My Life in Many States and in Foreign Lands, Dictated in My Seventy-Fourth Year

by George Francis Train

I insisted that we should go to the rescue of the ship and her crew, and he turned and said: "Mr. Train, we sea captains are prevented from going to the rescue of vessels, or from leaving our course, by the insurance companies. We should forfeit our policy in the event of being lost or damaged."

"Let me decide that," said I. "We can not do otherwise than go to the assistance of these persons." And we went. The Webster bore swiftly down upon the wreck, which proved to be in worse plight than I had imagined. She was buffeted about by the waves, and seemed in peril of going down at any moment. Men and women were clinging to her rigging, hanging over her sides, and trying to get spars and timbers on which to entrust themselves to the sea. The doomed vessel was the Unicorn, from an Irish port, bound for St. John's, N. B., with passengers and railway iron. This iron had been the cause of the wreck, for in the rough weather it had broken away from its fastenings, or "shipped," as the sailors express it, and had broken holes in the sides of the boat and overweighted it on one side.

A brig that had sighted the Unicorn before we came up had taken off a few of the passengers—as many as it could accommodate. The Unicorn was a small vessel, and there seemed little chance for the rest of the passengers unless we could reach them. The sea was running very swift and high, and it was not possible to bring the Webster close to the side of the Unicorn. To make matters worse, the sailors had found that there was whisky in the cargo, and in their desperation, drank it without restraint. They were, consequently, unmanageable. They could not help us to assist the miserable passengers on their own boat.

There was nothing else to be done except to get into our small boats and try to save as many passengers as possible. The captain got into one boat and I into another, and we were rowed to the side of the Unicorn. There we discovered that many had already perished. Dead bodies were floating in the sea about the ship. We tried to get up close enough to reach the passengers, but found it impossible.

"Throw the passengers into the sea," I shouted to the captain of the Unicorn, "and we will pick them up. We can't get up to you." In this way, the crew of the Unicorn throwing men and women into the sea, and our boats picking them up, we succeeded in saving two hundred. All the rest—I do not know how many—were drowned. We finally got these two hundred persons safely on board the Daniel Webster.

Here we discovered other difficulties, and it seemed, for a time, as if starvation might do the work that had been denied to the waves. There was, also, the question of accommodations; but we solved this problem by taking some of our extra sails and tarpaulin and rigging up a protection for them on the deck and in the hold, so that we made them all fairly comfortable. The problem of food was far more difficult. We simply had no food, the captain said. There was hardly more than enough for the crew and passengers of our own vessel, as the delay caused by the rescue and the departure from our course had made an extra demand upon supplies.

Here a happy thought occurred to me. We happened to be carrying a cargo of corn-meal. I had heard that the Irish, in one of their famines, had been fed with corn-meal, learning to eat and even to like it.

"Open the hatches!" I cried, with the enthusiasm of the philosopher who cried "Eureka." The problem of food was soon solved. Two of the barrels were cut in half, making four tubs. From the staves of other barrels we made spoons, and from the meal we made mush which the half-starved men, women, and children ate with great relish. They lived on it until we got them safely landed on English soil, the entire two hundred persons reaching port without the loss of a single soul.

This was my first service at a rescue, and, of course, I was proud of it. Captain Howard received a handsome medal from the Life Saving Society of England, and the incident greatly increased the reputation of our packets.

On arriving at Liverpool, we went to No. 153 Duke Street, a house then kept by Mrs. Blodgett, whose husband saw service as consul in Spain. This house was at that time the favorite resort of American sea captains and shipping men, and was a sort of central point for all Americans in Liverpool. John Alfred Marsh, who had been with us in Boston, was with me in Liverpool at this time, in the branch of our house there; and I think he is the only man living among all of my friends of that year. He is now connected with the Guion Line steamships.