Such is the faithful history of those who were left upon the memorable raft. Of one hundred and fifty, fifteen only were saved. Five of that number never recovered from their fatigue, and died at St. Louis.

Those who yet live are covered with scars; and the cruel sufferings to which they have been exposed, have materially shaken their const.i.tutions.

THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.

On the 29th of August, 1782, it was found necessary that the Royal George, a line-of-battle ship of 108 guns, which had lately arrived at Spithead from a cruise, should, previously to her going again to sea, undergo the operation which seamen technically call a Parliament heel.

In such cases the ship is inclined in a certain degree on one side, while the defects below the water-mark on the other side are examined and repaired. This mode of proceeding is, we believe at the present day, very commonly adopted where the defects to be repaired are not extensive, or where (as was the case with the Royal George) it is desirable to avoid the delay of going into dock. The operation is usually performed in still weather and smooth water, and is attended with so little difficulty and danger, that the officers and crew usually remain on board, and neither the guns nor stores are removed.

The business was commenced on the Royal George early in the morning, a gang of men from the Portsmouth Dock-yard coming on board to a.s.sist the ship's carpenters. It is said that, finding it necessary to strip off more of the sheathing than had been intended, the men in their eagerness to reach the defect in the ship's bottom, were induced to heel her too much, when a sudden squall of wind threw her wholly on her side; and the gun-ports being open, and the cannon rolling over to the depressed side, the ship was unable to right herself, instantaneously filled with water, and went to the bottom.

The fatal accident happened about ten o'clock in the morning. Admiral Kempenfeldt was writing in his cabin, and the greater part of the people were between decks. The ship, as is usually the case upon coming into port, was crowded with people from the sh.o.r.e, particularly women, of whom it is supposed there were not less than three hundred on board. Amongst the sufferers were many of the wives and children of the petty officers and seamen, who, knowing the ship was shortly to sail on a distant and perilous service, eagerly embraced the opportunity of visiting their husbands and fathers.

The Admiral, with many brave officers and most of those who were between decks, perished; the greater number of the guard, and those who happened to be on the upper deck, were saved by the boats of the fleet. About seventy others were likewise saved. The exact number of persons on board at the time could not be ascertained; but it was calculated that from 800 to 1000 were lost. Captain Waghorn whose gallantry in the North Sea Battle, under Admiral Parker, had procured him the command of this ship, was saved, though he was severely bruised and battered; but his son, a lieutenant in the Royal George, perished. Such was the force of the whirlpool, occasioned by the sudden plunge of so vast a body in the water, that a victualler which lay alongside the Royal George was swamped; and several small craft, at a considerable distance, were in imminent danger.

Admiral Kempenfeldt, who was nearly 70 years of age, was peculiarly and universally lamented. In point of general science and judgment, he was one of the first naval officers of his time; and, particularly in the art of manoeuvring a fleet, he was considered by the commanders of that day as unrivalled. His excellent qualities, as a man, are said to have equalled his professional merits.

This melancholy occurrence has been recorded by the poet Cowper, in the following beautiful lines:--

Toll for the brave!

The brave, that are no more: All sunk beneath the wave, Fast by their native sh.o.r.e.

Eight hundred of the brave, Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel, And laid her on her side.

A land-breeze shook the shrouds, And she was overset; Down went the Royal George, With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfeldt is gone; His last sea-fight is fought; His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle; No tempest gave the shock, She sprang no fatal leak; She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in its sheath; His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfeldt went down, With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes!

And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again, Full charg'd with England's thunder And plough the distant main.

But Kempenfeldt is gone, His victories are o'er; And he, and his eight hundred, Shall plough the wave no more.

LOSS OF THE aeNEAS TRANSPORT.

The aeneas transport sailed with 347 souls on board, including a party of men belonging to the 100th regiment of foot, as also some officers, together with several women and children. About four in the morning of the 23d of Oct. 1805, the vessel struck violently on a rock, and received such damage that her total wreck soon became evident to all on board. For the first few minutes after this alarming occurrence, the women and children clung to their husbands and fathers; but in a short time, a prodigious wave swept not less than 250 of those miserable people into the ocean. The rock whereon the vessel had struck, speedily forced its way through the decks, and then it appears, from her parting, thirty-five of the survivors were driven on a small island before eight in the morning, about a quarter of a mile distant, but when she had entirely gone to pieces.

The narrative of these events was collected from one of the survivors, a soldier of the 100th regiment, who could give no correct account of how he and the others got ash.o.r.e, but he supposed they were floated in by part of the wreck. He remembered to have observed one of the boys endeavoring to save Major Bertram, whose arm was broken by some timber, and he was on the point of sinking; he held him up as long as his strength permitted; but to save his own life, was forced to let go his hold, and the Major perished.

The thirty-five men who gained the sh.o.r.e, consisted of part of the regiment, two of whom were officers, Lieutenant Dawson and Ensign Faulkner, and seven sailors. Immediately on landing, the wind unfortunately changed, so that not an article of any kind was saved from the wreck. Mr. Faulkner was aware of the real situation they had reached, judging the main-land, which they saw about a mile distant, to be Newfoundland, and that they were about 300 miles distant from the town of St. John's.

After pa.s.sing one night on the little island, they constructed a raft, by means of which, thirty of them arrived on the main-land. Previous to this, however, four survivors of the shipwreck had died, among whom was the poor fellow who had endeavored to save Major Bertram. Another, who had both his legs broken, was missing, as he had crawled away from his comrades, that he might die in quiet. But eight days afterwards, he was found alive, though in a shocking state, as his feet were frozen off. Yet he survived all this, and reached Quebec at a future period. Most of the party set out, leaving three behind them, who were unable to walk from bruises, and directed their course towards the rising sun, but when the first day had elapsed, Lieutenant Dawson became incapable of keeping up with the remainder; and two soldiers staid to attend him. These three toiled onwards without any food, except the berries which they found; and Lieutenant Dawson was then unable to stand, unless supported.--On reaching the banks of a river, one of the soldiers attempted to carry him across on his back; but having waded up to the neck, he was obliged to return, and lay him down on the bank. There Mr. Dawson entreated his faithful attendants to make the best of their way, and leave him to his fate; and at the same time, affectionately squeezing their hands, he entreated them to inform his father of his melancholy end.--Here the soldier, who was one of them, and who related these affecting incidents, burst into a flood of tears before he could proceed. "We staid with him," said he, "until we did not know whether he was alive or dead."

The two survivors continued wandering in a weak and feeble state for twelve days longer, making twenty-six in all from the period of their shipwreck, and subsisting on what they could find on a barren and inhospitable land. But after the first four or five days, they suffered no hunger, for, as they themselves said, their misfortunes were so great as to banish its influence, and to deprive them of the sense of feeling.--The snow besides was so deep during the last two days, as to prevent them from getting the berries as usual.

At last they were found by a man belonging to a hunting party, who, little suspecting to see human beings in that desolate region, took them at a distance for deer, and had concealed himself behind a fallen tree, with his gun pointed towards one of them, when his dog, leaping towards them, began to bark, and shewed his error. When they related their shipwreck, and the sufferings they had endured, tears stole down the cheeks of the huntsman, and, taking the moccasins from his feet, gave them to the poor miserable creatures. He invited them to his hunting cabin, saying it was only a mile off, though the real distance was at least twelve miles; but, by degrees he enticed them to proceed, and at length they gained it. On approaching the hut, four or five men came out with long b.l.o.o.d.y knives in their hands, when the narrator, turning to his comrade, exclaimed, "After all we have escaped, are we brought here to be butchered and ate up?"--But they soon discovered their mistake, for the men had been cutting up some deer, the fruit of their chase; and the appearance of the unfortunate soldiers quickly exciting sentiments of pity in their breast, they produced a bottle of rum, wherewith they were refreshed.

Every possible comfort was ministered by the hunters to the unfortunate wanderers, and, from the accounts and description given to them, they set out in quest of the others. They luckily succeeded in finding the man who remained the first day on the island, and also the other two who were unable to leave the sh.o.r.e.

The two men who had accompanied Lieutenant Dawson, appeared to have made but little progress during twenty-six days of travelling, for they were discovered in a place not very remote from whence they set out. Thus, involved among the woods, they must have returned over the same ground that they had pa.s.sed.

Those who the huntsman first met endeavored to make them understand where they might find the remains of Lieutenant Dawson, and Ensign Faulkner and his party, but they could speak too vaguely of where they had themselves been, to give any pointed directions on the subject.

But two of the latter were found by a man on another hunting excursion, about 90 miles distant, apparently lifeless; though on being carried to an adjacent settlement they recovered. Of the whole 35 who survived the wreck of the transport, accounts could be heard only of these five.

Ensign Faulkner was a strong, active, enterprising man, and fully capable of adopting whatever means could be devised for preservation.

Both he and Lieutenant Dawson, who was scarce more than 17 years of age, were of the greatest promise. While the transport lay about three miles from Portsmouth, they are said to have swam to the ship, when the former climbed up her side, but the latter was nearly exhausted.

A brig from Port, which touched at Newfoundland, carried five of the survivors from thence to Quebec; and when they arrived there in the barrack square, a most affecting scene ensued. Men and women eagerly flocked around them, with anxious inquiries for some friend or brother who was on board the ill-fated vessel. But all they could answer was, "If you do not see him here, be a.s.sured he has perished; for, of 347 souls, we five Irish lads and two sailors are all that remain alive."

The tears and exclamations following these words can scarce be described.

THE ABSENT SHIP.

Fair ship, I saw thee bounding o'er the deep, Thy white wings glancing in the morning ray And many a sparkling eye in vain did weep For the bold hearts that steer'd thee on thy way: Long days of grief have lingered into years: Return! return! and charm away their tears.

I listen'd till the music and the song Died on the waters as she swept along; I watch'd her stately beauty, till it grew A fading shadow on the distant blue; Less, and still less--the waters are alone!

Queen of the ocean! whither art thou gone?

The wintry storm hath sighed itself to sleep, Yet still thou lingerest on the faithless deep; Have calmer seas, and skies of deeper blue, Charm'd thee to bid thine island home adieu!

Long has yon dark-eye'd maiden wept in vain: Return! return! and bid her smile again.

Long may'st thou weep, but never shalt thou see Thy fair-hair'd mariner return to thee, Clasp thy young beauty in a long embrace, And read his pardon in thy happy face; Thy gentle prayers, fair mourner, could not save!

Thy sailor sleeps within the stormy wave.

[Ill.u.s.tration: WRECK OF THE HALSEWELL, ON THE COAST OF ENGLAND]

LOSS OF THE HALSEWELL.