Part 4

We were on shore this morning at Portsmouth, and, from the ramparts, saw the ships of the returning fleet assembled in forest crowd at St. Helens. From thence, also, we had a more ample demonstration of the effects which the storm had produced immediately around us; and I am sorry to tell you that we find the injury more extensive than we at first imagined.

We have had a pleasant ramble, since I last wrote to you, to the Isle of Wight, in search of eggs, poultry, and pigs to add to our sea store.

It is, again, rumoured that we are to avail ourselves of the first hour of a fair wind to proceed to Cork, without waiting for any other vessel; and we are all of accord in wishing that this may prove correct, for our present state of suspense is growing sadly wearisome and vexatious.

LETTER IX.

H. M. S. Ulysses, Nov. 30.

The uncertainty of the law has established itself into an adage: but I begin to suspect that, proverbial as it is, it must yield to the greater incertitude of military service. In my last letter I mentioned to you that we were to proceed to Cove the moment the wind was fair, and, in this idea, we had written to our friends desiring them not to address us, again, at Spithead; but to send their letters to Ireland, that they might meet us at Cork. Now, we find that our destination is again changed, and within the few last days, it has been so rapidly altered and confirmed, fixed, reversed, and varied, that we are totally at a loss on what assurance to depend.

At present it is reported that three forty-four gun ships, viz. the Ulysses, the Experiment, and the Charon, are to take in the troops, which were in such extreme peril, during the gale, on board the vast and unwieldy Commerce de Marseilles, and to run out with them, as speedily as possible, to the West Indies.

Consistent with this arrangement, vessels came alongside the Ulysses early on the morning of the 26th instant, for the purpose of removing the St. Domingo stores; and the hospital packages, which were stowed in this ship, are now distributed into two or three vessels; which is an improvement, gained by the change, for should either of these ships chance to be lost, captured, or delayed, still a proportion of the stores may safely arrive in the others. Further advantages may also derive from the distribution, as an assortment will be more conveniently at hand for any case of emergency; such as immediate or unexpected service, detachments, or supplying particular islands or colonies.

It were difficult to acknowledge similar advantages from the separation of our happy and social mess, although we are, likewise, obliged to divide our stores, and mess-apparatus, being now instructed to make the voyage in different ships. This is matter of high regret to us all, and the more so, as we had been long enough together to become well acquainted, and happy in each other’s society, besides having jointly provided ourselves for the voyage.

We have received orders to repair, two of us to the George and Bridget, and two to the Lord Sheffield: Dr. Master and myself feel ourselves fortunate in being appointed to the latter, for we had visited the George and Bridget, and had not acquired any predilection in her favor. The Lord Sheffield we have not yet seen, but her captain tells us that she is a fast-sailing ship, and fitted up in a superior style, with her cabin “neat, light, and lively as a drawing-room.” We do not give implicit confidence to the report of one so strongly interested in speaking her fair: but the probabilities are much in her favor, she being a West India trader, and, no doubt, better fitted for passengers, and better adapted, in all respects, for a tropical climate. The George and Bridget is a large Baltic timber ship, and, of course, has not had the same occasion either for conveying or accommodating passengers.

We have met with many of the officers at Portsmouth who were out, in the fleet, during the late destructive gale. Their accounts are afflicting beyond all the suggestions even of fearful anticipation. Deducting in due allowance for the augmented terrors of young and fresh-water sailors, still the whole scene, and its result have been most painfully disastrous; for, melancholy to repeat! multitudes of souls have perished; and six or seven vessels have not been heard of since the storm.

LETTER X.

Mother-bank, Dec. 3, 1795.

My late letter to you, from Portsmouth, had nearly been a last address. In my passage from thence to the Lord Sheffield, at the Mother-bank, I was exposed to such imminent peril as to have had scarcely a hope of escape. The necessary arrangements being made for occupying our new births, I left Portsmouth in a small four-oared boat, belonging to the Lord Sheffield, accompanied by Mr. Jaffray (the master of the ship) and Mr. M‘Lean, of the hospital department. On our way to the Mother-bank, we were suddenly overtaken by a violent, and, situated as we were, most perilous storm. The sky blackened; the tearing winds roared; and the tumid sea, gathering into frightful mountains, rushed before the wind in boisterous loudness, threatening us with instant destruction. Tossed from wave to wave, and dashed and rolled about, amidst the broken mountains of water, every moment seemed likely to be our last: for any one of the heavy seas might have upset our little bark, or have broken over us, and sent us to the bottom. Begirt with multitudes of rugged and liquid hills, rupturing on all quarters, and rolling and tumbling one over another towards her, so small a boat seemed to have no chance of maintaining herself upon the rude and ever changing surface. From the deep swelling of the sea, together with the constant agitation and breaking of the waves, the sailors could not take sufficient depth to pull steadily with their oars; nor could the boat be made to obey the helm. At one moment we were raised, as it were, on a pinnacle—at the next ingulfed in deep shade between two roaring surges, towering high above us, and seeming to say, “Ye shall never rise again.” Yet, quickly, we were lifted upon a new-formed summit, and as suddenly dashed again into the vale of still more rugged billows, each contending in hasty strife, which should be the messenger of our fate.

The captain, with a countenance strongly expressive of anxiety, begged of us _not to speak_, lest we should divert his attention from the helm: upon the management of which our safety very much depended. Sitting at his elbow, in profound silence, as he desired, I watched his features as the barometer of my hopes and fears, and you will believe that I felt not quite at ease, upon observing him betray manifest symptoms of alarm. To move was even worse than to speak, and might be instant destruction to us all; hence it only remained to us to sit in solemn stillness, and meet our destiny.

To reach the Lord Sheffield was absolutely impossible; for the wind was contrary, and the tide in concert with the storm, to prevent it: and to return to Portsmouth was, scarcely, less difficult, or less perilous, from the inability of our little boat to resist the enormous following waves, impelled by the joint force of the gale and the tide.

In this critical dilemma it was decided that we should steer for the nearest ship there was any hope of our being able _to fetch_; and the captain, encouraging the sailors to continue at their oars, and bear away to leeward, directed the helm accordingly. In this attempt we struggled on, often washed with the heavy sprays, and as frequently almost upset by the tearing gusts of wind. But perseverance, together with great dexterity in the management of the boat, at length, succeeded in bringing us alongside the Diana frigate, where we were kindly received, and even cherished as friends rescued from the devouring deep.

Having witnessed the danger to which we had been exposed, the officers, in the most liberal manner, welcomed us on board, and refusing to hear a word of apology, insisted upon our not attempting to depart until every appearance of the gale should have subsided. Indeed they gave orders that our boat should be hoisted on board, and desired that we would think only of making ourselves comfortable for the night. In this they were imperative, nor will you imagine that our obedience was reluctant.

The Diana was under the command of Lieutenant Davy, in the absence of Captain Faulkener. This gentleman gave directions for our receiving every accommodation the ship could afford, and tendered his services in a manner that made it grateful to accept the kindness bestowed. Every individual seemed to emulate the commanding officer in friendly attentions towards our party, insomuch that we had cause to rejoice in the peril which had driven us among them.

As soon as we were made dry, and enabled to feel a little like ourselves, we were invited to the dinner-table of the mess. It was spread with plenty, and we partook with Mr. Davy, and the whole party of officers, who vied with each other in kind hospitality towards the rescued strangers. Good humour prevailed; the conversation was agreeable; and the bottle passed freely until evening, when a party was formed to a rubber at whist, and, at night, we were conducted to some of the best births of the ship.

We were pleased to hear every person, with whom we conversed, speak of lieutenant Davy in the highest terms of praise. He was entitled to our best wishes, and we owed him much respect and gratitude: we were exceedingly happy, therefore, to learn that he had equally the esteem of his captain, his messmates, and the sailors. As a companion, he is amiable and engaging. His address is easy; his manners are accomplished; and, independent of his great kindness to us, in the hour of peril, his general conduct, and the handsome report of his brother officers, could not but call forth our regard.

We passed the night in rest and comfort. In the morning the weather was settled and fine; therefore, after taking breakfast, our boat was lowered down, and we made the best of our way to the Lord Sheffield, reluctantly quitting the hospitable party, with whom misfortune had brought us acquainted.

Without further interruption we reached the Mother-bank, and I have now the pleasure to address you, in safety, from the Lord Sheffield, a very fine West India ship, and as superior to the gloomy George and Bridget, as her captain had represented. She is thoroughly clean, has a general air of neatness, and seems likely to verify the commander’s report of her sailing. She is conveniently adapted for passengers, and is expressly calculated for the West Indies, having awnings, scuttles, port-holes and all the necessary accommodations for the climate. The cabin is commodious, and is fitted up with mahogany wainscot, pier glasses, chairs, sofa, &c. due regard being paid to taste and ornament.

We have several guns on board, and wear the appearance of being well armed; but the ship is not sufficiently manned to defend herself against a regular attack, and this is what we have most to lament in our change from the Ulysses, for in other respects our situation is improved.

LETTER XI.

Lord Sheffield, Dec. 8.

Again I have been unsettled, and moving about from place to place, making my home sometimes on board, sometimes on shore. On examining my baggage, soon after I joined the Lord Sheffield, I perceived that one of my boxes was missing; and it has cost me a long, and a very sickly round, to recover it. In following the Ulysses, which had changed her birth, we were brought into an open and heavy-swelling sea, the motion of which made me very unwell, and led me to contemplate the probable sufferings I shall have to support upon the long voyage we are about to undertake.

Capt. Jaffray never having been on board a ship of such immense bulk, availed himself of my necessities, and took the command of the boat, upon this excursion, in order to look at the vast Commerce de Marseilles. I wish it were practicable to convey to you, in words, the sense of grandeur with which the mind is inspired on first approaching such an enormous floating battery; or to paint to you the sensations excited by rowing, in a small boat, close below her stern, and her sides; but it were quite impossible for the pen to describe how diminutive we felt, or how immense and wonderful she appeared. To express it by the image of the gnat and the camel, it were necessary to suppose the former the minutest of its race, and the latter hugely overgrown. Looking up from our little skiff, the sight was truly awful; the figure of the ship was forgotten; the hull appeared a mountain, the masts lofty obelisks erected upon it; and the tremendous batteries, projecting from her sides, conveyed the idea of a stupendous rock hanging over us, fortified with many tiers of cannon.

We returned, yesterday, to the Lord Sheffield, and you will be glad to know that we were accompanied by doctor Cleghorn, who, in consequence of a new arrangement, is permitted to join our mess; so that we have again the prospect of crossing the Atlantic pleasantly _en quartette_.

To-day a signal has been made for the fleet to unmoor; and, in consequence of this, the Lord Sheffield has dropped down from the Mother-bank to the eastern part of Spithead. Should the wind continue at the point from which it now blows, we may be to-morrow on our passage.

LETTER XII.

Lord Sheffield, at sea, Dec. 31.

At length we are at sea! the convoy sailed from Spithead and St. Helens, the day after I sent my last letter, and I now lift my pen to you upon the bosom of the wide Atlantic. From the time of the ever-memorable attempt of the fleet to proceed upon the voyage, in the month of November, the adverse winds, which had driven it back, in so shattered and disastrous a condition, detained it, in harbour, until the 9th instant; when it again put to sea under a serene sky, and propitious breezes; but, notwithstanding these favorable appearances, we have, since, had a most perilous succession of storms, one having, scarcely, subsided before it has been followed by another; and I have now so lost my confidence in the weather, that, although I am sitting in tolerable quietness to write to you, at this moment, I dare scarcely hope to finish my letter before I shall be tossed from my chair by a renewal of the gale.

This is the last day of the old year, and, whichsoever way I look, my eye surveys only an unbounded ocean. When we may again see land, it were difficult to conjecture, but my pen shall prepare for you some _notes_ of our proceedings, occasionally, when the sea will permit me to guide it; and I will send them by any vessel we may chance to meet on the passage, or by the earliest packet, after we reach the West Indies.

On the first morning of our being at sea, the weather was clear and mild, and the whole fleet, consisting of nearly three hundred vessels, of various magnitude, was assembled in compact form, occupying a certain circle of the ocean’s surface, and gliding smoothly on its passage. It formed one of the grandest spectacles ever beheld. Never shall I forget climbing up the shrowds, as high as the main top, to enjoy it in all its perfection. The sun shone; the sea was smooth and undisturbed; the air serene. All sails were set, and the vessels being near to each other, the white canvass seemed spread, in crowded continuation, throughout the wide space covered by the fleet. Looking down upon the multitude of ships, it created the idea of an entire nation moving upon the waters. It was an emblem of Britain’s glory. We appeared to command the whole empire of the main; and the prospect, being calculated to excite flattering hopes of victory and success, could not fail to be viewed, by every Briton, with delight. But, alas! how delusive were these auspicious dawnings! We had advanced very little on our passage, before a dire reverse succeeded. The sun was now obscured; a thick fog overspread the ocean; and all the fleet was shut from our sight. Clouds gathered around; and the heavens scowled in terrific blackness. At length burst forth a roaring storm! the waters broke into huge billows; and the ships, struggling against the wild and furious waves, were, at one moment, tossed on a pinnacle, and, the next, plunged into a gloomy deep, surrounded by disordered mountains. In an instant they were again amidst the clouds, and again as suddenly sunk in the dark valley of liquid hills: thus, alternately, threatening us with the danger of being hurled from a summit, or swallowed up in a frightful gulf of the unfathomable ocean. Nor had we, barely, to encounter the common dangers of the sea, but, from being amidst a crowded fleet, were, every instant, liable to the additional peril of running aboard some neighbouring ship, and being dashed in pieces, or driven suddenly to the bottom: to this we were likewise exposed by the darkness of night, or by a heavy fog. The terror of these critical moments is necessarily augmented by the lively apprehensions of those who are but little accustomed to the sea: nor is this wonderful, for, where every motion, and every sound is calculated to excite alarm, he must be more than a philosopher, he must be a sailor, who can regard even the less imminent perils with unconcern.

During a storm, the deep rollings of the ship, her deeper lurches, the thundering concussion of heavy seas against her sides, the hollow dreary sound of the wind howling in her sails and rigging, the hurry and clamour of the ship’s company, and the dismal creakings of the masts, bulkheads, and other parts of the vessel, all conspire to create tumult and confusion, and to keep alive the most trembling apprehensions. At one moment the ship is upset, the next you feel her strike upon a rock: suddenly she is shattered to atoms; or, foundering, sinks to the bottom; and, while you are absorbed in these sensations, a sea, or heavy spray breaks over the deck, a threatening wave beats in the quarter gallery, or a rolling mountain dashes the stern windows into the cabin. The water now pouring upon you from every opening, your fears are confirmed, and you feel that the vessel is positively sinking. Quickly, the accident is repaired, and, in the moment of despair you are greeted with tidings of safety.

Often, in the midst of alarming appearances, and manifold disquietudes, you are visited by the carpenter, with the “dead-lights,” who, fixing them in the stern windows, nails you up in darkness, as in a coffin, and with as much _sang froid_ as men of his calling screw up the bodies of those who are actually dead: replying, at the same time, to your anxious and fearful inquiries regarding the necessity for that step being taken, that it is “_only to keep the spray from breaking the windows_!” But I am fatiguing you with a detail of what every one knows; and most who have been at sea, have felt: let me, therefore, return to our voyage.

What shall I say to you of our armada—our unfortunate fleet! Ere this can meet your hand, you will have had many, alas! too many melancholy proofs of the disasters which have befallen it. Did ever the seas: did the heavens ever fight so cruelly against an expedition! were ever the elements so decidedly hostile to the great and flattering efforts of man!

After the violence of the first gale, most of our scattered fleet, owing to the attention and exertions of Admiral Christian and his officers, was again assembled, and we felicitated ourselves in the hope of proceeding to our place of destination without further interruption: but the turbulent mountains of a disordered sea were scarcely reduced to a more tranquil surface, before the storm was renewed with additional violence. Quickly we were more scattered than before. Many of the ships, unable to resist this second shock, were, now, much injured, and obliged to put back into port. Some, we suppose, again joined the admiral, and others wholly lost the convoy. We were among the latter, but, when the weather cleared, we fell in with a small division of the fleet, with which we sailed in company, for several days. Further repetitions of the storm again separated us, and we were tossed about, seeing no more than three, sometimes but two, and often only a single ship, until, at length, we found ourselves quite alone upon the broad ocean.

Previous to our final separation we witnessed a scene of a most melancholy nature; having observed a neighbouring ship in the utmost danger of being lost, without possessing the power of affording her any relief. She hoisted a flag, and fired guns of distress; but the gale was so strong, and the sea running so frightfully high, that it was impossible to give her assistance. We stood towards her, and anxiously kept her in view, in the hope of administering aid, if she should be supported upon the surface until the weather became moderate. Unhappily the tempest continued increasing rather than diminishing in violence. We looked fearfully on the ship, expecting every instant to see her go to the bottom. She repeated signals of distress. We heard them, and saw them, but were unable to obey them. It was a most awful crisis. We regarded her with dismal forebodings, examining her, both with the eye and the telescope, again and again. Her masts were standing; her sails entire; and the rigging, apparently, perfect; but these circumstances, which to landsmen would have seemed favorable, we discovered to be the very reverse; for, hence it was that our best sailors formed the fatal conclusion that her situation was hopeless, and that she must have sprung a leak!

We watched the heavens, and the waters in painful solicitude, but saw no relaxation of the storm. Tremendous mountains at one moment concealed the wretched ship from our view: at another we appeared to be enveloped, together, in the same frightful gulf. You will conceive our sensations upon feeling that, in one instant more, this deep pit of the ocean might be the grave of every soul on board. Signals, denoting the extreme of danger, were repeated: the sea rolled in terrific disorder: we bent our eyes in vain towards the vessel, deploring her threatened fate, and our own inability to prevent it! Night came on. We lost her in darkness, and—beheld her no more!