SAVED AT LAST.
“A schooner, belonging to a nephew of Alderman Wright, was lying off Beaumaris Green; the persons on board heard the bell ring in the Rothsay Castle, but in consequence of no light being displayed, which the captain refused to allow, they could not tell in what direction to go to render assistance. They eventually saved several persons who had been seven hours in the water. Such was the state of anxiety of the poor creatures, who had been so long hanging to the wreck, that they imagined, when taken up at seven o’clock in the morning, that it was noon.”
BEAUMARIS.
Lieutenant Morrison speaks highly of the humanity and honesty of the Welshmen of the coast on which the unfortunate vessel was wrecked, and contrasts their conduct with that of the people of certain other places. He remembered, in the year 1816, witnessing the wreck of a vessel near Appledore, in the Bay of Barnstaple, when the country people came down in crowds to plunder the wreck, and they drove the poor seamen back into the surf when they attempted to rescue a part of their property. In the winter of 1827 he recalled the case of a crowd surrounding the mate of a Welsh sloop wrecked on the coast of Waterford, whom they knocked down and robbed of a small bundle of clothes, all that he had saved from the wreck.
The wreck about to be described occurred in January, 1838, and has been recorded in a graphic though somewhat verbose pamphlet,[99] which it is very unlikely has reached the eyes of many of our readers. It has often struck the writer that the most fascinating and interesting descriptions of wrecks have not been written by sailors, and there is a sufficient reason for this. Many of the episodes which strike a landsman forcibly, and add greatly to the picturesque ensemble of his narration, are taken by the seaman as mere matters of course. Several of the more detailed and interesting narratives already given have been taken from accounts recorded by the members of other professions, clergymen and military men more particularly. The present account is compiled from the narrative furnished by a medical man.
The Killarney sailed from Cork on the 19th January of the above year, with about fifty on board, passengers and crew. The weather was very severe, the wind blowing hard from the east, accompanied by snow and hail squalls; and the captain, after vainly endeavouring to make headway, turned the vessel round and returned to Cove Harbour. The weather [pg 305]moderating, the Killarney again got under weigh for her port of destination, Bristol. Again a storm rose, and the mist became so dense that they could scarcely see the vessel’s length ahead of them. During the night 150 pigs—about a fourth of the number on the vessel—were washed overboard; the cabin was a wreck of furniture and crockery; and Dr. Spolasco’s gig had been forced from its lashings, broken up, and partly washed away. The engine stopped for some time, and the vessel lay to, the captain not knowing his position. A suspicious circumstance, showing that the men were disheartened and greatly fatigued, was that they came down to the cabin and asked for bottles of porter, &c.—a most unusual request, of course. Lieut. Nicolay, a military passenger, remarked, “I don’t like to see these men getting porter in this way; I was once at sea in great danger, and the sailors through desperation commenced to drink.” If the sailors were doubtful of the vessel’s safety, there can be little wonder that the passengers generally were in a state of grave alarm. Baron Spolasco had his boy, a helpless child of nine years of age, on board, and between his care, giving advice to passengers, and setting the leg of the under-steward, who had broken it in a violent fall caused by the lurching of the ship, he had enough to do. At noon of Saturday it was whispered that the captain intended to try for land, but no one on board appeared to know whether they were twenty or fifty miles from it. The weather increased in severity.
In these trying moments, the captain, mate, and crew, endeavoured to perform their duties, and used every exertion in their power to weather the dreadful storm; but the water gained incessantly on the pumps, and the vessel continued to fill, and, being almost on her broadside, the deck was nearly perpendicular. The sea broke over her continually, and the passengers crawled about on hands and knees. Spolasco inquired of M‘Arthur, the chief engineer, entreating him to let him know how the water stood in the engine-room. He seemed much exhausted, and said, “We’re getting the water down to the plates of the engines; the fires are re-kindled, and we’ll soon have steam on.” For a time this was successfully done.
Lieut. Nicolay was the first to announce “Land at last!” to the passengers, and all hearts beat with joy at the welcome news. But they were greatly puzzled, and indeed mortified, that they were unable to ascertain what land it was. Some said that it was Poor Head, others that it was Kinsale, and others that it was Youghal, and others again that it was Cork Harbour. But the vessel was now utterly unmanageable.
