Early in the month of August, we came in sight of one of the numerous groups of islands with which the Pacific ocean is enamelled.
About twelve o’clock at night—while going at a speed of not more than five knots an hour—we ran straight upon a reef of rocks.
A scene of wild confusion then ensued—every one expecting the brig to go immediately to the bottom—but it was soon ascertained, that she was hanging or resting on a point of the rocks, which had penetrated her timbers; and that she was in no immediate danger of sinking. Fortunately the weather was calm at the time, and the sea perfectly tranquil, else the brig would certainly have been knocked to pieces.
As usual, the long boat was found to be not sea-worthy; and there was but one other, a small pinnace, that would hold about twelve of the seventy-six passengers comprising the cargo of the “Ceres”—to say nothing of her crew!
We could see land, about a mile from our position; and it was evident, that no watch could have been kept aboard; else the brig could not have been lost.
As soon as order had been somewhat restored, and our exact situation ascertained, the crew, assisted by the passengers, commenced building a raft, upon which, when finished, we were to attempt making a passage to the shore.
At daybreak we obtained a better view of the land—indistinctly seen during the darkness. It was a small island—apparently about three miles in circumference—with groves of palm trees standing thickly over it.
The raft having been at length got ready, the work of landing commenced.
By nine o’clock all hands were ashore; and then some efforts were made towards transporting to the beach such provisions as could be saved from the wreck of the brig.