PERIL AND PRIVATION.
BY JAMES PAYN.
THE LOSS OF THE "HALSEWELL."
On Sunday, the 1st of January, 1786, the Halsewell, a vessel of 758 tons burden, bound for the East Indies, sailed through the Downs with a fair wind and under exceptionally favorable circumstances. She had a well-tried commander, Captain Pierce, good officers, and a numerous crew. To these were added a considerable number of soldiers of "John Company," as the East India Company was called, so that security seemed assured both by sea and land.
There were, moreover, several lady passengers aboard, most of whom were known to one another, including the daughters of the Captain, two of his cousins, and one still younger lady, Miss Mansell, returning from a school in England to her parents in Madras. The chief mate too was related to Captain Pierce, so that the company in the chief cabin was almost a family party.
On Monday very thick weather came on, so that the ship was compelled to anchor, and on Tuesday a gale arose that obliged her to cut her cables and run out to sea. The gale grew to a tempest, which continued for three days, and on Friday night the ship ended her voyage.
At two in the morning of that day she was driving to her doom on the sharp rocks between Peverel Point and St. Alban's Head, in Dorsetshire. These rocks run sheer down to the sea, so that to approach them even in fine weather is fraught with danger.
There is a story told by the great humorist Thomas Hood of a terrible scene on board ship, when every one was running about distracted with fear, save one cheerful old lady. "There is nothing whatever to be alarmed at," she said, when some one asked her how it was she showed such courage, "for the Captain has just told me we are 'running on shore.'" To her the land seemed like safety. And so it doubtless was with some of the poor ladies on board the Halsewell.
The Captain, as they drove nearer the rocky shore on that awful night, consulted with his second mate, Mr. Meriton, as to their chances of escape, and especially with reference to his daughters.
"We can do nothing, sir, but wait for the morning," was the sad reply; and even while he spoke the ship struck with a violence that dashed the heads of those standing in the cuddy, as the saloon in an Indiaman was called, against the deck above them.