A description of the sinking of the vessel, given by an eye-witness, is as follows:—"The sun just shone out at that time, which made the scene appear worse to me. I thought dark and gloom more suitable for such a sad moment, and most in keeping with the feelings of those on board. The foresail was still standing, also half of the maintopsail. The mizen yards were swinging about, not braced; the wreck of the foretopmast still hanging and swinging to and fro; the gangways knocked out; the bulwarks all standing as good as when she left the docks. The stern very low in the water, the bows pretty well out of it, so that we could see the red-painted bottom, or coloured iron by rust; the jibboom gone. Soon we ran down in the trough of a large sea, and were hid from sight of her. When we came up, we could see she had changed her position very much; we could not see the after-part of the vessel—whether under water, or hid by a sea, I cannot tell; her bows were high out of the water; and by the pitch or rake of the mast, we could see that she was at an angle of about forty-five degrees. Soon another wave came, and we ran down in the trough of another sea; when we came up, there was nothing to be seen of the 'London.'"
On the 7th September, 1870, foundered the "Captain" off Cape Finisterre, in which five hundred lives were sacrificed.
The "Captain" was built for the purpose of illustrating a new principle, that of the modern turret, and said to surpass the "Monarch," as yet considered the nearest approach to perfection in shipbuilding.
On the 6th of September, 1870, several vessels of the British fleet were cruising together off the coast of Spain, the "Captain" being amongst the number. Although the clouds to the west looked sombre and heavy, there was no apparent signs of a storm; but during the night the barometer fell and the winds arose. The "Captain" was observed by the crew of the "Lord Warden," following a north-west passage. A white squall battled for a couple of hours with the vessels, damaging each to a considerable extent. When morning dawned, the "Captain" was missed. It was supposed, however, that she had merely sailed out of sight, but daylight showed the awful fact that the ship had gone down. Portions of wreck were seen floating on the tide, and recognised as having belonged to the "Captain."
The details of the sad event became known when the few survivors reached England. Captain Burgoyne was on deck when the catastrophe happened, remaining there as the night grew stormy. The middle watch was mustered duly at midnight, and the former one retired. Immediately after a wave, curling over the vessel, flooded her decks and turned her completely on her side. The next instant, and the sails went under, nothing but the ship's keel being visible. The men of the watch, after recovering the shock of the sudden immersion, perceiving a life-boat drifting keel upward, instantly made for her. By means of this, many were enabled to support themselves for a considerable time. After floating a while in this way, a boat was observed coming towards them, in which were seated a couple of men. As soon as it was within reach most of the men sprang gratefully in; but before Captain Burgoyne and a seaman, named Heard, had time to leap, their chance was gone—a huge wave washing the boat apart.
One amongst the number of the saved said that the men were literally carried wholesale from the decks by the huge seas that swept over them. A man, named Hirst, after being carried down with the vessel, rose and succeeded in grasping a piece of the wreck, to which he lashed himself with a handkerchief. Drifting along in this manner he came across the boat and its unfortunate occupants, who speedily hauled him in.
A memorial window may now be seen in Westminster Abbey, to the five hundred men who perished thus in their country's service.
More recently still was the wreck of the "Northfleet," off Dungeness, on the 22nd of January, 1873, run down, while lying at anchor, by the carelessness of a foreign sea captain. Many accounts of the sad event, elicited from the survivors, were given in the journals of that date. An abridged copy of one is as follows:—
"The pilot passed the word to drop anchor off Dungeness. Here we lay snug enough, and at eight o'clock the watch was set, Frank Sealove and John Gunstaveson being on deck, and on the watch. They died doing their duty. I went down to my berth, and was soon fast asleep. I don't know how long I had slept, when I was nearly shaken out of my hammock by a fearful crashing or a staggering over the ship. Before I knew where I was—being awoke so suddenly—I heard the boatswain sing out, 'All hands on deck to the pumps.' I was not long in jumping into my boots I can tell yon, and all in the forecastle ran upstairs pell-mell. When we got there, we could not see much, for the night was dark, but there was light enough to see a half-dressed crowd come rushing madly up from the steerage passenger berths, and you didn't want any light to hear the shrieks of the women and the crying of the children.
"There was a terrible panic I can tell you, amongst the strong, rough men, when it became apparent that the vessel was sinking. To tell the truth, there was that much confusion on board that I really did not know what was going to be done. By this time about a dozen women had got on to the deck. I could hear the captain's voice, now and then, above the praying and crying, but I don't know that any one was paying any attention to him. In the midst of the din and confusion the captain's wife was being lowered into the boat on the starboard side. She had been aroused by her husband, who assisted her to dress, and as a precaution against sinking she put on a cork belt. As she was descending, the Captain waved his hands, and said, 'Good-bye, my dear, good-bye;' and his wife replied, 'Good-bye, my love; I don't expect to see you any more.' One poor fellow who jumped with me on to the tops of the pile of boats, said, 'My last minute's come; if you should live to get ashore tell mother I was thinking of her when I went down.' 'All right, old chap,' I said, 'I will; it I should go and you should get ashore, tell my mother likewise that my last thought was of her.'