A selection of paintings, drawings & jottings
The Wreck Of The President
Page 11
So, in the stormy evening darkness of the 11th February, the President
struck the rocks near Loe Bar in Mount's Bay, Cornwall.
……the first crash shook the ship so violently that everyone who was standing was thrown to the deck, bruised and shocked. The President rose up and back, then she was hurled down again. Another crash. Back and forth, up and down. They were helpless, their ship was dying beneath them and all they could do was hang on and pray. Each impact brought down more of the masts, rigging and sails. The sounds turned more to grinding and splintering as the hull leaned further over and settled lower in the water.
Every wave broke right over the decks, men were being washed overboard. No man knew when his turn would come, but it was clear that the whole ship was going to be dashed to pieces and it wasn’t going to take very long.
Suddenly the hull split in two and the aft section slid away and sank taking most of the crew with it. There were only a few men left clinging to the ship’s bow section that sat now on the rocks, but it wouldn’t stay there forever.
The freezing cold, the deafening roar of the storm and the waves, the sheer power of the water as it smashed against the rocks, and all this in total darkness. Every man left had only one thought, to survive – no matter what it took.
William Smith was one of the few still on the bow section, staring down at the black void, all he felt was terror, the fear of jumping from the ship which had been his home into the violence and turmoil below. Unable to swim it seemed that death was certain no matter what he did, so he might as well stay there with his shipmates. Eventually the waves forced him off and he floated toward the shore holding on to part of the ship’s bowsprit. The force of the waves had shattered the great timber as if it were a twig.
John Harshfield saw Smith go and followed, holding onto a plank. Back up on the remains of the ship, He could see and just hear his father. The two had joined the President in India having survived two shipwrecks on the outward journey. There was nothing he could do to save his father. In their utter despair it seemed as though as long as their eyes held each other then so did they. At last Harshfield was engulfed by another wave and when he was able to look again his father was gone. Clinging to his plank Harshfield began to swim in what he hoped was the direction of the land.
As he kicked and gasped for air another man in the water grabbed hold of his breeches. A struggle began and, fearing that he would be dragged under, he fumbled to loosen the breeches and let them slip off. It was a battle for survival and Harshfield was determined to live through this night.
Smith allowed Harshfield to share his section of the bowsprit and the two were washed ashore onto some rocks. They immediately climbed up as high as they could to escape the worst of the crashing waves. As they climbed they met another survivor who had arrived before them. There was a cliff face above that prevented their escape so they pressed themselves into a hollow in the rocks to wait for daylight, and for the storm to pass.
The waves continued to break against the rocks, and they were getting weaker – their starvation was again overcoming them. The other survivor was washed away and never seen again. It seemed as though the night would never end. Just as the weather had caused darkness to fall early on the previous evening, so it was causing the dawn to come late that morning.