Another survivor, after detailing the facts preliminary to the disaster, said: “The waves broke heavily on the vessel; the chimney became loose, and first reeled to leeward, then to windward, and tumbled over with a great crash. The mainmast then went overboard, and remained hanging to the vessel by the rigging. The captain still assured us we should be saved, and that assistance would shortly arrive. I requested him to fire a gun; he said he had none on board. A small bell was then rung, but its noise would probably be lost in the roar of the wind and waves. Some of the passengers asked the captain to hoist a light; he said he had none; but we knew he had a lantern, for one of the crew took it round when he collected the checks, about half an hour before the vessel struck. The confusion occasioned by the falling of the chimney and the mast, together with the cries and shrieks of the women and children, defies description. Men were seen taking leave of their wives; wives were clinging to their husbands; and persons were running about in all directions, uttering the most piteous and heartrending cries. From the weight of the chimney, the vessel continued lying to windward, and very soon after the mast went the weather boards gave way; and as the waves then swept the deck the passengers stationed themselves on those parts of the vessel which lay highest. Several climbed up the mast which was left standing; others got on the poop. The weather boards on the leeward side were then washed away, taking with them more than thirty people, who were clinging to them. The cries were now more dreadful than before, every succeeding wave sweeping numbers from the wreck. I took a situation beside one of the paddle-boxes, and whilst there a young man came to me with a large drum, and said it would save both of us, if I held on one side and he on the other. Some females came and clung round us, but the young man stuck to the drum, and told them to get hold of the first piece of timber they could.... Of what further happened I have but a confused recollection, and it appears to me like the traces of a horrible dream. It seemed as if I had been in the water many days, when I heard the welcome sound of a human voice shout ‘Holloa!’ to which I also shouted ‘Holloa!’ Soon after I was lifted out of the water, and placed in a boat belonging to R. Williamson, Esq., who, when he was informed of the calamity which had befallen us, manned two boats, and came out to pick up the sufferers. On being taken up I asked my deliverers when it would be daylight, and they told me it was broad day—it was about ten o’clock in the forenoon. I was stone blind. Mr. Williamson and the boat’s crew were most kind to me. I was kept on board until I was sufficiently restored to meet my sister and the other survivors at Beaumaris. I cannot omit to express my most grateful thanks to my deliverers and benefactors. Their noble humanity has left an impression on my heart which will never be effaced but with my existence.”
“Amidst these almost overwhelming distresses,” says the Rev. Mr. Stewart, in one of his letters to a friend, “involving in one general calamity men, women, children, and even tender infants, it is a rest to the heart to turn for a moment to some special marks [pg 302]of divine mercy. I am sure, my very dear friend, the following incident, related to me by the father of the boy, will deeply affect you. He was near the helm with his child, grasping his hand, till the waves, rolling over the quarter-deck, and taking with them several persons who were standing near them, it was no longer safe to remain there. The father took his child in his hands and ran towards the shrouds, but the boy could not mount with him. He cried out, therefore, ‘Father! father! do not leave me!’ But finding that his son could not climb with him, and that his own life was in danger, he withdrew his hand. When the morning came, the father was conveyed on shore with some other passengers who were preserved, and as he was landing he said within himself, ‘How can I see my wife without having our boy with me?’ When, however, the child’s earthly parent let go his hand his Heavenly Father did not leave him. He was washed off the deck, but happily clung to a part of the wreck on which some others of the passengers were floating. With them he was almost miraculously preserved. When he was landing, not knowing of his father’s safety, he said, ‘It is of no use to take me on shore now I have lost my father.’ He was, however, carried, much exhausted, to the same house where his father had been sent, and actually placed in the same bed, unknown to either, till they were clasped in each other’s arms.”
Among the victims was that of a lady entirely unknown. The body of this poor creature had been picked up near Conway, and it was evident that she had been one of fortune’s favourites, though destined to a death so cruel. She was elegantly and fashionably attired, wearing rich earrings, gold chain and locket, three valuable rings in addition to her wedding-ring, and so forth. In a day or two she was buried in a common deal shell, and followed to a nameless grave by strangers.
It appears, by the pilot’s statement, that early in the afternoon he had been invited by the steward to take some refreshment with him, and in the course of conversation a very strong opinion was given by the steward that Captain Atkinson never intended to reach Beaumaris, and that the voyage he was now making would be his last. By the expression “intended” he explained was meant expected, and the result proved the opinion to be too fatally correct. Tired by what he had gone through before entering the packet, the pilot lay down in the forecastle to sleep. He was aroused by a sensation beyond all others most dreadful—he felt the vessel strike, and his experience told him all was over. Hastily rushing upon deck, his courage and coolness were for a moment quite overcome. “I saw,” said he, “the quality huddled together in the waist of the vessel; and the praying and crying was the most dreadful sight to witness. The waves broke over on both sides, and took away numbers at once. They went like flights, sometimes many, sometimes few; at last the bulwark went, and none were left.”
The vessel had scarcely struck when the two stays of the chimney broke. These, after many ineffectual efforts, were again made fast; but they soon gave way a second time, and the chimney fell across the deck, bringing the mainmast with it. The mast, it is stated, fell aft along the lee or larboard side of the quarter deck, and struck overboard some of the unfortunate creatures who had there collected. The steward of the vessel and his wife lashed themselves to the mast, determined to spend their last moments in each other’s arms. Several husbands and wives seem to have met their fate together, whilst [pg 303]parents clung to their little ones. Several mothers, it is said, perished with their little ones clasped in their arms. The carpenter and his wife were seen embracing each other and their child in the extreme of agony. The poor woman asked a young man, Henry Hammond, to pull her cloak over her shoulders, when a tremendous wave came and washed off, in a moment, twelve persons, and her among them.
Soon after the crash the captain’s voice was heard for the last time. He and the mate appear to have been the very first that perished, and the conclusion is that they must have been dragged overboard by the wreck of the mainmast. It is true that an absurd report was spread in Beaumaris that both captain and mate reached land safely in the boat, part of which was found on shore early in the morning. This is unlikely; but it is quite possible many lives might have been saved in the boat, if she had been provided with oars. The absence of these, however, shows in a glaring manner the utter recklessness of human life which marked the whole affair. It was stated by Mr. Henry Hammond, ship-carver, of Liverpool, one of the persons saved, that it was not true that a party of the passengers got into the boat soon after the vessel struck, and were immediately swamped. The statement he gave was that the boat was hanging by the davits over the stern, nearly filled with water in consequence of the spray; when the vessel struck, he and the wife and child of the carpenter got into the boat, but left it again, being ordered out by the mate, who told them it was of no use, as no boat could live in such a sea. The boat soon after broke adrift and was lost, but there was no person in her.
“For above a mile and a half to the spit-buoy in the Friar’s Road,” says Morrison, “the sand is dry at half ebb, and as the Dutchman’s Bank is dry at low water, I have no hesitation in affirming that there was dry land within half a mile of the wreck when she struck; and that if they had been informed of the fact, many of them on board might have swam or been drifted over the Swash, and within two hundred yards of the vessel would have found themselves in not more than three or four feet of water.”
The Swash is very few feet wide, and was easily passed by one individual, who, being a resident in Bangor, knew the locality, and escaped, according to Mr. Whittaker’s narrative, who states as follows:—“At this time a gentleman from Bangor left the vessel, with a small barrel tied beneath his chin, and an umbrella in his hand, which he unfurled when he got into the water, in the hope of being drifted ashore in time to send some aid to his fellow-sufferers.” This was Mr. Jones of Bangor. Now, if Mr. Jones, the pilot, or the captain or mate, or any other person on board, who knew of the vicinity of the dry sand, on which people walk at low water, had explained to the persons who could swim the state of the case, many others might have been saved as well as Mr. Jones.
A Mr. Tarry, who was exceedingly apprehensive during the passage, kept his wife and children in the cabin; on the vessel striking he made immediate inquiries respecting their probable fate; and Jones, the pilot, having indiscreetly said that there was no hope of safety, he became at once calm, and said in a tone of resignation, “I brought out my family, and to return without them would be worse than death; I’ll, therefore, die with them.” He then went down into the cabin and embraced his wife and children. It would appear that they afterwards, impelled by a sense of self-preservation, [pg 304]came on deck; one at least of his little girls was seen afterwards in a state of pitiable helplessness. Mr. Duckworth, of Bury, who survived the catastrophe, says that while sustaining his wife he saw her on the quarter-deck. She was about ten years old. Each wave that broke down on one side of the vessel hurled her along with impetuous force, and dashed her against the gunwale on the other side; and then it would recede, and draw her back again, a ready victim for another similar shock. The poor innocent, bruised and half choked with the waves, sent forth the most piteous cries for her father and mother between each rush of the waters. Her shrieks were piercing beyond description, and she screamed “Oh! won’t you come to me, father? Oh, mamma!” &c., till the narrator says his heart yearned to save her; and though he dared not quit his wife, he called to a fellow-passenger to make the effort; but he believes she was washed away soon afterwards.
