Embarkation at Liverpool Docks.
(The Illustrated London News, 6-7-1850)
The two-masted, square-rigged sailing vessel was manned by a crew of sixteen that day. The dockside was crowded with friends and family members bidding tearful goodbyes to their loved ones. Once the ship’s supplies had been loaded, approximately one hundred passengers made their way up the gang-plank and located their bunks. The rising tide lifted the 200-ton brig and she was ready to sail. The sailors, supported by the dock crew, cast off and soon the brig was moving out into Galway Bay. There was some excitement among the children as they watched the crew scurrying around the ship and setting the sails in position. The ship rounded Nimmo’s Pier and from the main deck the passengers watched as Galway port grew smaller and smaller. The ship sailed past the lighthouse on Mutton Island and on along the coast of Connemara. The poor, unfortunate passengers must have felt that hunger, death and disease were all behind them now and that they were on their way to a better life in America.[3]
According to various sources, the ship anchored off the coast of Lettermullen to take on fresh water supplies, as it was feared that the water in Galway was infected with disease. It is almost certain that a number of additional passengers boarded at Lettermullen. These people were not listed on the ship’s manifest and, later, the authorities were later unable to account for all those who had lost their lives. The captain was suspected of pocketing the fares of these new passengers.
Advertisements for emigrant ships Alice and Abbotsford out of Galway, March 1848.
(The Galway Mercury, 25-3-1848)
Sources indicate that one could obtain a ticket to America by exchanging a bullock to the value of £3. Allegedly, one person from Lettermullen made such an exchange to secure a place on the St. John. It was only after the ship had sailed that the true owner of the bullock realised he had been robbed and arrived at the port to reclaim his animal. For most people hard cash was the only currency that secured them a ticket away from hunger.
The ship is believed to have been anchored at Lettermullen for almost a day, and one has to wonder if the St. John and its passengers might have outrun the storm had they not delayed for so long. After raising anchor at Lettermullen, the St. John sailed out towards the open Atlantic Ocean. The emigrants would have taken one last poignant look at Connemara as it faded from view. While some passengers must have cried for their homeland, knowing they would never see it again, others must have felt cheated by the beautiful but barren land that could no longer sustain its people. What were their thoughts as they sailed out past the Aran Islands?
Notice of Henry Cumerfort’s ship Sarah Milledge arriving in Galway and notice of the birth of his grandson.
(The Galway Mercury, 17-7-1847)
As the ship ploughed westward, most of the pas-sengers were crammed into narrow compartments below the main deck. Few had been to sea before this sailing and, as on other famine ships, a wave of seasickness would likely have swept over many of the passengers before the Irish coast had even faded from view.[4]
The frightened passengers huddled together in the cramped steerage quarters clutching their rosary beads to their chests as the ship rose and fell with the swell of the ocean. Apart from the threat posed by the unknown watery depths below them, the passengers also feared an outbreak of what was termed ‘ship fever’, which all too often resulted in death, followed by a lonely burial at sea.
Four days into the journey, the fourteen-year-old-boy was discovered hiding in the hold. His captors were initially very angry and presented him to the captain, but the issue was soon resolved and the boy was passed into the care of his sisters.
The days of sunshine and clear skies that followed had a calming effect on the passengers. They soon became accustomed to the roll of the sea and found the journey more bearable. At meal times they queued in an orderly fashion to cook their meagre food rations on the small stoves available on the open deck. For women such as Mary Sweeney, who had a husband and eleven children to take care of, the ship’s cooking arrangements can’t have made her job easy.
As the weeks passed by, and the coastline of America drew ever closer, there was a growing sense of hope aboard the ship. A fiddler occasionally played some popular tunes that made children scramble to their feet and try their hand at Irish dancing. With the ship making good time under favourable winds, there was a general air of optimism amongst the passengers. As the St. John surged forward, its sails billowing in the strong winds, people began to speculate about what the land of hope and promise would bring. During the first week of October the ship entered the waters of the New World and excitement levels reached a crescendo. The passengers knew they were close and they competed for space along the gunwales each day, their eyes scanning the horizon for the first glimpse of the American coastline. They were almost there. Memories of their homeland, where hunger stalked every road and boreen, began to fade away. The following poem, which was published in the Galway Mercury on 5 September 1846, describes the hardship the passengers had left behind:[5]
Tea being served on board an emigrant ship.
(The Illustrated London News, 20-1-1849)
‘Soup Time’: soup being served on board an emigrant ship.
(The Illustrated London News, 20-1-1849)
‘Song of the Famine
(From the Fireman)’
Knee deep in the furrow
The peasant stands,
And he wringeth in sorrow
His toil-worn hands;
And wan and woe smitten
His forehead – for care
And famine have written
His misery there.
He hath delved and upturned
Of his garden a rood,
Where blighted and burned
Lies his rot-stricken food;
The earth he had riven,
Its rottenness baring –
He looketh to Heaven,
Heartbroken, despairing.
Now enter his cottage.
Where starving in common,
Lie shivering dotage
And suffering women;
Yet, pause if you cower –
By contagion are scared;
Here fevers devour
What famine hath spared.
For drink hoarsely craving
On the damp ground reclining,
See writhing and raving
In the pestilence pining,
’Til death, hailed with pleasure,
Blackened corpses, now strews ’em
His child – his heart’s treasure –
And the wife of his bosom.
Oh, God, in deep mystery
Thy Providence veiling
The peasants’ sad history,
Shall it waken no feeling? –
Shall our land be by famine
And pestilence trod?
Deus vetat – oh, amen!
Forbid it, oh, God!
Searching for ‘Stowaways’.
(The Illustrated London News, 6-7-1850)
Notes
[1] Cunningham, John, ‘A Town Tormented by the Sea’: Galway 1790-1914 (2004), p. 157.
O’Cathaoir, Brendan, Famine Diary (1999), pp. 137, 138.
O’Dowd, Peadar, Galway City (1998), p. 49.
The Galway Mercury: ‘Emigration’ (1-5-1847); ‘Passage Across the Atlantic’ (19-6-1847).
[2]Brig St. John of Galway was Cohasset’s Worst Shipwreck, Cohasset Historical Society. John Bhaba Jaick Ó Congaola collection.
Comber, H., The Book of Thomas J. Comber and Eliza Comerford (n.d.), p. 2. John Bhaba Jaick Ó Congaola collection.
Cunningham, John, ‘A Town Tormented by the Sea’: Galway 1790-1914 (2004), p. 155.
Lloyd’s Register and Supplement: 1845, 1846, 1847, 1850.
Notes copied from Newcomb Bates (Jr), the Town Clerk of (Cohasset) (7-10-1849).
David Wadsworth (The curator of the Cohasset Historical Society), ‘Information Relating to the “St. J
ohn” wreck’ (8-3-1984). John Bhaba Jaick Ó Congaola collection.
[3]The Boston Post: ‘Brig St. John of Galway – List of Survivors and Drowned’ (12-10-1849).
Brig St. John of Galway was Cohasset’s Worst Shipwreck, Cohasset Historical Society. John Bhaba Jaick Ó Congaola collection.
Notes copied from Newcomb Bates (Jr), the Town Clerk of (Cohasset) (7-10-1849).
The Boston Mail: ‘Wreck of the St. John’ (3-11-1849).
The Galway Mercury: ‘Wreck of the St. John’ (11-10-1849).
[4]Boston Irish Reporter: ‘Cohasset Monument Honors Famine Victims’ (October 1996).
Brig St. John of Galway was Cohasset’s Worst Shipwreck, Cohasset Historical Society. John Bhaba Jaick Ó Congaola collection.
Interview: John Bhaba Jaick Ó Congaola (18-7-2008).
[5]Boston Irish Reporter: ‘Cohasset Monument Honors Famine Victims’ (October 1996).
Brig St. John of Galway was Cohasset’s Worst Shipwreck, Cohasset Historical Society. John Bhaba Jaick Ó Congaola collection.
The Boston Daily Herald: ‘The Burial of the Victims of the St. John – Melancholy Sight’ (12-10-1849).
The Galway Mercury: ‘Song of the Famine’ (5-9-1846).
The Patriot Ledger: ‘Ceremonies to Honor Irish Shipwreck Victims’ (6-10-1999).
VI – Tragedy on Grampus Rock
On Saturday, 6 October 1849, the brig St. John entered the waters of Boston Harbour. It had been a good voyage; faster and less hazardous than people had expected for that time of year. The captain gave orders that a ration of ‘ardent spirits’ be issued to the crew and suggested that the passengers should celebrate their last night on board the St. John. The rigging and deck were decorated with candles and plans to spend the night in song and dance were put in place. They had good reason to celebrate for they had left a land of starvation, disease and death behind them, and ahead lay a land fertile with hope.
It was late afternoon. A light rain began to fall on the passengers as they watched the American coastline draw nearer. At around 5 p.m. the ship passed the Cape Cod Lighthouse. The rain may have dampened their bodies but not their spirits, as their new home beckoned just a short distance away. The rain continued to fall, becoming heavier as the evening wore on, and eventually driving the people below deck. The passengers tried to console one another, saying that within a few hours their journey would be complete and the dangers of the sea would be behind them. However, the sailors’ pale faces betrayed their fear. The weather continued to deteriorate and by midnight a gale was blowing from the north-east. Howling winds and giant waves crashed against the ship with all their might. The terrified passengers huddled together and listened as the brig’s groaning timbers struggled to withstand the force of such powerful elements.[1]
The captain gave orders to his crew to lay a course north-east in an attempt to escape the wraith of the storm. Throughout the late evening and night large waves and strong winds continued to pummel the brig. Sometime after midnight, the attack took its toll and the ship’s timbers began to loosen. There was no reprieve for the St. John. Directly ahead of the ship lay the rocks of Marblehead, jutting out ominously like the exposed teeth of a predator. A similar threat awaited the ship at Graves Ledge. Even the howling storm could not drown out the terrified cries of the passengers below deck; the sinister groans of the brig’s hull further unnerving them.
Dancing between the decks.
(The Illustrated London News, 6-7-1850)
By 1 a.m. on 7 October the fierce winds had driven the ship southwards along Massachusetts Bay. At around 4 a.m. Captain Martin realised that it would be impossible to out-sail the storm and he ordered his crew to change course and head towards the southern shores of Massachusetts Bay. But the huge waves and strong winds forced the brig towards the Cohasset coastline instead. As dawn broke, the captain stared out through the mist of rain and wind and saw Minot’s Ledge in the distance, an area well known for shipwrecks. Nearby, he could see huge white waves smashing against the deadly rocks of Grampus Ledge. Both he and the other experienced sailors knew that they were in grave trouble and that their courage and leadership was about to be tested to the extreme.[2]
Map of the Cohasset and Scituate Harbours
As the skies brightened another brig, the Kathleen, could be seen from the deck of the St. John. She lay just inside the breakers at Hocksett Rock, close to Cohasset harbour, and was also caught in the violent grip of the storm. Her sails had been torn to shreds by the storm and she had dropped anchor, but was still being dragged. On board the St. John, Captain Oliver quickly assessed the situation and realised that the Kathleen was no longer in danger. Although the ship had taken a ferocious beating, she was no longer on course to collide with the granite ledges and at worse she would run aground on the sandy Cohasset shore.
Boston Harbour circa 1850s.
(Courtesy of John Bhaba Jaick Ó Congaola collection)
From his deck Captain Oliver could see roaring white plumes of foam shooting high into the air and crashing back down against Grampus Ledge. He knew that unless his ship could evade these treacherous rocks, they were doomed. Although the sails had already been lowered, the bare masts were swaying dangerously in the violent winds. The captain had no way of steering the brig effectively so he ordered his crew to drop anchor. There was a rattle of chains and moments later the anchors sunk into the sea bed; there was a shudder, as the ship was held in place.[3]Captain Oliver hoped and prayed that the anchors would hold the St. John in position until the storm abated. It was a desperate gamble. However, his hope was short-lived as before long the anchors began to drag. Mountainous waves were now battering the hull and it became impossible to hold the ship in position. Each wave drew the St. John closer to the treacherous rocks of Grampus Ledge. Below deck the terrified passengers had begun praying. The Act of Contrition, amongst other prayers, was being offered up to God in a desperate plea for mercy. Several passengers had made their way onto the main deck and, terror-stricken, they huddled together as the ship lunged towards the granite face of Grampus Ledge.
In a last desperate bid for survival, Captain Oliver shouted at his crew to cut the masts, praying that this might lessen the impact of the ferocious winds. The masts and their rigging were promptly cut but it was too late. The breakers now measured between twenty and thirty feet in height and each one brought the ship ever closer to Grampus Ledge. Finally, the ocean seeming to have grown tired of toying with its prey, one last enormous wave sealed the fate of the ship and sent her smashing into the rocks of Grampus Ledge. The initial impact punched a huge gaping hole in the hull and many of the passengers below deck were drowned immediately. The St. John was smashed against the rocks repeatedly. The weakened timbers finally succumbed to the power of the sea and the ship began to come apart at the seams as the people on board cried out to heaven for mercy.[4]
The passengers and crew clambered towards the ship’s jolly-boat and longboat. Men, women and children clung to the gunwales as the merciless waves crashed down upon them. The waves snatched many from the heaving deck and delivered them to the hungry sea. Alongside the hull, the ship’s jolly-boat was swaying from its tackles. Suddenly the stern rigging bolt snapped and the boat plummeted into the sea. One of the tackles held and the jolly-boat stayed afloat. Captain Oliver realised that if he could clear the line, he might be in a position to get some of the passengers and crew into the boat. Along with his second mate, two members of his crew and two apprentice boys, the captain managed to jump into the jolly-boat even though it was rocking wildly in the stormy sea. When the passengers spotted the captain and his crew seated in the small jolly-boat, a fresh wave of panic swept over them and they flung themselves at their one chance of survival. Some twenty-five passengers swamped the tiny vessel and it instantly began to sink. Almost all those on board the jolly-boat perished. Only Captain Oliver and one other man managed to battle against the waves long enough to be hauled back on board the sinking brig. Some sources indi
cate that Captain Oliver was the only survivor of the jolly-boat. He is said to have grabbed a rope hanging from the quarter deck and was rescued from the water by his first mate, Henry Comerford.[5]
The longboat was now the only possibility of salvation, but it had broken loose from the brig and each wave carried it further and further away from the sinking ship. It was certain death for anyone who remained aboard the sinking vessel, so the passengers and crew began flinging themselves at the mercy of the sea, intending to swim towards the longboat. Only twelve made it: the captain, the first mate, eight other crew members and two passengers. One of the passengers to clamber aboard the longboat was the boy who had stowed away on the brig; his sisters were drowned. Amongst those swept overboard were Mary Sweeney and her remaining children, as several of them had already been drowned when the ship first hit the rocks. As the St. John was breaking up, Mary’s husband Patrick grabbed their youngest child, three-year-old Agnes, and climbed down one of the ropes hanging from the doomed ship. Clutching his little girl he struck out for the longboat. Tragically, moments later father and child were struck by a powerful wave and the last two members of the Sweeney family perished together. Their fate was shared by the majority of the emigrants. Peggy Mullen and her sister’s baby were lost to the sea, as were the Egan family from County Clare, Honora (Mary) Burke’s three children and all of Honora Cullen’s children.
Coffin Ship Page 5
