From Candia’s Bay th’ unwilling ship betray’d,
No longer fawns beneath the fair disguise,”
and “not long after, there arose against it a tempestuous wind called Euroclydon,” before which the ship drave under bare poles. We know that she had to be undergirded; cables being passed under her hull to keep her from parting; and lightened, by throwing the freight overboard. For fourteen days the ship was driven hither and thither, till at length she was wrecked off Melita. Sudden gales, whirlwinds, and typhoons are not uncommon in the Mediterranean; albeit soft winds and calm seas alternate with them.
On the 22nd May, 1798, Nelson, while in the Gulf of Genoa, was assailed by a [pg 105]sudden storm, which carried away all the Vanguard’s topmasts, washed one man overboard, killed an unfortunate middy and a seaman on board, and wounded others. This ship, which acted her name at the Nile only two months afterwards, rolled and laboured so dreadfully, and was in such distress, that Nelson himself declared, “The meanest frigate out of France would have been an unwelcome guest!” An officer relates that in the middle of the Gulf of Lyons, Lord Collingwood’s vessel, the Ocean, a roomy 98-gun ship, was struck by a sea in the middle of a gale, that threw her on her beam-ends, [pg 106]so much so that the men on the Royal Sovereign called out, “The admiral’s gone down!” She righted again, however, but was terribly disabled. Lord Collingwood said afterwards that the heavy guns were suspended almost vertically, and that “he thought the topsides were actually parting from the lower frame of the ship.” Admiral Smyth, in his important physical, hydrographical, and nautical work on the Mediterranean, relates that in 1812, when on the Rodney, a new 74-gun ship, she was so torn by the united violence of wind and wave, that the admiral had to send her to England, although sadly in need of ships. He adds, however, that noble as was her appearance on the waters, “she was one of that hastily-built batch of men-of-war sarcastically termed the Forty Thieves!”
Many are the varieties of winds accompanied by special characteristics met in the Mediterranean, and, indeed, sudden squalls are common enough in all usually calm waters. The writer well remembers such an incident in the beautiful Bay of San Francisco, California. He had, with friends, started in the morning from the gay city of “Frisco” on a deep-sea fishing excursion. The vessel was what is technically known as a “plunger,” a strongly-built two-masted boat, with deck and cabins, used in the bay and coast trade of the North Pacific, or for fishing purposes. When the party, consisting of five ladies, four gentlemen, the master and two men, started in the morning, there was scarcely a breath of wind or a ripple on the water, and oars as large as those used on a barge were employed to propel the vessel.
“The sea was bright, and the bark rode well,”
and at length the desired haven, a sheltered nook, with fine cliffs, seaweed-covered rocks, and deep, clear water, was reached, and a dozen strong lines, with heavy sinkers, put out. The sea was bountiful: in a couple of hours enough fish were caught to furnish a capital lunch for all. A camp was formed on the beach, a large fire of driftwood lighted, and sundry hampers unpacked, from which the necks of bottles had protruded suspiciously. It was an al fresco picnic by the seaside. The sky was blue, the weather was delightful, “and all went merry as a marriage bell.” Later, while some wandered to a distance and bathed and swam, others clambered over the hills, among the flowers and waving wild oats for which the country is celebrated. Then, as evening drew on, preparations were made for a return to the city, and “All aboard” was the signal, for the wind was freshening. All remained on deck, for there was an abundance of overcoats and rugs, and shortly the passing schooners and yachts could hear the strains of minstrelsy from a not altogether incompetent choir, several of the ladies on board being musically inclined. The sea gives rise to thoughts of the sea. The reader may be sure that “The Bay of Biscay,” “The Larboard Watch,” “The Minute Gun,” and “What are the Wild Waves saying?” came among a score of others. Meantime, the wind kept freshening, but all of the number being well accustomed to the sea, heeded it not. Suddenly, in the midst of one of the gayest songs, a squall struck the vessel, and as she was carrying all sail, put her nearly on her beam-ends. So violent was the shock, that most things movable on deck, including the passengers, were thrown or slid to the lower side, many boxes and baskets going overboard. These would have been trifles, but alas, there is something sadder to relate. As one of the men was helping to take in sail, a great sea dashed over the vessel and threw him overboard, and for a few seconds only, his stalwart form was [pg 107]seen struggling in the waves. Ropes were thrown to, or rather towards him, an empty barrel and a coop pitched overboard, but it was hopeless—
“That cry is ‘Help!’ where no help can come,
For the White Squall rides on the surging wave,”
and he disappeared in an “ocean grave,” amid the mingled foam and driving spray. No more songs then; all gaiety was quenched, and many a tear-drop clouded eyes so bright before. The vessel, under one small sail only (the jib), drove on, and in half an hour broke out of obscurity and mist, and was off the wharfs and lights of San Francisco in calm water. The same distance had occupied over four hours in the morning.