University of Virginia Library

A WRECK AT SEA.

We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at a
distance. At sea, every thing that breaks the monotony
of the surrounding expanse attracts attention. It proved
to be the mast of a ship that must have been completely
wrecked; for there were the remains of handkerchiefs,
by which some of the crew had fastened themselves to
this spar, to prevent their being washed off by the waves.
There was no trace by which the name of the ship could
be ascertained. The wreck had evidently drifted about
for many months; clusters of shell fish had fastened about
it, and long sea weeds flaunted at its sides. But where,
thought I, is the crew? Their struggle has long been
over—they have gone down amidst the roar of the tempest—their
bones lie whitening among the caverns of the
deep. Silence, oblivion, like the waves, have closed over
them, and no one can tell the story of their end. What
sighs have been wafted after that ship! what prayers offered
up at the deserted fireside of home! How often has
the mistress, the wife, the mother, pored over the daily
news, to catch some casual intelligence of this rover of the
deep! How has expectation darkened into anxiety—
anxiety into dread—and dread into despair! Alas! not
one memento shall ever return for love to cherish. All
that shall ever be known, is, that she sailed from her port,
“and was never heard of more!”

The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to many
dismal anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the
evening, when the weather which had hitherto been fair,
began to look wild and threatening, and gave indications of
one of those sudden storms that will sometimes break in
upon the serenity of a summer voyage. As we sat round
the dull light of a lamp in the cabin, that made the gloom
more ghastly, every one had his tale of shipwreck and
disaster. I was particularly struck with a short one related
by the captain.

“As I was sailing,” said he, “in a fine stout ship,
across the banks of Newfoundland, one of those heavy
fogs that prevail in those parts rendered it impossible for
us to see far ahead even in the day-time; but at night
the weather was so thick that we could not distinguish
any object at twice the length of the ship. I kept lights
at the mast head, and a constant watch forward to look

out for fishing smacks, which are accustomed to lie at anchor
on the banks. The wind was blowing a smacking
breeze, and we were going at a great rate through the
water. Suddenly the watch gave the thrilling alarm of
`a sail-a-head!'—it was scarcely uttered before we were
upon her. She was a small schooner, at anchor, with
her broadside towards us. The crew were all asleep, and
had neglected to hoist a light. We struck her just a-midships.
The force, the size, and weight of our vessel bore
her down below the waves; we passed over her and were
hurried on our course. As the crashing wreck was sinking
beneath us, I had a glimpse of two or three half naked
wretches rushing from her cabin; they just started
from their beds to be swallowed shrieking by the waves.
I heard their drowning cry mingling with the wind.
The blast that bore it to our ears swept us out of all further
hearing. I shall never forget that cry! it was
some time before we could put the ship about, she was
under such head-way. We returned, as nearly as we
could guess, to the place where the smack had anchored.
We cruised about for several hours in the dense fog.
We fired signal guns, and listened if we might hear the
halloo of any survivors: but all was silent—we never
saw or heard any thing of them more.”