, and expressed his surprise that the ship should remain so long on her beam ends, in such a heavy sea, without capsizing. We soon began to distance the wreck, by this time very low in the water, and shortly after lost sight of her.
The evening began to approach fast, when a man loosing the main-top-sail, descried a sail directly in the same course on our quarter. We made sail for her, and soon came within hail of her. She proved to be a brig from Glasgow, bound to Antigua. It was now determined, between the captains, that half of our people should remain in the schooner, and the captain, mate, eight of the crew, and myself, should get on board the brig. On our arrival at Antigua we met with much kindness and humanity.
LOSS OF HIS MAJESTY’S SHIP LITCHFIELD.
The Litchfield, Captain Barton, left Ireland on the 11th of November, 1758, in company with several other men of war and transports, under the command of Commodore Keppel, intended for the reduction of Goree. The voyage was prosperous till the 28th, when at eight in the evening I took charge of the watch, and the weather turned out very squally with rain. At nine it was extremely dark, with much lightning, the wind varying from S. W. to W. N. W. At half past nine, had a very hard squall. Captain Barton came upon deck and staid till ten; then left orders to keep sight of the commodore, and to make what sail the weather would permit. At eleven, saw the commodore bearing south, but the squalls coming on so heavy, were obliged to hand the main-top-sail, and at twelve o’clock, were under our courses.
November the 29, at one in the morning, I left the deck in charge of the first lieutenant; the light, which we took to be the commodore’s right ahead, bearing S. wind W. S. W. blowing very hard; at six in the morning I was awakened by a great shock, and a confused noise of the men on deck. I ran up, thinking some ship had run foul of us, for, by my own reckoning, and that of every other person in the ship, we were at least 35 leagues distant from land; but, before I could reach the quarter-deck, the ship gave a great stroke upon the ground, and the sea broke all over her. Just after this, I could perceive the land, rocky, rugged and uneven, about two cables’ length from us. The ship lying with her broadside to windward, the masts soon went overboard, carrying some men with them. It is impossible for any one but a sufferer to feel our distress at this time; the masts, yards, and sails hanging alongside in a confused heap; the ship beating violently upon the rocks; the waves curling up to an incredible height, then dashing down with such force as if they would immediately have split the ship to pieces, which we, indeed, every moment expected. Having a little recovered from our confusion, saw it necessary to get every thing we could over to the larboard side, to prevent the ship from heeling off, and exposing the deck to the sea. Some of the people were very earnest to get the boats out contrary to advice; and, after much intreaty, notwithstanding a most terrible sea, one of the boats was launched, and eight of the best men jumped into her, but she had scarcely got to the ship’s stern, when she was whirled to the bottom, and every soul in her perished. The rest of the boats were soon washed to pieces on the deck.—We then made a raft of the davit, capstan-bars and some boards, and waited with resignation, for divine Providence to assist us.