The prints of Tuesday, the 25th of October, contained this brief telegram:—

‘Queenstown.—The “Royal Charter,” from Melbourne, fifty-eight days out, is off this port. She expects to be at Liverpool tomorrow night.’

In the Times of Thursday, the 27th, appeared the following:—

‘A telegraphic despatch has reached us as we are going to press, announcing the loss, on her way from Queenstown to Liverpool, of the “Royal Charter,” with over four hundred passengers on board, of which number only about twenty are saved.’

The last news was so overwhelming—so unexpected and improbable after the early telegram—that at first it was received with some amount of incredulity. No other paper of that morning but the Times contained the intelligence; and from behind this fact there came a gleam of hope. At about eleven o’clock, however, the journals issued as usual their second editions, and then it was the statement in the Times was confirmed, and that the mournfullest piece of news in connection with marine disaster which ever reached this country was generally accepted. The ‘Royal Charter’ was lost! Men passed the news from one to another in whispers, shook their heads, and moved on to the newspaper and telegraph offices for later items bearing upon the calamity. The announcement in the first edition of the Times was sad enough. Such details, however, as that journal was enabled to give in its second edition far more than confirmed the early telegram. Instead of only four hundred persons being on board, it appeared there were close upon five hundred, while the proportion of saved was not in the slightest increased. Some of the circumstances grouped around the wreck, too, were now supplied us. The vessel had, after a terrible battle with the storm, in which masts were cut down and much noble life was spent, struck upon the rocky coast of Wales, parted amidships, and gone down not twenty yards from shore, and scarcely four hours’ sail from Liverpool.

I was in Sydney when the ‘Dunbar’ was lost. I remember, with painful distinctness, the gloom cast upon the colony by that catastrophe. The same cold sense of horror seemed on Thursday last to take possession of the metropolis. At Lloyd’s, at the Jerusalem, at the Baltic, men moved silently about with white faces and knitted brows. As each new telegram arrived and was posted in the rooms, groups would crowd anxiously around it, and amongst them—thrust forward with a most touching anxiousness—the face of many an old colonist could be seen. There was an element of uncertainty in the disaster which added to its painful and prostrating effect upon the public mind. The ship had brought eleven days’ later news; there was no list of its passengers to be had in England; and who could tell but that his friends or kinsmen were on board? We all knew here the splendid qualities of the vessel: we all knew how high her colours stood in the colony. I knew I had travelled the six hundred miles of dangerous sea between Sydney and Melbourne to make my journey home in her. Who then that had a relative or connection in the colony could—or can to this hour—help the bleak conviction that in this vessel, which the cruel rocks have battered, and the remorseless waves have beaten to fragments, he or she was making a visit to the mother country? There were many of course that Thursday morning at Lloyd’s, and the colonial coffee-houses, who by the last mail had received letters from friends intimating their intention of coming home by the ‘Charter.’ To them the intelligence of the wreck had terrible interest. Hour after hour they hung about the City, and when, just before closing, a ‘List of the Saved’ was received at Lloyd’s, it was with difficulty the clerk was enabled to keep them from tearing the document from his hands and post it upon the walls. One gentleman, white-headed and bent with age, who, I subsequently found, had a son on board, swooned the moment he saw the list. His boy was saved.

I endeavour to be brief in these introductory remarks; but somehow the atmosphere of dejection which has rested upon us all since the evil tidings first met us, reproduces itself as I write, and I find myself calling up with mournful minuteness the earlier passages in the History I have been requested to prepare. To that task let me now compel myself.

While the news of the wreck was still being bandied from mouth to mouth, I, who knew the ill-fated craft, and thought, without taking upon myself to suggest a reason for the disaster, I could yet set down many things which might enable others to do so, wrote the following article for one of the newspapers:—

‘The finest ship that ever left the port of Liverpool has gone down with five hundred lives on board. I knew the ship—unhappily I knew some of those who have perished. I purpose to tell my impressions of the vessel, of the captain—everything I know that is likely to be read with interest by the dread light of the calamity.

‘Nearly this time two years I left Melbourne for Liverpool in the vessel. She had—and, in most particulars, deserved it—the reputation of being the finest ship that ever came to Hobson’s Bay. The “Great Britain,” belonging to the same line, was of larger burden, and of much higher steam capacity; but among her splendid performances there was no record of a passage from England to Australia in fifty-nine days. This extraordinary run the “Royal Charter” had made, and a reputation had in consequence attached to her which always filled her cabins with home-bound colonists within ten days or a fortnight of her arrival at Melbourne. As I am writing this I am in utter ignorance of the details connected with the loss of the vessel; and it would be a mere impertinence were I to suggest a cause for the catastrophe. This I must say, however—I feel bound to say it, for the sake of all those who go down to the sea in ships—that if the “Royal Charter” had not made such rapid passages, lives lost on board before this final casualty would certainly not have been sacrificed. Let me, before proceeding further, explain what I mean. It is a practice with more than one large shipping firm, like that to which the “Charter” belonged, to give very heavy rewards to those captains who are enabled to make “the voyage”—that is, the passage out and home—within a specially limited time; let us say five months. Captain Taylor, of the “Royal Charter,” told me himself that his owners had promised him five hundred pounds whenever he made the journey from Liverpool to Melbourne and back in one hundred and fifty days. The consequence of this arrangement was, that speed rather than safety became the characteristic of Captain Taylor’s command. It would be cruel to make this statement if I were not prepared to prove it; but when I add that the “Charter” never made a voyage without an accident of some kind or other occurring—that when I came from Melbourne in her, her gear was so defective that a yard-arm fell, killing one man and wounding others, the very day we left Hobson’s Bay, and that throughout the passage her rudder was so faulty that we had to slacken sail whenever the ship attained a speed of twelve knots,—the veracity (or taste) of my assertion cannot be questioned. Everything was sacrificed to speed: a quick passage seemed to be the sole aim of the captain—was, in fact, the sole aim, as, to conclude these prefatory remarks, one little circumstance will show. When I came home in the ship, she happened, from a stress of foul winds, to make an extraordinarily long run. Well, a month before we arrived in port, we were placed on short allowance of food. Rapidity was so relied on that only sixty or seventy days’ provisions (instead of, as the Shipping Act provides, one hundred and twenty) had been put on board when we left Melbourne!

‘But, with all, she was a noble vessel; and the captain was a noble sailor. If he was a little reckless, the “Liverpool System” is rather to blame than he. He had risen, I believe, from before the mast, and was a man of a certain rough amiability, of seafaring energy, and dogged determination. A slight anecdote fits in here as an illustration. Once he was commanding a ship which had sprung a leak, and a number of the sailors, for some reason or other, refused to work. Captain Taylor ordered all the refractory men in irons, and then, fitting up a windmill, pumped out the vessel without any manual assistance whatever.

‘The “Royal Charter” was a magnificent specimen of shipbuilding. She was some thirty feet longer than the “Great Britain;” could, without her “auxiliary screw,” sail eighteen knots an hour; and was, in matters of internal appointment, more like a West-end hotel than a ship which had to brave the seas and storms of Cape Horn. Her principal saloon was one hundred feet long, was fitted up with stained glass, rich hangings, velvet couches, candelabra, bookcases, piano, and all the other elegancies which have of late been made so much of in the reporters’ descriptions of the “Great Eastern.” There were about forty cabins at the sides of the saloons, beside some twenty or thirty first-class berths on the deck immediately under. The “intermediate” and “steerage” accommodation was very large—capable, I should say, of receiving from four hundred and fifty to five hundred passengers—while in the forecastle and “cock-pit” there were, when I came from Australia, about one hundred men, consisting of officers, pursers, midshipmen, crew, etc., etc. Along the main-deck there was a row of shops—a wine-store, a grocery-store, a meat-store, and a bakery, together with two or three kitchens. (I may add here that the ship carried a score of stewards and cooks.) In the centre of the vessel a large space was devoted to the engine and engineers’ apartments, and just on one side were the cow and sheep pens. Altogether a noble craft—so noble that I never looked at it without thinking, “Great God! will this vessel ever be swallowed by the waters!”

‘Why was this Thought always uppermost as I walked about the ship? I can scarcely tell. I used to think it arose from the gloomy influence of the accident which occurred as we left Hobson’s Bay; but then for weeks after I arrived in England I seldom went to sleep without dreaming I was perishing in a wreck, and that that wreck was the “Royal Charter.” There are those who will be inclined to smile at this portion of my communication; but as I hope never to meet with such a fate as that which has befallen those poor souls whose bodies now lie rotting on the coast of Wales, I solemnly declare that, from the hour I placed my foot on board the vessel until the moment when the news reached me that she had gone to pieces, I had a presentiment some dire calamity would overtake her. Some of those who were on board with me will, doubtless, recognize the hand that pens this memoir. Henceforward, the most stolidly sceptical of these must admit that feeling is sometimes higher than reason, and that there are more things under heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our material philosophy. I should not waste space to chronicle these presentiments—which the majority of readers will, I am aware, regard, and perhaps naturally so, as idle—had they not arisen with me in a manner so utterly unaccountable, and been fulfilled in a manner so utterly disastrous.

‘And at this point, as bearing somewhat upon these forebodings, I may as well state that, from first to last—from her birth to her death, as it were—the “Royal Charter” was, except in the all but uniform swiftness of her voyages, an unfortunate vessel. Imprimis, she was originally built as a sister boat to the unfortunate “John Tayleur.” It will be in the recollection of the reader that, some years ago, this “John Tayleur” was wrecked not very far distant from the spot where the “Charter” went ashore, and with about as many passengers as the “Charter” had on board. There was a great deal written and said at the time about the negligence of the captain, but on inquiry he urged that the wreck had been occasioned through a deviation—the ship was of iron—in the compasses. This explanation was accepted; but it had so much weight with the owners of the “Tayleur” that they at once sold the iron hull of the sister ship they were engaged in building, determining never to have anything more to do with other than wooden vessels. This hull was bought by Messrs. Gibb and Brights, and, as it was originally intended merely for a second-class ship of a thousand or eleven hundred tons, it was, I was told, lengthened amidships by the new owners until it was thirty feet longer than the “Great Britain,” or nearly one-half the length of the “Great Eastern.” It is unnecessary to add that while this extension of the craft from stem to stern was going on, her beam could never be increased. She was, in fact, more like a long iron arrow than a ship. Her extreme length, coupled with her extraordinary narrowness, rendered her a splendid sailer; but it is a grave question with me whether her peculiarity of build may not have had something to do with the accident. In a heavy sea she rolled tremendously, and would only “wear” on one tack. But to continue my record of her calamitous career, the very first time the sister ship of the unfortunate “Tayleur” went to sea (and, let us note, a year had been spent in trying to launch her) she had to put in at Plymouth owing to bad weather, and—I think—some slight injury to her machinery. On arriving at Melbourne, an accident happened on board, and several men were killed. On returning to Liverpool, she ran foul of a vessel just leaving that port, took away her anchor in her bows (fortunately above water-mark), and carried it with her into dock. On the next passage out to Melbourne, the unfortunate ship, soon after crossing the line, was found to be on fire, and it was with great difficulty the conflagration was extinguished. It was on the same run, too, that her rudder was first discovered to be faulty in its working—that is, it shook the vessel to such an extent that sleepers were sometimes thrown from their bunks at night. On her return to England, the yard-arm fell, and—as I have already mentioned—one man was killed, and several were injured. On this passage it was that the ship found itself short of food; moreover, the coal had run out long before we had reached the tropics. In consequence of the last fact, the journey home occupied ninety-seven days; and I was subsequently told great was the anxiety throughout the country for the safety of the vessel. And, apart from the long passage, there was special cause, although unsuspected on shore, for this anxiety. For three days before we made Cork, we had been unable to get a sight of the sun, and, consequently, no observations had been taken. On the eve of the last day a stiffish gale was blowing, and a thick fog floated on the water. At about midnight the gale increased, and the captain, not knowing exactly where we were, ordered the ship to be laid to. Next morning we found we were about twelve miles from the coast. Another hour’s run overnight, and we should all have been landed in eternity.

‘My narrative is now brought down to about eighteen months ago. I know little of the “Royal Charter” since then. She made, it seems, her last run out to Australia in fifty-nine days, and in a Melbourne paper I received by the last mail, I saw it stated that “an able band of musicians had been engaged to proceed with the vessel home!” Ah! jollity enough was there on board, I doubt not, as the barque neared port! Fifty-eight days from Melbourne to Cork! Splendid winds must she have had all the way home; high must have been the spirits of captain, crew, and passengers! Where is the merry company now? It is a sad, sad story. Women must wring their hands, and strong men must weep, as they read that after a haven had been actually reached—after some of the passengers had even landed in Ireland, and set the telegraph in motion to tell their friends in distant places that they were safe on British soil—the ship should have been dashed to pieces by the merciless sea-spume, and that of the five hundred souls on board, four hundred and seventy should have perished!

‘I could write more. I knew so many of the brave officers and crew who have perished. I knew the bluff, honest, daring captain. But of what avail is it to speak of them now? They have all gone. May they rest in peace until that day when even the sea shall render up its dead!’

That was written on Thursday afternoon. The evening papers of that day contained nothing very new. On the Friday morning, however, there was sufficient in the daily journals to show me that I had—without presuming to expressly state—rightly indicated the cause of the ship’s destruction. Not a life need have been lost if the “Charter” had not broken her back. What a strange light that sentence sheds upon what I have written concerning the build of the ship—of her scant beam and startling length.... Of the setting aside, in fact, of the normal conditions of the Thing!

How the vessel came upon the coast is a question running parallel with the foregoing, and the character of the captain, as set forth in that newspaper communication of mine, comes in here with answer. That answer, we all desire, should carry due amount of weight with other commanders of ships with precious freight of human souls on board. There are a few iron plates, rolled up like shrivelled parchment, on the rocks of Molfre Bay. They are all that is left to us of the wreck of the “Royal Charter,” auxiliary screw, thousands of tons burthen, fire-proof bullion-room, patent reefing topsails, and the rest. What precious warning in those crumpled iron plates! Will sea-captains read of them and still go steaming up channel on nights piteously dark with fog and mist? Unhappily, experience says they will.

If shrivelled iron plates fail, as perhaps they may, to carry caution, then let our sea-captains read deeply of the narratives of the saved, which I must now, assuming my proper duty as compiler, proceed to set forth. And at the onset, the bitterest narrative lies in the fact that of near five hundred souls—passengers and crew—on board the vessel, the following mournfully scant catalogue contains the name of every survivor[A]:—

Saloon Passengers.

W.H. Morse.

F. Grundy.

H.C. Taylor.

Saloon Passengers landed at Queenstown.

Mr. Gardner.

Mr. M‘Evoy.

Mrs. Nahmur and child.

Third-Class Passengers (including those landed at Queenstown).

C. M‘Phiel.

John Judge.

W.J. Ferris.

James M‘Clappon.

W. Russell.

J. Bradbury.

Samuel Granfell.

Carl Bertal.

N. Hegan.

John Loome.

S.E. Gapper.

W. Bowden.

Crew.

William Foster.

John O’Brien.

Thomas Griffiths.

William M‘Arthur.

George Irisher.

George Suaicar.

E. Wilson.

Thomas Tims.

Henry Evans.

John Richards.

James Rogers.

David Stroman.

William Hughes.

Thomas Ellis.

George M‘Givrin.

Owen Williams.

William Draper.

Thomas Cormick.

John Stannard.

We are anxiously awaiting the next mail, in order to learn the names of those who are lost. At present the lists that have been published are limited, contradictory, and hypothetical. Each survivor has supplied the newspaper reporters with the names of just as many of his lost fellow-passengers as he could remember. You in the colony, however, will be able, with your files of papers, to complete this section of the story of the Lost Ship.[B]

The narrative which is at once the completest and most touching is that of Mr. Russell, which takes the following historical form:—

‘On entering the saloon, Mr. Allen, the head steward of the second cabin, came and told the passengers they had better not go on deck, as it might cause confusion. The order was implicitly obeyed. Time passed anxiously and wearily: the storm still raged. Suddenly the vessel struck, not violently—not even with sufficient force to throw the passengers off their seats. Water then came pouring down into the cabin. A voice shouted for the second-class passengers to go into the lower saloon, as the mainmast was going to be cut away. The passengers nearest to the entrance doors attempted to open them (they were hinged in the ceiling), and finding some difficulty, they were immediately smashed. Still there was no hurrying or crushing; all silently took their seats. On deck, sailors and officers, stripped to the waist, laboured to cut away the mainmast. The vessel rolled and thumped so heavily that in delivering their blows, the men were many times thrown on to the deck, but the motion of the vessel assisted the work; the waves, too, lent their aid, and soon the mast tottered, then fell with a crash overboard. Immediately afterwards the raging sea threw the vessel still higher up upon the rocks. The foremast was then cut away, and almost at the same time the mizenmast broke off at the mizenmast-head. Boats were lowered, but the moment they touched the waves they were carried with irresistible force against the rocks, and their inmates were either crushed or drowned in the sea. No boat could live in such a storm. There appeared scarcely any need of boats, so close upon the shore was the vessel. Having struck, the vessel slewed round port side to the rocks. When in the lower saloon, about this time, an apprentice boy, Charley, entered, telling the passengers from the captain that they were to keep up their hearts, all was well, they were only on a sand-bank. The passengers still remained quietly in the cabin. Mr. Cowie, the second mate, accompanied by the purser and two men, came down; they were stripped, having on only their shirt and trousers. They passed through the saloon to the powder-magazine—as they went bidding the passengers keep up their hearts, as they were not far from the shore. The water entered the saloon at the same time, and the waves striking more heavily, the vessel thumped harder. Those in the lower saloon then passed into the upper one. There they found assembled some of the first and third class passengers. No words were spoken, hope and fear struggled for the mastery in their countenances; by this alone was it seen that life and death were in the balances. The stillness of the assembly was at length broken: a young lady, about twenty, Miss Murray, who was on board with her father, mother, and brother, fainted, and was immediately carried to her cabin, from whence she never emerged. Daylight now began to dawn. They had been tossing on the sea and labouring on the rocks all night. Shortly after daylight, a third-class passenger came down; he had on only his trousers, and had been in the bows of the vessel for several hours. He said the forepart of the vessel and the bows touched the land—every one could wade ashore. All hopes of saving the vessel having disappeared, and the boats having been rendered unserviceable, the captain ordered a hawser to be got ready. A seaman, named Joseph Rogers, volunteered to swim ashore with it. The line was made fast to his body, and the noble fellow gallantly dropped overboard and breasted the waves with the resolution of a sailor. For a time he was lost to sight, as wave after wave dashed over the vessel and broke upon the rocks; then the line tightened, and the man was seen clambering up the rocks.

‘The villagers (brought by the signal-lights) crowded round, the hawser was hauled ashore and made fast to a rock, a boatswain’s chair was slung on to the rope, and a number of sailors ordered ashore to work it. Every order was obeyed without confusion. Amongst others landed were two brave fellows—George Suaicar, Malta, boatswain’s mate, and William Foster, Liverpool, carpenter. Word was passed down to the saloons that the ladies were to come on deck. There was a movement immediately towards the staircase. At the same time the ship’s sides began to creak: then there were two heavy thumps experienced; and the ship broke in two across the main hatch. A great number of passengers were standing amidships, and when the vessel parted they disappeared for ever. At the same time a boat abaft the fore rigging fell. The chief officer, Mr. Stevens, and the chief engineer, Mr. Rogers, were standing under it, and both were killed. A second line was attempted to be carried on shore from the poop, but failed. Mr. Russell, his wife, and children, on gaining the deck found that they were on the stern part of the vessel, separated from the fore part by a yawning chasm, into which every moment human beings were dropping, or being driven by the waves. It was a moment of the intensest anguish. As each clung to the rail at the top of the stairs, a hurried farewell was spoken; then they awaited death calmly. Mr. Russell had several times essayed to get a rope. So close were they to the shore, he imagined he might fasten the rope around his family, cast the rope ashore and save them. In vain were his efforts. They were still clinging to each other, when a huge wave came and separated them. When the wave had passed, Mr. Russell’s eldest girl was missing; and when she was found, a box had been washed on to her leg. Mr. Russell moved the box and liberated her. Again for a few minutes they were united. Another wave came—they lost hold of the rail; Mrs. Russell and the two girls were washed against the side of the vessel, Mr. Russell overboard. As the water returned, Mr. Russell sprang at a piece of iron which hung from the side, seized it, then caught a rope; in another moment he was on deck. His youngest daughter was nearest him; he attempted to lay hold of her, had his hands just on her, when another wave came, broke over the ship, poured down with irresistible force, and washed him overboard again. For a time he was struggling in the waves convulsively; he clutched at something which he felt against his body; it was only a piece of canvas; another moment and he felt seaweed under his feet. A wave came, he was almost insensible, yet he saw a man standing before him. Was it a dream, or a reality? He stretched out his hand, he grasped another hand—yet another wave came, and the hand unloosed—he was borne back again—a mightier wave broke, and the hand was again grasped—it held him—he was saved. In a moment or two he recovered his senses, he was lying on a rock; he turned his eyes seaward, there was no living creature left on the stern of the vessel. He then became insensible again, and was borne by the villagers to the hospitable cottage of Mr. and Mrs. Lewis, in the neighbourhood.

‘There were one or two scenes before Mr. Russell was finally washed off the wreck, which imprinted themselves on his memory; words uttered which no time can ever obliterate. They were the last glimpses caught of fellow-voyagers; the dying expressions of old companions. Mr. Henderson, a merchant of Melbourne, on his way to London, was holding on to the binnacle with a gentleman named Watson, one of the firm of Watson, Passmore, and Co., of Melbourne, and he exclaimed, “Oh! Watson, all is gone.” A Jewess, named Markes, was jammed in near a place where the vegetables were kept: and her husband, in vainly endeavouring to release her, tore all her clothes to rags. They had two children on board, and came from Ballarat. A gentleman named Welsh, while in the lower saloon, tied two black canvas bags full of gold around his neck. He was lost. Several other passengers fastened money about their persons; all were lost. Mr. Taylor, one of the saved, had 35l. in his pockets when he jumped into the sea: on reaching shore he had 10l. remaining. Mr. Gapper, another saved, lost about 50l. out of his pockets while he was being carried ashore by the waves. A gentleman named Bradbury, who was on his way to Manchester, dislocated his right ankle on board, and in endeavouring to free himself broke his leg. He afterwards lowered himself overboard into the sea, exchanged one piece of wood for another, shared it with a gentleman named Lewis, who was not hurt at all, was dashed against the rocks several times, was saved, and his companion was lost.’

Mr. Russell completes his statement in these affecting words:—

‘When the vessel broke, an awful shriek—the death-cry of hundreds—was heard above the violence of the storm. On shore, the villagers and the sailors who had escaped unhurt linked hands, and the bravest stepped into the surf to catch hold of those whom the waves bore towards them on their crests, before they were drawn back into the sea. Foremost in one link was George Suaicar, and he was instrumental in laying hold of nine out of those rescued, until exhausted, he fell senseless on the rock, and was borne away. William Foster was another who joined in forming the link. The vessel struck finally about seven, and broke about nine o’clock. On board were the officers of three vessels coming from Australia, and they, with the captain and officers of the ill-fated “Royal Charter,” were all lost.’

The George Suaicar, thus honourably mentioned, speaks for himself with the modesty of a brave sailor. His position on the ship was that of boatswain’s mate. His testimony has special value as bearing upon the earlier passages of the tragedy:—

‘On Monday,’ he says, assuming a staid, log-book form, ‘we left Queenstown in the afternoon, after putting some passengers on board the pilot-boat “Petrel,” who desired to be landed. We proceeded on with calm weather and water smooth. We made Ballycotton Light at half-past seven P.M.; and Youghal Light, on the Irish coast, at half-past eight. Reached the Menay Light at nine; made the Nook Light in half an hour; and sighted Tuskar at about half-past eleven o’clock. On Tuesday morning saw Bardsey, at which time the wind began to freshen. The wind heading, we took in the square-sails; and at ten o’clock A.M., the wind increasing, took in all the fore and aft sails. In the afternoon made Holyhead at half-past one, and at half-past four were right ahead of Holyhead harbour. Could see the steamship “Great Eastern.” Off Bardsey the steam-tug “United Kingdom” came alongside and handed on board some newspapers, asking if we would give a free passage to eleven riggers, as we were going to Liverpool, and the tug was not going until she got a tow. The riggers were taken on board. At a quarter to eight on Tuesday evening were abreast of the Skerries, distant about a mile and a half. At this time the wind had increased to a heavy gale, and the ship was making little or no progress in the water. She was driving up with the strength of the tide, and nearing the shore; the steam had no effect, but we did all to keep the ship off. The maintopsail was lowered, but she still drifted. Clewed up the maintopsail, and the hands were sent up to furl it. The wind had now increased considerably, almost blew the sail from the yard, and it became entangled on the starboard side. It was difficult to get the sail stowed. At this time Mr. Bean, the third officer, with several seamen and myself, were trying to make the sail fast, but could not succeed in accomplishing it. Shortly afterwards orders were given to cock-bill the port anchor, and let go. This was done, giving her seventy-five fathoms of chain. The vessel was steaming the whole time. Finding she was dragging, we let go the starboard anchor. Still finding her dragging, we paid out all the port chain. The vessel was still steaming, and the wind had now increased to a perfect hurricane. We then went to get the stream anchor up, and while doing so the starboard chain parted. I then felt the ship canting over to port, and fancied the wind had changed.

‘Orders were then given to cut away the mainmast, which was done, and in a few minutes afterwards she struck on a bank. The captain gave orders to the engineer to give her as much steam as he could, to harden her on the bank. It was then about three-quarters ebb tide. The place where she struck was at the west of Moelfra, eastward of Point Lynas. Heard the captain give orders to starboard the helm, to keep her on the shore, so that the sea would not have so much power on her broadside. When she became hardened on, the chief officer gave me and the boatswain orders to cut the main and maintopmast stays, as they were lying across the boat, so that the boat could be cleared in case of need. We did so. The chief boatswain and myself were afterwards sitting on a spar, on the deck-house, the sea at the time making a complete breach over the ship. I then went forward to look out, and ascertain whether we were on sand or rock, when I discovered the land distant about thirty yards. I went back, and told the chief officer that it was land; and he said, “We will loose the foretopmast-staysail, and when the tide makes up run her up.” I said it would be as well to give her the foresail. It was then getting daylight. I volunteered to go ashore with a line to get a hawser ashore, immediately after which I felt the ship striking heavier than ever, supposing it was in consequence of the tide making. The sea still broke over her with even greater violence than ever. The captain was at this time on deck, standing by the steam telegraph. I told the chief officer again I was willing to go ashore with a line, and do everything to save life. Asked him if he would allow me a few minutes to put my lifebelt on; and he said of course he would. I afterwards told the boatswain I was going to try and get a line on shore, and he said it was useless, the sea was running too high. Afterwards had a small line slung round my body, and wished some one to volunteer to attend to it while I swam ashore. After some hesitation, a man volunteered. Just as I was being lowered into the water, some one called out that there was a line on shore from forward. Upon hearing that I did not go. A hawser was got on shore and made fast to a rock, and with this contrivance myself and some of the other seamen saved our lives. The hawser was made fast by several of the inhabitants on shore, who came to render assistance.

‘After the ship struck, all the passengers were directed to go aft until the hawser could be properly got out, so that as many as possible might be saved. Shortly after this the vessel parted amidships; and a large number of passengers, standing on the deck where she parted, were swept into the sea and drowned. The boats were smashed to pieces by the fury of the gale, and the others could not be lowered, so that none of them could be made available. The passengers saved were driven on shore by the force of the waves. Sixteen of the crew got ashore by the hawser. An endeavour was made to get a second hawser ashore to rescue the female passengers; but this could not be accomplished. Not a single female passenger was saved. In three hours after the vessel struck she began to go to pieces. Saw about seventy passengers on the port bow, all anxiously awaiting some means of getting them on shore; but a heavy sea which struck the starboard bow stove it in, the ship gave a lurch, and the people were all driven into the sea and drowned. Some of the passengers saved were thrown upon the rocks, and picked up by the crew and others who came to render assistance.’

From the narratives, then, of Mr. Russell and the Boatswain’s Mate, this much may be gathered—that the ‘Royal Charter’ had drifted (shall we say had been foolishly allowed to drift?) too near the coast; that the hurricane had gradually increased, and as the vessel laboured so heavily, the masts had been cut away to ease her; that the screw, which had to an extent served to keep the ship from striking, became suddenly entangled with the falling spars, and ceased to work; that the strong wind and stronger waves then bore the craft against the rocks; that, through the courage of a seaman, a rope was carried to the coast with a ‘boatswain’s chair’ secured upon it; that (when a sufficient number of the crew had landed to work ‘this contrivance’) the passengers had been summoned to be sent ashore; that, just as they were congregating amidships, a crash was heard, the vessel parted, and fell to pieces like a house of cards; that a few hasty farewells, a quick exchange of hopeless glances, a waving of hands which heretofore had been joined in all life’s struggles, and a last wild cry to heaven, through which the wintry sun was slowly breaking, followed that awful crash; that the ship gradually sank and the sea gradually swelled; that a few bodies, cruelly mutilated, were washed upon the shelving crags; that the sun rose higher and higher, until at length its beams flickered among the crimson gouts upon the faces of the rocks; and, finally, that the Welsh villagers gathered upon the spot, and, with true Welsh hospitality, bore the bodies of the unfortunate passengers to their homes.

And the sun set and the moon came up; and the wives of the officers and crew—and all those who knew, or thought, they had friends or relatives on board—assembled upon the spot, searching along the shore for tokens or memorials however slight from which LIFE or DEATH might be interpreted, and suspense changed, for better or for worse, to certainty.

Other narratives come in at this point, all more or less afflicting. The first is that of James Dean, which is remarkable as showing how, in the most harrowing exigencies, the presence of mind of some men never deserts them. Dean is a smith returned from Melbourne, and he speaks bravely and bluffly, after the manner of his class. In reading his story, it is well to mark the religion and heroism which breathe through the words I have underlined.

‘He says he was in bed in a berth with four other passengers when the ship struck, and he was aroused by one of his comrades exclaiming, “I think we’re lost.” He dressed himself, and after a few minutes’ prayer, ascended on deck, where he had not been more than a very brief period when the vessel parted in the centre “like the snapping of a tobacco stump.” The people on board stood petrified, as it were, seemingly unable to make the slightest struggle for their lives; whilst their terror was increased by the awful scenes presented as unfortunate creatures fell and were crushed to atoms in the chasm separating the two parts of the ship. He never for a moment lost his presence of mind. He saw that most of those in the water struggled towards the large pieces of the wreck, and he saw also that most of those who trusted to these heavy portions of the vessel were crushed to death, and their bodies dreadfully mutilated against the rocks. Though totally unable to swim he jumped overboard, and just seized a box he saw floating near him. Almost at the very moment he seized this a head was thrust under his arm, and a second claimant appeared. Dean said it would not support both of them; so as soon as possible he left the box for another piece of wood, and with this he was thrown upon the shore. He left his support and tried to gain a position of security; but ere he could do so a wave overpowered him and carried him back to sea, where he became entangled in the floating remnants of the vessel, and it was with the greatest difficulty that he extricated himself. When he had succeeded in this, he was again thrown on shore. Whilst momentarily expecting the arrival of another wave, a rope was thrown to him, and by it he was finally drawn out of danger, without experiencing any injuries or bruises other than of a very trifling description. He soon recovered strength. He was bringing home a cheque for a considerable sum of money, and before his voyage he had taken the precaution to enclose this in a waterproof belt, which he kept around his waist. This cheque is therefore saved, and his only losses are his clothes and a small sum of money which was with them.’

Mr. John Bradbury speaks not only on the accident, but gives us a glimpse of the earlier portion of the voyage. His sufferings on escaping from the wreck were very great, and will serve as a hint of what may have been endured before death by many of those whose bones are now bleaching beneath the waters. But for his athletic person and robust constitution, John Bradbury—who speaks as under—would, without doubt, have been numbered with the lost:—

‘We sailed from Melbourne on the 26th of August, and had on board, as I know, about five hundred passengers and crew. The captain was Mr. Thomas Taylor; the chief officer, Mr. Stevens; and the second mate, Mr. Cowie. The ship ran almost entirely under canvas up to the equinoctial line, when she encountered strong head winds. Her screw power was then brought into requisition. On the 10th of September, about four o’clock in the morning, the weather being thick and dark, we ran close past a large iceberg. Mr. Cowie was on watch, and had it not been for his able manoeuvring, the ship would have been in imminent danger. The passengers showed their appreciation of his ability by presenting him with a testimonial on the eve of the dreadful disaster. We arrived at Queenstown on Monday forenoon, when twelve passengers disembarked. We left Queenstown about two o’clock, under steam alone. The ship was laid on her course for Liverpool, but the storm had the effect of diverting her to such an extent that I saw the “Great Eastern” at Holyhead. The wind was then blowing very hard. We sighted the light on Point Lynas about five o’clock in the afternoon. The sea was running high, though not equal to what we had experienced on the passage; but the wind was stronger. It was found we could make no headway, and two anchors were dropped. She dragged her anchors, and the engines were working, but I understood the screw was broken.

‘About two o’clock on Wednesday morning the vessel struck. A great number of passengers were then in their berths; but they suddenly rushed upon deck, many of them but partially dressed. There was not much confusion at first, but it increased as people became aware of the real danger. I believe the captain was not sober; but Captain Withers, who was a passenger, and the chief mate and officers, did all they could to save the ship. A rope was got out from the head of the vessel, but I cannot say how. A kind of rope chain was made and placed upon it. By means of this some were drawn along the hawser to the shore. When the rope was seen there was a great rush to the forecastle deck, in order to get the first advantage. A large wave washed over her head and carried them into the sea. Others followed, but only to meet a similar fate. I was standing near the davit of a boat on the poop, when a sea jammed me fast between the boat and something else. I was beaten about and my ankle dislocated, and then my leg was broken. I then became insensible for a short time, but on regaining my consciousness I got a rope, and fastening it, lowered myself down from the poop into the sea, upon a piece of the wreck, along with the storekeeper. I was knocked up and down, turned topsy turvy, driven and battered against this thing and the other till I lighted upon a piece of cabin framework, and paddled myself along with my hands. The waves washed me three times on the rocks, and took me back, battering me about. The next time I fell between two rocks, which held me, and I was picked up by two men. Four men brought me to this house, which is kept by Mr. Owens; who has been very kind to me. My leg was set by Mr. Thomas of Liverpool.’

The simplicity of that statement must touch the strongest. Captain Withers, it may be worth mentioning, was returning from Australia, after having lost his ship in the Pacific. His exertions throughout the storm were very great, and it was under his advice that the masts were cut away.[C] There are those who say that if the ship had been earlier dismasted she would not have gone to pieces. I can speak with no authority upon this point. This, however, I know, Captain Taylor so loved his craft that when we ran short of provisions coming home, and might, with two or three hours’ supply more of fuel have made the Island of St. Vincent, and taken in a stock both of firing and food, he preferred running all the hazard of ‘keeping on,’ rather than touch the ‘beautiful spars’ of his vessel. The loss to his owners in consequence was many thousand pounds. In compensation to second and third class passengers alone, they had to pay something like fifteen hundred pounds. I can, therefore, readily understand that the dismasting of the vessel may have been unfortunately delayed until it was too late to save her. At the same time it is but fair to the memory of the captain—than whom a braver sailor never trod a deck—to say that all such rumours should be accepted with caution. Colonial readers will well remember the many absurd and contradictory reports which were current when the ‘Dunbar’ went ashore.

[C] The following appears in the Morning Herald of November 2nd:—‘Captain Withers, the master of the wrecked vessel “Virginia” (lost in the South Pacific), with nine men, after being nineteen days at sea in an open boat, and enduring innumerable privations, all arrived safe at the Feejee islands, and thence they were conveyed to Sydney, New South Wales. On arriving at Sydney, Captain Withers after seeing that the crew were provided with clothes, went on to Melbourne, and took a passage home to England in the “Royal Charter.” He is the “Captain Withers” mentioned by one of the persons saved from the wreck of the “Royal Charter,” who behaved with such noble fortitude and unflinching bravery when all seemed lost, and when it was a mockery to hope against such a fearful tempest. But he was doomed to die a sailor’s death, for the last seen of him was when he called out to Mr. Stevens and Captain Taylor, “God bless you, Stevens! God bless you, Taylor! Keep firm.” The ship broke up immediately after: the rest already too well known.’ Strange are the ways of Providence! Captain Withers was saved, after terrible privations, from perishing in the South Pacific to be dashed to pieces on the rocks of Wales! [Back to text]