Within sight of Portsmouth Harbor, no more than a dozen miles off the coast where Maine and New Hampshire meet, lies Boon Island, small and rock-bound, upon which a tall lighthouse flings its bright message to seaward. It is in the track of the coastwise fleets of fishermen and trading schooners, of yachts and steamers, of the varied traffic which makes those waters populous; but Boon Island was a very lonely place two hundred years ago. And if it is true, as many mariners believe, that the ghosts of dead sailors return from Davy Jones’ locker to haunt the scenes of their torments in shipwreck, then Boon Island must be tenanted by some of the crew of the Nottingham Galley.
The story survives in the narrative of the disaster as written by the master of the vessel, Captain John Deane. It was printed as a quaint and unusual little book, which is now exceedingly difficult to find, and the fifth edition bears the date of 1762. The tragedy of the Nottingham Galley was one of those instances, lamentably frequent, in which men were driven to the dire necessity of eating one another under the awful compulsion of hunger. Such a theme is abhorrent, but to realize how men felt in such circumstances, those who were otherwise kindly and brave, and long-suffering, is to add to one’s perspective of human nature and to gain truthful glimpses of what the toilers of the sea have endured. When Captain John Deane took his pen in hand to set down his experience, it was as though his conscience had driven him to the task, and he expresses this prompting in a solemn preface, which reads:
As for my own part, I think I have just grounds to venture this small narrative into the American world as an humble acknowledgement to Almighty God for his wonderful preservation of us, and hoping it may be of use to others, should the like unhappy circumstances ever attend them. I had indeed thoughts of perpetuating the memory of our deliverance in a different manner, but my innocent intentions met with an unexpected opposition that induced me to have recourse to this present method; and I hastened the execution in 1727, whilst there were living witnesses in New England to attend the truth of our signal escape from Boon Island.
And now I again recommend it to the serious perusal of all, but especially seafaring men, who of all others are most liable to sudden dangers, through the natural inconstancy of the Elements they converse with in pursuit of their lawful employments; and consequently ought to lead the most considerate, religious lives in order to face death, if it be God’s Will, in the most dreadful form, with a Christian resolution. For, as to that set of men who affect to pass for Wits and Bravoes by giving a ludicrous turn to everything grave and solemn; and assuming an air of intrepidity, by horrid oaths and imprecations, before the too near approaches of danger, I have always observed them, first of all others, to sink under despair, upon a prospect of inevitable death; even so as shamefully to desert all the necessary means that offered for a possibility of their deliverance.
The Nottingham Galley, a small vessel of one hundred and twenty tons, sailed from London on September 25, 1710, touching at Ireland to take on some butter and cheese besides her cargo of cordage and general merchandise, which was consigned to Boston. She carried a crew of fourteen men and mounted ten guns as a proper precaution against pirates and privateers. Against the westerly winds of autumn the ship made crawling progress, and it was almost three months later before Captain Deane made a landfall on the snow-covered coast of New England. He did not know where he was and thick weather shut down so that for twelve days longer he was battering about and trying to work a safe distance offshore. The chronometer was then unknown, the “hog-yoke,” or early quadrant, had nothing like the exactitude of the sextant, and most charts were incorrect. There were, of course, no lighthouses on the dangerous New England coast.
Captain Deane groped along with sounding lead and log-line and said his prayers, no doubt, until the Nottingham Galley struck on Boon Island in a dark night and almost instantly went to pieces. The crew got ashore after a bitter struggle, and “being assembled together, they with joyful hearts returned their most humble and sincere thanks to Divine Providence for their miraculous deliverance from so imminent a danger.”
They were within sight of the mainland, as daylight disclosed, and the captain identified the nearest shore as Cape Neddick, while vessels could be seen passing in and out of Portsmouth Harbor. It was Christmas week, and the little island was blanketed in snow. The only shelter from the freezing winds was a tent which was made of a torn sail, and there was no fire to warm them. “They fought to procure this blessing by a variety of means,” related Captain Deane, “such as flint, steel, and gunpowder, and afterwards by a drill of very swift motion, but all the materials in their possession naturally susceptible of fire being, on this occasion, thoroughly water-soaked, after eight or ten days’ unsuccessful labor they gave over the fruitless attempt.”
The only food washed ashore from the wreck consisted of three cheeses and some beef bones, which they shared without quarreling, and in fact, the spirit of these poor mariners was singularly unselfish and manly throughout. By vote it was agreed that Captain Deane should hold the same authority as he exercised on board ship. They felt certain of rescue, because they were within sight of port, and the captain encouraged them
with hopes of being discovered by fishing shallops or other vessels passing that way, although all the while he was conscious to himself that rarely anything of this kind happened at that unseasonable time of the year; however, he thought it good policy to put the best face on the matter and take this advantage of their ignorance and credulity; since he already too plainly observed their great dejection and frequent relapses into an utter distrust of Divine Providence.
A boat was built after infinite labor, by men who had nothing whatever to eat, and the surf beat it to fragments as soon as it was launched. In this hour of inexpressible disappointment they stood and watched three small sailing vessels pass the island at a distance of a few miles, and they could not kindle a smoke to make a signal. As a last hope, a raft was tied together of two bits of spar only twelve feet long, with a deck of plank four feet wide, a mere chip of a raft with a sail made of two canvas hammocks.