The Wreck Of The President

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This is a true story.

Drawn from contemporary accounts, reports and modern research.

It employs considerably less license than you might imagine.

The freezing February wind was turning to rain. They could feel it on the backs of their necks together with the spray from the ever-deepening waves crashing against the side of the ship.

Mid-afternoon already and they had not yet sited land, and the worsening weather meant that it would be dark early that day.

Stranded out in the Atlantic for weeks their food and fresh water had long since run out. They were starved and sick, all they had to drink was dirty rainwater collected in the ship’s sails.

Most of the one hundred and twenty men aboard were below deck huddled together, too weak to move let alone sail the ship. Those who had still some strength remaining had set the large foresail to let the wind, which had finally changed direction, carry them home to England.

Some of the men were forward, hauling on ropes, trying to control the great foresail. Others were aft, at the triangular mizzen sail keeping the ship on course. A few more were below them holding onto the whipstaff which operated the rudder.

But the wind which was taking the men home was also bringing a storm. It filled all the sky behind and soon it would overtake them. It had become a race, and the stronger men struggled to climb the rigging in order to loosen more canvas. Others stood by on the deck below ready to heave the ropes that would raise the top yards and open the sails.

Dangerous to approach the English coast in darkness, they all knew that. Insane to do so in a storm. But they were desperate, this was their last chance, they couldn’t risk being blown back out into the Atlantic again.

The ship was called the ‘President’ and she had come a long way, all the way around Africa from India. She was carrying a valuable cargo: Sacks of black peppercorns, rolls of the finest silk and blue indigo dye. Some diamonds and pearls were locked away safely and, in the deepest part of the ship’s hold were large wooden boxes of another dye called ‘Red Earth’.

One final dash, that was all, Land’s End couldn’t be far off – or so they thought – perhaps they had even passed it. But it was all going wrong, they could feel the chance slipping away. Maybe they would spy a familiar coastline soon, get their bearings and reach the safety of a port even as the darkness fell, dropping anchor as the storm hit them.

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