LETTER VIII.
When, in my last, I mentioned to you the splendid sight we had witnessed, in the departure of an important division of our great expedition, I did not anticipate the painful reverse of, thus soon, communicating the unhappy tidings of its return. Pleased as we were at the sailing of this grand fleet, only a few days since; now, we should rejoice, still more, could we see every ship again safe in harbour.
Yesterday we experienced a most tremendous gale, which, from its disastrous effects among the shipping at Spithead, led to very painful apprehensions concerning the fleet which had so lately gone to sea. The wind having shifted to an unfavorable point, and blowing with great violence, it was manifest that the convoy could not proceed; and too evident, that many of the ships must be damaged or lost; and I am sorry to add that we are, already, witnessing the melancholy confirmation of our fears; for the fleet not having cleared the channel, was unable to weather the storm, and, during the whole of this day, different ships have been dropping in at St. Helens, in a sadly disabled state, bringing still worse tidings of those left behind. A storm so violent and destructive has seldom been known in this climate; indeed, many who had been in the West Indies, remarked, that it was scarcely inferior to a tropical hurricane. Even the admiral’s ship was in extreme peril, and, with great difficulty, was supported through the gale. She is now brought back in a much injured condition, being very leaky, and having a considerable depth of water in the hold. So alarming was her situation, during the tempest, that if the boisterous elements had raged only a little longer, she would have, probably, gone to the bottom, with the general, the admiral, and nearly two thousand souls on board.
Multitudes are known to be lost; but the full extent of this sad disaster cannot yet be ascertained, for crippled ships still continue to arrive: it is hoped therefore that some may appear which report leads us not to expect. Among those most despaired of is the Stanley, with some hundreds of troops on board. Of this ship not the slightest intelligence can be learned, from any one yet returned. She is supposed to have gone to the bottom, and all hands to have perished! What a sad and melancholy change! This vast fleet, which had cost so much time, and toil in its equipment; and which, so lately, spread its sails under the fairest prospects, is already defeated, disabled, and brought to ruin! What a striking proof of the weakness of human foresight; and of the uncertainty of all our wisest calculations!
Signals of distress were heard on all quarters. Pieces of masts, cordage, and planks floated by the sides of the Ulysses: all was hurry and alarm around us. Many vessels lying near to us were injured; some, driven from their anchors, drifted on board other ships, or were cast on shore, and, being wrecked, remained, before our eyes, fearful examples of the greater evils to be apprehended from the storm.
Such was the perilous insecurity even of the Ulysses, that although, to use the sea-term, we had struck our topmasts, and made all snug, it was deemed expedient to prepare the guns, for the purpose of firing signals of distress.
I was excessively ill; and from the deep rolling, heavy tossings, and the many troubled motions of the ship, was quite unable to support myself upon my legs. Staggering and stumbling I crawled out of the ward-room to the middle of the half-deck, to seek a more central part of the vessel; and, there, clinging to some firm hold, remained, sick and comfortless, to wear out a most distressful day. Afflicted with head-ach, a nauseated stomach, and enfeebled limbs, my contemplations were not of the most consolatory nature. I saw all the evils that were to befal our fleet under their most gloomy colours. I beheld the convoy dispersed; ships struggling in the gale; my fellow-creatures sinking; and the whole expedition discomfited: the mind sympathizing with the sickened frame, all was pictured as one grand scene of destruction.
In the midst of our danger, I could not but notice the strange remarks, and quaint jokes which passed among the sailors, who were, variously, actuated by feelings of indolence, anxiety, or indifference. One of them being called upon deck, and desired to go aloft, to do something that was expedient at the top of the mast, idly crawled up, from below, muttering, “I’d rather be drowned in the sea, dammee, than at the mast head!” another, observing a passenger in a severe fit of vomiting, exclaimed, “Dammee, he’s only sick for want o’grog;” and a third, as if responsive to the other, called out, “Stiff breeze, Jack. He’ll be worse yet! Steward! why don’t you give the gentleman some fat pork——to settle his stomach?”
About five o’clock in the evening the storm began to abate; when torrents of rain lessened the wind, and brought the sailors a respite from the harassing, and perilous duties of the day.
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.