The George Suaicar, thus honourably mentioned, speaks for himself with the modesty of a brave sailor. His position on the ship was that of boatswain’s mate. His testimony has special value as bearing upon the earlier passages of the tragedy:—
‘On Monday,’ he says, assuming a staid, log-book form, ‘we left Queenstown in the afternoon, after putting some passengers on board the pilot-boat “Petrel,” who desired to be landed. We proceeded on with calm weather and water smooth. We made Ballycotton Light at half-past seven P.M.; and Youghal Light, on the Irish coast, at half-past eight. Reached the Menay Light at nine; made the Nook Light in half an hour; and sighted Tuskar at about half-past eleven o’clock. On Tuesday morning saw Bardsey, at which time the wind began to freshen. The wind heading, we took in the square-sails; and at ten o’clock A.M., the wind increasing, took in all the fore and aft sails. In the afternoon made Holyhead at half-past one, and at half-past four were right ahead of Holyhead harbour. Could see the steamship “Great Eastern.” Off Bardsey the steam-tug “United Kingdom” came alongside and handed on board some newspapers, asking if we would give a free passage to eleven riggers, as we were going to Liverpool, and the tug was not going until she got a tow. The riggers were taken on board. At a quarter to eight on Tuesday evening were abreast of the Skerries, distant about a mile and a half. At this time the wind had increased to a heavy gale, and the ship was making little or no progress in the water. She was driving up with the strength of the tide, and nearing the shore; the steam had no effect, but we did all to keep the ship off. The maintopsail was lowered, but she still drifted. Clewed up the maintopsail, and the hands were sent up to furl it. The wind had now increased considerably, almost blew the sail from the yard, and it became entangled on the starboard side. It was difficult to get the sail stowed. At this time Mr. Bean, the third officer, with several seamen and myself, were trying to make the sail fast, but could not succeed in accomplishing it. Shortly afterwards orders were given to cock-bill the port anchor, and let go. This was done, giving her seventy-five fathoms of chain. The vessel was steaming the whole time. Finding she was dragging, we let go the starboard anchor. Still finding her dragging, we paid out all the port chain. The vessel was still steaming, and the wind had now increased to a perfect hurricane. We then went to get the stream anchor up, and while doing so the starboard chain parted. I then felt the ship canting over to port, and fancied the wind had changed.
‘Orders were then given to cut away the mainmast, which was done, and in a few minutes afterwards she struck on a bank. The captain gave orders to the engineer to give her as much steam as he could, to harden her on the bank. It was then about three-quarters ebb tide. The place where she struck was at the west of Moelfra, eastward of Point Lynas. Heard the captain give orders to starboard the helm, to keep her on the shore, so that the sea would not have so much power on her broadside. When she became hardened on, the chief officer gave me and the boatswain orders to cut the main and maintopmast stays, as they were lying across the boat, so that the boat could be cleared in case of need. We did so. The chief boatswain and myself were afterwards sitting on a spar, on the deck-house, the sea at the time making a complete breach over the ship. I then went forward to look out, and ascertain whether we were on sand or rock, when I discovered the land distant about thirty yards. I went back, and told the chief officer that it was land; and he said, “We will loose the foretopmast-staysail, and when the tide makes up run her up.” I said it would be as well to give her the foresail. It was then getting daylight. I volunteered to go ashore with a line to get a hawser ashore, immediately after which I felt the ship striking heavier than ever, supposing it was in consequence of the tide making. The sea still broke over her with even greater violence than ever. The captain was at this time on deck, standing by the steam telegraph. I told the chief officer again I was willing to go ashore with a line, and do everything to save life. Asked him if he would allow me a few minutes to put my lifebelt on; and he said of course he would. I afterwards told the boatswain I was going to try and get a line on shore, and he said it was useless, the sea was running too high. Afterwards had a small line slung round my body, and wished some one to volunteer to attend to it while I swam ashore. After some hesitation, a man volunteered. Just as I was being lowered into the water, some one called out that there was a line on shore from forward. Upon hearing that I did not go. A hawser was got on shore and made fast to a rock, and with this contrivance myself and some of the other seamen saved our lives. The hawser was made fast by several of the inhabitants on shore, who came to render assistance.
‘After the ship struck, all the passengers were directed to go aft until the hawser could be properly got out, so that as many as possible might be saved. Shortly after this the vessel parted amidships; and a large number of passengers, standing on the deck where she parted, were swept into the sea and drowned. The boats were smashed to pieces by the fury of the gale, and the others could not be lowered, so that none of them could be made available. The passengers saved were driven on shore by the force of the waves. Sixteen of the crew got ashore by the hawser. An endeavour was made to get a second hawser ashore to rescue the female passengers; but this could not be accomplished. Not a single female passenger was saved. In three hours after the vessel struck she began to go to pieces. Saw about seventy passengers on the port bow, all anxiously awaiting some means of getting them on shore; but a heavy sea which struck the starboard bow stove it in, the ship gave a lurch, and the people were all driven into the sea and drowned. Some of the passengers saved were thrown upon the rocks, and picked up by the crew and others who came to render assistance.’
From the narratives, then, of Mr. Russell and the Boatswain’s Mate, this much may be gathered—that the ‘Royal Charter’ had drifted (shall we say had been foolishly allowed to drift?) too near the coast; that the hurricane had gradually increased, and as the vessel laboured so heavily, the masts had been cut away to ease her; that the screw, which had to an extent served to keep the ship from striking, became suddenly entangled with the falling spars, and ceased to work; that the strong wind and stronger waves then bore the craft against the rocks; that, through the courage of a seaman, a rope was carried to the coast with a ‘boatswain’s chair’ secured upon it; that (when a sufficient number of the crew had landed to work ‘this contrivance’) the passengers had been summoned to be sent ashore; that, just as they were congregating amidships, a crash was heard, the vessel parted, and fell to pieces like a house of cards; that a few hasty farewells, a quick exchange of hopeless glances, a waving of hands which heretofore had been joined in all life’s struggles, and a last wild cry to heaven, through which the wintry sun was slowly breaking, followed that awful crash; that the ship gradually sank and the sea gradually swelled; that a few bodies, cruelly mutilated, were washed upon the shelving crags; that the sun rose higher and higher, until at length its beams flickered among the crimson gouts upon the faces of the rocks; and, finally, that the Welsh villagers gathered upon the spot, and, with true Welsh hospitality, bore the bodies of the unfortunate passengers to their homes.
And the sun set and the moon came up; and the wives of the officers and crew—and all those who knew, or thought, they had friends or relatives on board—assembled upon the spot, searching along the shore for tokens or memorials however slight from which LIFE or DEATH might be interpreted, and suspense changed, for better or for worse, to certainty.
Other narratives come in at this point, all more or less afflicting. The first is that of James Dean, which is remarkable as showing how, in the most harrowing exigencies, the presence of mind of some men never deserts them. Dean is a smith returned from Melbourne, and he speaks bravely and bluffly, after the manner of his class. In reading his story, it is well to mark the religion and heroism which breathe through the words I have underlined.
‘He says he was in bed in a berth with four other passengers when the ship struck, and he was aroused by one of his comrades exclaiming, “I think we’re lost.” He dressed himself, and after a few minutes’ prayer, ascended on deck, where he had not been more than a very brief period when the vessel parted in the centre “like the snapping of a tobacco stump.” The people on board stood petrified, as it were, seemingly unable to make the slightest struggle for their lives; whilst their terror was increased by the awful scenes presented as unfortunate creatures fell and were crushed to atoms in the chasm separating the two parts of the ship. He never for a moment lost his presence of mind. He saw that most of those in the water struggled towards the large pieces of the wreck, and he saw also that most of those who trusted to these heavy portions of the vessel were crushed to death, and their bodies dreadfully mutilated against the rocks. Though totally unable to swim he jumped overboard, and just seized a box he saw floating near him. Almost at the very moment he seized this a head was thrust under his arm, and a second claimant appeared. Dean said it would not support both of them; so as soon as possible he left the box for another piece of wood, and with this he was thrown upon the shore. He left his support and tried to gain a position of security; but ere he could do so a wave overpowered him and carried him back to sea, where he became entangled in the floating remnants of the vessel, and it was with the greatest difficulty that he extricated himself. When he had succeeded in this, he was again thrown on shore. Whilst momentarily expecting the arrival of another wave, a rope was thrown to him, and by it he was finally drawn out of danger, without experiencing any injuries or bruises other than of a very trifling description. He soon recovered strength. He was bringing home a cheque for a considerable sum of money, and before his voyage he had taken the precaution to enclose this in a waterproof belt, which he kept around his waist. This cheque is therefore saved, and his only losses are his clothes and a small sum of money which was with them.’
Mr. John Bradbury speaks not only on the accident, but gives us a glimpse of the earlier portion of the voyage. His sufferings on escaping from the wreck were very great, and will serve as a hint of what may have been endured before death by many of those whose bones are now bleaching beneath the waters. But for his athletic person and robust constitution, John Bradbury—who speaks as under—would, without doubt, have been numbered with the lost:—
‘We sailed from Melbourne on the 26th of August, and had on board, as I know, about five hundred passengers and crew. The captain was Mr. Thomas Taylor; the chief officer, Mr. Stevens; and the second mate, Mr. Cowie. The ship ran almost entirely under canvas up to the equinoctial line, when she encountered strong head winds. Her screw power was then brought into requisition. On the 10th of September, about four o’clock in the morning, the weather being thick and dark, we ran close past a large iceberg. Mr. Cowie was on watch, and had it not been for his able manœuvring, the ship would have been in imminent danger. The passengers showed their appreciation of his ability by presenting him with a testimonial on the eve of the dreadful disaster. We arrived at Queenstown on Monday forenoon, when twelve passengers disembarked. We left Queenstown about two o’clock, under steam alone. The ship was laid on her course for Liverpool, but the storm had the effect of diverting her to such an extent that I saw the “Great Eastern” at Holyhead. The wind was then blowing very hard. We sighted the light on Point Lynas about five o’clock in the afternoon. The sea was running high, though not equal to what we had experienced on the passage; but the wind was stronger. It was found we could make no headway, and two anchors were dropped. She dragged her anchors, and the engines were working, but I understood the screw was broken.
‘About two o’clock on Wednesday morning the vessel struck. A great number of passengers were then in their berths; but they suddenly rushed upon deck, many of them but partially dressed. There was not much confusion at first, but it increased as people became aware of the real danger. I believe the captain was not sober; but Captain Withers, who was a passenger, and the chief mate and officers, did all they could to save the ship. A rope was got out from the head of the vessel, but I cannot say how. A kind of rope chain was made and placed upon it. By means of this some were drawn along the hawser to the shore. When the rope was seen there was a great rush to the forecastle deck, in order to get the first advantage. A large wave washed over her head and carried them into the sea. Others followed, but only to meet a similar fate. I was standing near the davit of a boat on the poop, when a sea jammed me fast between the boat and something else. I was beaten about and my ankle dislocated, and then my leg was broken. I then became insensible for a short time, but on regaining my consciousness I got a rope, and fastening it, lowered myself down from the poop into the sea, upon a piece of the wreck, along with the storekeeper. I was knocked up and down, turned topsy turvy, driven and battered against this thing and the other till I lighted upon a piece of cabin framework, and paddled myself along with my hands. The waves washed me three times on the rocks, and took me back, battering me about. The next time I fell between two rocks, which held me, and I was picked up by two men. Four men brought me to this house, which is kept by Mr. Owens; who has been very kind to me. My leg was set by Mr. Thomas of Liverpool.’
The simplicity of that statement must touch the strongest. Captain Withers, it may be worth mentioning, was returning from Australia, after having lost his ship in the Pacific. His exertions throughout the storm were very great, and it was under his advice that the masts were cut away.[C] There are those who say that if the ship had been earlier dismasted she would not have gone to pieces. I can speak with no authority upon this point. This, however, I know, Captain Taylor so loved his craft that when we ran short of provisions coming home, and might, with two or three hours’ supply more of fuel have made the Island of St. Vincent, and taken in a stock both of firing and food, he preferred running all the hazard of ‘keeping on,’ rather than touch the ‘beautiful spars’ of his vessel. The loss to his owners in consequence was many thousand pounds. In compensation to second and third class passengers alone, they had to pay something like fifteen hundred pounds. I can, therefore, readily understand that the dismasting of the vessel may have been unfortunately delayed until it was too late to save her. At the same time it is but fair to the memory of the captain—than whom a braver sailor never trod a deck—to say that all such rumours should be accepted with caution. Colonial readers will well remember the many absurd and contradictory reports which were current when the ‘Dunbar’ went ashore.
[C] The following appears in the Morning Herald of November 2nd:—‘Captain Withers, the master of the wrecked vessel “Virginia” (lost in the South Pacific), with nine men, after being nineteen days at sea in an open boat, and enduring innumerable privations, all arrived safe at the Feejee islands, and thence they were conveyed to Sydney, New South Wales. On arriving at Sydney, Captain Withers after seeing that the crew were provided with clothes, went on to Melbourne, and took a passage home to England in the “Royal Charter.” He is the “Captain Withers” mentioned by one of the persons saved from the wreck of the “Royal Charter,” who behaved with such noble fortitude and unflinching bravery when all seemed lost, and when it was a mockery to hope against such a fearful tempest. But he was doomed to die a sailor’s death, for the last seen of him was when he called out to Mr. Stevens and Captain Taylor, “God bless you, Stevens! God bless you, Taylor! Keep firm.” The ship broke up immediately after: the rest already too well known.’ Strange are the ways of Providence! Captain Withers was saved, after terrible privations, from perishing in the South Pacific to be dashed to pieces on the rocks of Wales! [Back to text]