Benjamin Alford and William Bowditch related that their friend Robert Carver was taken nine years before a captive into Sallee, that contributions had been made for his redemption, that the money was in the hands of a person here, and that if they had the disposal of it they could release Carver.
The expansion of American trade in far-distant waters which swiftly followed the Revolution increased the number of disasters of this kind, and among the old narratives of the sea that were written about 1800 no theme is more frequent, and few so tragic, as the sufferings of the survivors of some gallant American ship which laid her bones among the breakers of the African coast. These personal experiences, simply and movingly written by some intelligent master or mate and printed as thin books or pamphlets, were among the “best sellers” of their day when the world of fact was as wildly romantic as the art of fiction was able to weave for later generations.
Among these briny epics of the long ago is the story of Captain Judah Paddock and his crew of the ship Oswego. She sailed from Cork in March, 1800, for the Cape Verd Islands, to take on a cargo of salt and hides and then to complete the homeward voyage to New York. The Oswego was a fast and able vessel of 260 tons, absurdly small to modern eyes, and carried thirteen sailors, including boys. After passing Cape Finisterre, Captain Paddock began to distrust his reckoning because of much thick weather, but felt no serious concern until the ship was fairly in the surf, which pounded and hammered her hull with one tremendous blow after another.
Daylight disclosed what the old sea-songs called “the high coast of Barbary” no more than a few hundred yards distant. The Oswego was beating out her life among the rocks, and it was time to leave her. The boats were smashed in trying to land, and the only refuge was this cruel and ominous shore, the barren wastes of sand and mountain, the glaring sun, the evil nomads.
With a few bottles of water and such food as they could pack on their backs, these pilgrims set out to trudge along the coast in the direction of Mogador, where they hoped to find the protection of an English consul. It was not an auspicious omen when they discovered a group of roofless huts rudely built of stone, a heap of human bones, and the broken timbers of a large frigate washed up by the tide. These relics were enough to indicate the fate of a large company of seamen who had been cast away in this savage region.
There were men of all sorts among these hapless refugees of the Oswego, and most of them endured their hard lot with the patient courage of the deep-water mariner. The cook, however, was an exasperating rascal of an Irishman called Pat who had smuggled himself aboard at Cork as a ragged stowaway, and he lost no time in starting trouble on the coast of Barbary. In his pack was a bottle of gin, which had passed the skipper’s inspection as water, and while on sentry duty at night to watch for prowling Arabs, Pat got uproariously drunk and fought a Danish foremast hand who was tippling with him. In the ruction they smashed several precious bottles of water, and were too tipsy next morning to resume the march.
The other sailors held an informal trial. This was their own affair, and Captain Paddock’s protests were unheeded. Pat was so drunk that he could not appear in his own defense, and the sentence was that his share of the bread and water should be taken from him and he be left behind to die. He was accordingly abandoned, blissfully snoring on the sand, the empty gin bottle in his fist; but after a mile or so of painful progress two of the men relented and listened to the captain’s appeal. Back they went, and dragged Pat along, damning him bitterly and swearing to kill him on the spot if he misbehaved again.
After three days the torments of thirst were severe, and the heat blistered their souls. In the wreck of the Oswego there was water in barrels, plenty of it, and this was all that the fevered minds of most of the sufferers could think of. Captain Paddock urged them to keep on with him to the eastward a few days longer toward Mogador, but they were ready to turn and struggle back to the ship, fifty miles, just to get enough water to drink. It mattered not to them that they were throwing away the hope of survival.
The captain was made of sterner stuff, and so they amiably agreed to part company. A black sailor, Jack, stepped forward and said with simple fidelity:
“Master, if you go on, I go, too.”