 | Wrecked on the Lake. Wild scenes on the frontiers, or, Heroes of the West |  |
4. Wrecked on the Lake.
In the fall of 1850, as I was passing down Lake Erie,
from Sandusky City to Buffalo, I formed some acquaintance
with an elderly gentleman, who was also a passenger.
Mr. Warren, for so he gave me his name, had been one of
the early adventurers in the western country, and especially
along the lake shore; and finding me interested in matters
pertaining to early times, he took not a little pains in
pointing out to me, from the deck of the steamer, the
different localities where important events had occurred
connected with the early settlement of the country. With
each locality he had a story to tell—either longer or
shorter, as the case might be; but the most remarkable
one of all, and which I am going to relate, occurred to
himself and a small party of his dearest friends.
“Do you see that dark line, yonder?” he said, pointing
to the distant shore.
“I see something,” I replied, “that resembles a small
cloud stretched along the horizon.”
“Well, that, sir, is not literally a cloud, though it
proved a cloud of sorrow to me.”
As he said this, in a voice somewhat tremulous with
emotion, I looked up, and observed a tear stealing down
his aged cheek.
“Ah! my friend,” he pursued, shaking his gray head
solemnly, and passing his hand across his eyes, “the sight
of that dark spot yonder brings up a dark memory, and
makes me weep as a child rather than as a man. It was a
great many years ago,” he continued, “and I have since
lived to experience a great many changes and reverses—
have lived to see one friend after another taken down to
his narrow home—but the events of that awful day are as
vividly in my recollection now, looming above all others,
as if they had occurred but yesterday. Excuse me a few
minutes, and I will tell you the story,” he added; and
turning away, he seated himself, buried his face in his
hands, and did not again alter his position till the dark
line he referred to had faded from my view.
At length he looked up, as one starting from a dream;
and having swept the horizon with his still keen, bright
eye, he turned to me and requested me to take a seat
beside him.
“That dark line I pointed out to you,” he resumed—
“and which, thank Heaven! is now gone from my sight—
is an almost perpendicular bluff of rocks, of from sixty to
eighty feet in height, upon the base of which the storm-raised
waves dash with wild fury, throwing a fine white
an almost deafening roar, not unlike the thunders of
Niagara. I heard it once, as a dreadful requiem over the
loved and lost, and Heaven grant that I may never hear it
again!”
Here he paused, as if overpowed with the recollection,
brushed another tear from his eye, and once more resumed:
“It was many years ago—I need not tell you how
many, for time counts as nothing in those great events
that rend the heart: it was many years ago, I say, that
a small party of us—consisting of my mother, sister, a
younger brother, and a young and lovely maiden to whom
I was engaged—embarked in a Canadian bateau at a
point far down the lake, with the intention of finishing the
remainder of our long journey from the eastward by water,
and joining a few friends who had gone before us and
settled just below the rapids of the Maumee.”
“For several days we had good sailing—the weather
fair and the wind in our favor—in consequence of which
our hearts became light and buoyant, for we felt that we
were near our journey's end, and should soon be mingled
with those we sought. But who knows aught of the
future?—who has a right to say that joy and happiness
are his?—for in a single moment all his brightest hopes
may be dashed forever, and he be either overtaken by
mourner!
“One day, with the most gloomy apprehensions—with
a presentiment that made me wretched—I saw a storm
begin to gather, and I watched it with feelings of the
most painful anxiety. It was not long in gathering, but
loomed up quickly and fearfully, and, almost ere any one
save me was aware of the danger, it burst upon us with
fury.
“I had taken in sail, and prepared for it as well as I
could, but the first dash nearly capsized us. The waves
suddenly rose, and threw their spray completely over us,
and we began to drift toward the dark bluff which I
pointed out to you. All was now excitement and confusion
on board, for all believed that we should soon go to
the bottom. I pretended to have a stout heart, and to
laugh at their fears, and so quieted them in some degree.
But to tell you the truth, I was fearfully alarmed myself,
for the boat at once became unmanageable, and set rapidly
toward the rocky shore, upon which the surge was now
beating frightfully, and I felt that nothing short of an
interposition of Providence could save us from being
dashed to pieces.
“I spoke not of my fears, however, till I saw it was
vain to hope—till I beheld the rocks looming up, black
and fearful, immediately before us, the waves lashing them
back with a crash which could be heard amid the howlings
of the storm—and then I told my friends, shouting the
words above the roaring of the tempest, that it was time
to commend our souls to God, for we were about to pass
the dread portals of eternity and enter His awful presence.
“The scene that followed I may only describe as wild,
fearful, terrible—each clinging to the other in the most
agonized distress, and all appealing to God for mercy.
The painful and horrible suspense of waiting for death,
while staring it in the face, was of short duration; we
seemed but as a bubble on the crest of the angry waters,
which now bore us swifter and swifter to our doom; and
suddenly, while we all stood locked as it were in each
other's embrace, we struck. There was a fearful crash—
loud shrieks that seemed blended into one despairing cry
—and the hissing waves rolled over us.
“We all went down clinging to each other, knotted as
it were together, and were whirled about in the seething
waters, till at length, as we rose to the surface, we seemed
to be caught by an unusually large wave, and were thrown
violently upon a narrow shelf of the rock, where, the huge
wave instantly retreating, we were left comparatively dry.
From the time of going under till we were thrown upon
the rock, I had not for a single moment lost my presence
of mind; and though now half stunned and bruised by the
and that, if I would save myself and friends, it
must be done ere the return of such another wave as had
placed us in our present position.
“Instantly I worked myself loose from my almost death-griping
companions, dragged them back as far as I could,
shouted in their ears the joyful news of their escape, and
then got between them and the water, so that, in their
bewildered state, they might not roll back to their destruction.
I had scarcely succeeded in making them understand
what had happened, and they were just beginning to gather
themselves upon their feet—my brother with as little presence
of mind as any—when I saw another huge wave
returning; and, quick as thought, I threw them down, and
fell prostrate across their bodies. The wave came, amid
our shrieks of terror, and completely submerged us, but
not to a sufficient depth to float us from the rock.
“This occurred at intervals of about a minute; and it
took me several of these to make my friends comprehend
that we were comparatively safe, though in a perilous position—to
give them, in fact, a true understanding of the
whole matter; and then the task of keeping them where
they were became less laborious to me, because of their
assistance.
“I now for the first had a little time to look about me,
which I eagerly employed in ascertaining what might be
me any hope. It was an awful scene—a scene to excite
feelings of the blackest despair! The shelf upon which
we had been thrown was narrow, some ten or fifteen feet
in length, and about five feet above the level of the boiling
and seething surge; while behind us and over us, was a
high, black, overhanging rock, the top of which our position
did not permit us to see. There was no chance of
escape except by the water; and there the wreck of our
boat, in a hundred pieces, was whirling about on the foam-crested
waves and frothing eddies—the storm the while
still raging in wild fury—and the shrieking winds, the
descending torrents, and the lashing waves, making a horrid
concert for our affrighted senses.
“`My son,' shrieked my mother, in a voice of despair,
`there seems to be no hope for us. It would have been
better had we perished at once, and so ended our misery.'
“`While there is life there is hope,' I replied, in the
same shrill, shrieking tone—the only human sound that
could be heard amid the howlings of the tempest.
“Let me not dwell upon that scene—the recollection
of which, even now, after a long lapse of years, makes the
blood run cold in my veins. But little was said by any—
for, as I have remarked, the human voice could only be
heard when pitched on its highest key—and each was too
terribly impressed with the sense of our desolation, to give
our inmost souls.
“We clung there together for hours—in almost silent
waiting, watching, and trembling—and then, with unspeakable
misery, we saw the night close in upon us—shutting
out the horrid view, it is true—but leaving us as it were
only the sense of feeling that each other was there. Oh,
that long and terrible night! an age to me of horror—the
storm still unabated—the shrieking winds driving coldly
through our drenched garments, and ever and anon a large
wave engulfing us! There was no chance for sleep—but
only for thought—thought the wildest, most terrible, most
agonizing! If we looked around, our gaze encountered
nothing but the deepest blackness, or here and there the
phosphorescent light of the foaming waters, which seemed
to our now distracted fancies only a sepulchral light to
guide us to destruction.
“Somewhere about midnight, as near as I may judge—
feeling weak, faint, cold and benumbed—through the painful
position in which I had thus far clung to my friends,
and my continual submersion beneath the rushing and
retiring waves—I released my hold for a few moments, in
order to chafe my limbs. But scarcely had I done so,
when I was suddenly startled by a wild shriek; and, on
feeling for my companions, I found to my horror that
sister, my beloved Mary, and myself upon the rock.
“I need not dwell upon that night. If your imagination
cannot fill the picture of wo which I have so imperfectly
sketched, you will never form an idea of my feelings,
for language has no power to describe them.
“Morning broke at last—after that long, long night of
horror—the storm still raging as furiously as ever—but
only three of us alive to know the miseries of living. By
the returning light we once more surveyed the awful scene
around us; and there, upon the rocks below, but at some
distance from where we were, we beheld the bodies of my
mother and brother, locked in each other's arms, the lashing
waves just sufficiently swaying them about to give an
appearance of life. But they were dead—cold in death—
and the sight so affected my poor sister, that she arose
with a shriek, and, whether intentionally or accidentally,
plunged over into the boiling surge.
“Almost beside myself with the accumulated horrors, I
threw my arms around my only companion, my beloved
Mary, and held her down by my side.
“And thus I sat for hours, in a state of comparative
stupefaction, gazing off upon the storm-maddened lake, but
with a kind of stony gaze that scarcely had speculation
in it.
“When I again turned to Mary, I found she had fainted;
know. This in some measure recalled me to myself; and
I began to chafe her limbs, calling upon her dear name in
the wildest tones of despair. She did not revive immediately,
and I had just begun to think that she had perished in
my arms, when I saw signs of returning life, and redoubled
my exertions. At last I had the joy of seeing her open her
eyes, and of knowing that her senses had returned. She
now looked wildly around her, and, scarcely comprehending
what had occurred, asked for her absent friends.
“ `They are gone, dear Mary,' said I, with a bursting
heart; `they will return to us no more; you are all that
is left to me now; and may God in his mercy either
preserve you, or take us both together to the land of
spirits!”
“ `Yes,' she replied, faintly—so faintly that I had to put
my ear close to catch the words—`and we must perish, too
—but we will perish together. We must die—we cannot
live—we cannot escape—and so let us die at once, and
join those who have gone before us!'
“ `In God's own good time!' I rejoined. `We have no
right to take our lives in our own hands. He gave and
must take. It is our duty to be ready at His call.'
“ `But I cannot survive this!' she said; `death is an
hundred times preferable to this agonizing suspense!'
“I encouraged her as well as one in my situation could;
used every argument and every term of endearment I could
think of, to persuade her to cling to life; and at last she
seemed to be more resigned to her fate—the fate of waiting
and watching with me for the coming death.
“Why should I dwell upon that horrible scene? Why
live over again in relating the agony I suffered in reality?
No! rather let me hurry on to the awful close—for awful
it was, and made these then black hairs turn white in the
very prime of manhood.
“Mary gradually drooped—grew faint for the want of
food—grew benumbed and torpid through repeated drenchings
of the chilling waters; and at length, when another
night began to close around us, with the storm still unabated,
I feebly but painfully foresaw that, should I still
live on, I must soon live alone—be the last survivor of that
once happy group.
“My forebodings were awfully fulfilled! Another night
set in—and proved, oh God! the last to the last being I
then had in the wide world to love! I had gradually
grown weak myself—so weak that I could scarcely keep
my hold upon the rocks—to which I still clung with the
instincts of life, and for the preservation of my poor Mary,
who had long since given up the attempt of preserving
herself.
“But the end came. A larger wave than ever burst
behind, and left me half-stunned and bleeding on the very
verge of the abyss. I crawled up again, and felt for
Mary. Great Heaven! she was not there! she was gone!
With a shriek of despair, I threw myself flat upon my face,
determined to make no further effort for life.
“But God, in his inscrutable Providence, saw fit to
preserve me. The strom had now reached its height, and
from that moment it began to abate. The morning found
me alive, but alone; and the angry waves, which had
snatched from me all I prized on earth, were gradually
subsiding to quietude, as if satisfied with their work of
destruction.
“More dead than alive, I kept my position upon the
rocks through that day and another night; and then,
being discovered by some Canadian fishermen, I was taken
off, and conveyed to their home, on the other side of the
lake. There, after a long and delirious illness, I finally
recovered, and learned that the bodies of my friends had
been found, taken from the water, and decently interred
upon the American shore.
“I have many times since,” concluded the aged narrator,
in a tremulous voice, “visited the humble grave where they
quietly repose together, and never but with a regret that
I did not sleep beside them. It was there, over that lonely
and you now behold me a wifeless and childless old man,
whose only abiding hope is, that I shall soon join them in
a better world!”
| Wrecked on the Lake. Wild scenes on the frontiers, or, Heroes of the West | |