“J. Miller.“
MAJOR WARBURTON AT THE WRECK OF THE “INVERNESS.”
A late case of plundering on a large scale occurred the 26th September, 1817. The [pg 243]Norwegian brig Bergetta, Captain Peterson, was wrecked on the Cefu-Sidau sands, in Carmarthen Bay. She was bound from Barcelona for Stettin, with a cargo of wine, spirits, &c., when the master, losing his reckoning, owing to a thick fog, fell into the fatal error of taking the coast of Devon for that of France, and acted under that persuasion. So circumstanced, a violent gale, together with the tide, drove the vessel into the Bristol Channel, and she struck upon the above sands, and in the space of two or three hours went to pieces. The master and crew, with great difficulty, got into the boat, and were all happily saved. Notwithstanding the greatest exertions on the part of the officers of the Customs, supported by several gentlemen and others, acts of plunder were committed to a considerable extent. Of 266 pipes and casks of wine, &c., not above 100 were saved. Hundreds of men and women were reduced to nearly a state of insensibility through intoxication.
A WRECK ASHORE.
A scarce and curious tract, published in 1796, exists in the library of the British Museum, and a few extracts from it will show the arguments by which the wreckers of the last century salved their consciences. It is supposed to be a dialogue between one Richard Sparkes, a chandler by trade, but a professional wrecker also, and John Trueman, “an honest taylor.”
“ ‘Good news! good news, neighbour!’ said Richard Sparkes, the chandler, as he entered a shop where John Trueman, an honest taylor, was at work. ‘The vessel which has been these three hours fighting with the surge and winds for the harbour has at last bulged. It is a trader from Amsterdam, they say, and faith! two thumping casks were floating before I left the beach. Rare sport, Master Trueman, rare sport, let me tell you! A good blustering wind and a high surf is no bad thing for a seaport.’
“Honest Trueman, who had not been long an inhabitant of the place, and was quite unacquainted with this language—which, to the disgrace of humanity, is too often used by the unfeeling on such occasions in seaport towns—suspended his work, and listened to this harangue with too much surprise to interrupt it. At length, said he, ‘Do you call this rare sport? Do you call this good news?’
“Sparkes. ‘To be sure I do. I mean to be out all night; the tide will return in about three hours, and I warrant it will bring us something worth looking after. But mayhap, as you are a new-comer, Master Trueman, you do not know the go at these seasons, so I will tell you. You must know that when a vessel strikes it is catch as catch can for her lading: one has as good a right as another, and he is the luckiest who can get most. We call it going a wrecking; and let me tell you it is no bad business. There is my neighbour Perkins, the pilot, got the Lord knows what by the smuggling cutter that was wrecked about three leagues from hence two months ago. Ay, cask upon cask of the best French brandy, and tea, and I cannot tell you what he got; but he has held his head pretty high ever since, for, as good luck would have it, she struck upon a shoal of rock where the Custom-house officers would not venture, so Perkins and a few more knowing ones had it all to themselves. As I told you before, Master Trueman, this going a wrecking is no bad business, so look about you.’ ”