by Frank Galgay
“It is impossible, ” says the old chronicler, “to describe the sensations which were excited at seeing the faithful dog struggling in the waves, reaching the summit of the rock, and dashed back again by the surf into the sea, until at length, by his exertions, he arrived with the line.”
“They succeeded in getting a stronger rope ashore, and then the rescue of the survivors began. About six o’clock in the morning, the first person was landed by this means; at half-past one o’clock of the same day, only thirty lives had been saved by means of the rope. The wreck was beating to pieces, the surf was mountains high, and the rope, their last means of safety, by constant use, and by swinging across the sharp rocks, was cut asunder. From that hour, the spectacle became, if possible, more than ever terrific. Those on the wreck were constantly being washed into the sea to immediate death. “Their heartrending cries and lamentations, ” says the old writer “were such as cannot be expressed—of families, fathers, mothers and children, clinging together!” The wreck, breaking up, stern from miships and forecastle, precipated all on board into one common destruction. Under these melancholy circumstances 206 souls perished.
The officers and men of the Battalion had been returning home, with the savings of years, which had been paid in guineas, stowed safely away in their luggage. They expected to spend Christmas amongst their friends in Merrie England, after a long absence. They lost everything. Fathers, lost wives and children; mothers were separated from sons, husbands and children; and children from parents, brothers and sisters.
The rescued were landed on a high rock, cut off from the mainland at high tide. On the top of this rock they were obliged to remain all night, without shelter, food, or nourishment, and many without shoes, exposed to the wind and rain. The only comfort they had—if comfort it could be called—was a fire made of driftwood, which had been washed ashore. At daylight, next morning, they got to the mainland, and made for a fishing shanty, about a mile distant. The owner, as can be imagined, could not begin to feed or comfort such a crowd, but volunteered to guide a party to Trepassey, about fourteen miles distant, through a rough, marshy country, not inhabited by any human creature. When the party arrived in Trepassey, Rev. Father Brown, and Messrs. Jackson, Burke and Simms, immediately took measures for alleviating the distress by rushing a relief party to the scene of the wreck, with spirits, food and clothing, and all the available men, to assist in bringing the survivors to Trepassey.
On the 13th, in the evening, the greater part of the rescued were safely housed in Trepassey. Many had to be assisted by inhabitants, who, during the journey, carried the weak and feeble on their backs. “There still remained at St. Shott’s, ” says the historian, “the wife of a sergeant of the Veteran Battalion, who was delivered on top of the rocks, shortly after she was saved: —the child and herself are doing well. A private, whose leg had been broke, and a woman severely bruised by the wreck, were also necessarily left there.”
Shortly after, all were removed to St. John’s, where Admiral Pickmore, the Governor, Major King, commanding the troops (as they have done, nearly a hundred years after, for the Little Jap and Regulus disasters), and they fitted out the survivors with clothes and necessaries. The whole town was excited, and the inhabitants vied with each other in showering kindness on the derelicts. After ten days, the Governor chartered the Mercury, of Poole, which, eventually landed the survivors safely in Portsmouth.
This was a specimen Christmas tale, that was told around the Christmas fire, nearly a century ago, and unfortunately, very few seasons pass in Newfoundland, that if, one old tale of wreck or ruin is forgotten, another one crops up, and takes its place.
A Thrilling Christmas Tale: “Wreck of the ‘Sea Nymph’”
by Alex A. Parsons
IT WAS IN 1855 , the very year of the first election under our present system of Responsible Government, that the thrilling incident, on which this story is based really took place. Few of my readers will remember it, because there are not so very many alive to-day who were then old enough to be lastingly impressed with the details as they appeared in the newspapers at that time.
The disaster to which I refer occurred at the entrance of a small harbour on our Northern coast which I shall for the purposes of this narrative, designate as “Indian Beach.” I take this name from the long bank of sand that stretches around the head of the harbour, where, according to tradition, the last of “the noble Red Men” of Newfoundland used to meet every year at “the falling of the leaves” and hold a council before going into winter quarters. And there appears to be some ground for this tradition, because a few years ago, accompanied by one of “the oldest inhabitants, ” I visited the Beach and examined the very spot where, while digging out some sand the previous Spring, he discovered two stone arrow-heads in a good state of preservation.
The fall of 1855 was an unusually backward one, and having been preceded by a wet Summer, the fish crop was not harvested till the season had been well advanced. As a result the fishermen were late in getting “fixed up” and home for the winter. Only two schooners had “fitted out” from Indian Beach that year for the Labrador fishery, the resident population, for the most part, finding it more advantageous to look after “the ground, ” and, at the same time, prosecute the voyage, during the caplin school, off their own headlands.
One of those schooners had already arrived. The other, the Sea Nymph, was still absent, but hourly expected from St. John’s, where she had landed her fish and taken on board a cargo of goods for the festive season, almost every family at the Beach having had something shipped by her. Eager eyes had been looking out for the Nymph several days, and now Christmas Eve had come and still she did not put in an appearance. It was generally believed that the schooner had left St. John’s for home some days before (there was no telegraphic communication at that time), and, as the wind had veered round from the Southeast and risen to a severe gale, with snow-squalls and heavy sea, much anxiety was felt for her safety. The Sea Nymph was a staunch little vessel of fifty-two tons, and had a crew of five, all told. These were handsome Harry Brewer—a young giant in appearance—captain; William Jones, second hand; John Elliot, Peter Goff and Eli Moores, seamen.
There was one passenger on board—a young Englishman named Ralph Wilson—nephew of the only business man at Indian Beach—Mr. Andrew LeSage of Jersey. Ralph had been at St. John’s for some time waiting for an opportunity to get North, and, when the Sea Nymph was ready to sail, he gladly availed of Harry Brewer’s offer of a passage, and embarked by her. Ralph was “engaged” to his pretty cousin, Helen, Mr. LeSage’s only daughter; and, although they had not seen each other since they were children, yet it was understood by the parents of both that they were to be married the following June, and that Helen would shortly return to England with Ralph and he father for that purpose.
But when Ralph and his uncle made this arrangement they were, apparently, blissfully ignorant of the fact that an altogether different understanding had already been arrived at between Harry and Helen. Such, however, was the case. They had often met, and what more natural than that they should love each other. Both were young and impressionable, and so it happened that one night, only a week before the Sea Nymph had left St. John’s, as they sat in the shadow of the big fir trees behind the Beach and looked out over the moonlit harbour, Harry and Helen decided to unite their fortunes, without consulting anybody.
Thus matters stood on the eventful afternoon alluded to, when the schoolmaster of the settlement rushed into Mr. LeSage’s house with the startling intelligence that the Sea Nymph had been driven ashore at Shoal Point, near the entrance of the harbour, and, it was feared, all hands would be lost. Hurriedly putting on his coat and hat, Mr. LeSage ran over to the high ground overlooking the Point, and sure enough, there was the ill-fated schooner pounding on the rocks, with the sea making a clean breach over her. Already both masts had gone by the board, and it now seemed as if the hull itself must go to pieces in a few minutes.
&nb
sp; Trying to make the harbour in the snow storm, and believing his course to be all right, Captain Brewer suddenly, just at the entrance, discovered that the Nymph was too far to leeward to weather Shoal Point. She was running under close-reefed foresail, and therefore would not stay, even with much less wind, and it was impossible to wear her in time to escape the rocks; so he let go both anchors, as the only remaining hope of saving vessel and crew. But in that heavy sea the chains snapped like whip-cord, and, without any check whatever, the unfortunate Sea Nymph rushed on to her doom!
Shortly after she struck the snow ceased to fall, and then Captain Brewer and his crew could be seen, hatless and huddled together, on the forecastle deck. They were clinging to whatever they could lay hold of, the great wave at intervals going clean over the battered hull and drenching them to the skin. It was impossible to render any assistance from the land, as no boat available, no matter how well manned, would have the slightest chance in that terrible sea. For a time it seemed as if all hope of rescue had been abandoned by those on shore as well as on board.
Some of the former knelt and prayed to Heaven for help, while others wrung their hands in despair and sobbed audibly enough to be heard amidst the tempest. But there was one brave man among that crew of fearless Newfoundland fishermen who had often faced “death in the tempest” and escaped, and who, in spite of the odds against him, hoped to escape again, and that man was Captain Harry Brewer. As the watchers on shore stood there, expecting every moment to see the battered hull go to pieces, or roll over and disappear with its living freight, they suddenly saw a stalwart figure poise for a second on the weather bow of the wreck then plunge into the angry waves as they seethed and foamed around him. The form was that of Harry Brewer!
Fastening a line about his waist, and hastily giving instructions to his shipmates as to what they should do in the event his efforts proving successful, he made the heroic attempt to reach the shore by swimming. The struggle that ensued was one that taxed all his powers of endurance, great as they were. At times he would be lost to view for several seconds and then appear again on the crest of some mighty wave, eliciting frantic shouts of encouragement from the overwrought crowd on shore, which, by this time, included almost every man, woman and child in the settlement. But Harry Brewer’s brave heart and sinewy arms buoyed him up until a huge wave flung him against the shore, when some of those who would willingly risk their lives to save him, rushed into the sea, seized him with their strong hands, pulled him out of the receding water and carried him to a place of safety, from which, exhausted as he was, he continued to superintend the work of rescue.
The crew on the wreck then fastened a stronger rope to the line brought ashore by their captain, and, when this was hauled in, the dangerous task of getting the others on shore commenced. The end of the line on board was securely tied to the stump of the foremast, about ten feet above the deck, and then the men were pulled through the boiling sea to the shore, most of them being badly bruised and scarcely able to stand when lifted out of the water. The last to leave the schooner was Ralph Wilson, the passenger. Although a rather frail looking man, as compared with the others, yet he won the admiration of all on board by his pluck and unselfishness during the trying ordeal through which they had passed.
He might have been the first to be rescued after connection had been made with the shore; but he persistently refused to go till all the others had been landed. Then, fastening the line around his waist, he, too, was drawn ashore. But, brave as he was, the strain and exposure proved too much for him. He was unconscious when kind hands and sympathetic hearts gently conveyed him to the hospitable home of his uncle. Here, under the careful nursing of Helen, he soon recovered consciousness; but next day, when the doctor called, he appeared to be suffering from a severe chill and great nervous prostration. He rallied, however, and was able to get about during the Winter; but, with the approach of Spring he developed the symptoms of consumption, and, in May, returned to his home in England, where he died six weeks after his arrival there.
On the following Christmas Eve Captain Harry Brewer and Miss Helen LeSage were married in the little school-chapel at Indian Beach, according to the rites of the Church of England, of which both were members. In the fall of 1857, Mr. LeSage closed his business here and returned to Jersey, taking Harry and Helen with him.
The following year Ralph Wilson’s father died, leaving most of his money and property to Helen. In the Spring of 1893 the writer, whilst on board the outward bound Allan steamer, at Shea’s wharf here, seeing some friends off, had an introduction to a gentleman named Brewer, who was then on his way from Liverpool to New York. He appeared to be a good deal interested in Newfoundland affairs, and, in course of our conversation I ascertained from him that he was a son of Captain Harry Brewer, the hero of this stirring little Christmas Story.
Christmas on the Coastal Boat
by Canon George Earle
WHAT WAS THE PROSPERO? Along with the Portia and Glencoe and Maigle [sic] and Kyle and Sagona and Caribou and Clyde and Home and Susu, she was one of the Coastal Boats which served Newfoundland and Labrador communities during the early years of this century and up to the Second World War and, in a few cases, beyond. There were others like the Bruce and Dundee and the Ethie and Fife but I don’t need to name them all. Their story is Newfoundland’s story; their visits were like the visits of kind relatives and their loss was like that of old friends.
In Fogo we knew best the Clyde and Home and Prospero. Some of the others would come on relief work when these three were either on dock or replacing another that was, but they were never the same. In my formative years and in those when I started to travel, it was the Clyde and Captain Butcher, the Home with Captain Hounsell (who is still living) and Prospero with Captain Jacob Kean. I never got to know him very well; the first two were like friends, he was not.
But he was a good captain. With no highways in those days all communities of any size were linked by the Coastal Boats from May to December in the north and all year round on the S. W. Coast. The job of the Clyde was to link together weekly all the “places” in Notre Dame Bay and with the train to Lewisporte; the job of the Home was from St. John’s to Change Islands and back again on a weekly basis; the Prospero was assigned the run from St. John’s to Cook’s Harbour, with special emphasis on big places like Trinity, Fogo and Twillingate on the way and then every port in White Bay and North. The Kyle went on to the Labrador and did the places down there.
And so, in 1933, after I had finished my two years at Memorial University College and a Summer School in Teacher Training, I applied for a school and found there was none. The depression had really hit, the government was broke and Commission government was about to take over and I had nothing to do.
And then out of the blue, late in August, a letter came from I. J. Samson, superintendent of C. of E. Schools, offering me a small school in Williamsport, White Bay, for four months at $20.00 per month. I took it and “took” the Prospero and took off. When I got there two days later I was told that last year’s teacher took one look at it and took the next steamer back. But I was made of sterner stuff and took up residence. The many uses of “took” are amazing!
My four months there, without roads or radio or telegraph, would be hard for this generation to imagine. But they came to an end and the time came to leave. Winter had set in way early that year and by the time the Prospero came on her last trip the harbour was frozen over and there was some doubt if she would call in on her way back from Cook’s Harbour, so I joined her on the way down. It was December 20. We never made Cook’s Harbour as there was too much ice and we didn’t make Fogo for the same reason. But being only 19 and with an enormous appetite I made every mealtime a memorable event and used to help wash the dishes so I could get a bit more. Meals were miles ahead of what the average family could afford and being Christmas there was fruit—apples and oranges and even grapes, the height of luxury in those days. And if there were a few apples or oranges le
ft on the table it wasn’t considered stealing but an extension of the meal to take them to one’s stateroom. This I did on a grand scale. We spent Christmas Day in St. Anthony. By now I knew the other passengers and nearly every member of the crew so it was sort of family celebration. We couldn’t get right into St. Anthony but after many hours going astern and then ahead we managed to get some very solid ice and there stuck. The freight was loaded on the ice and dog teams in relays hauled it to the township. A few of us walked ashore and visited the Grenfell hospital and met all kinds of people. Even Captain Kean was pleased to see us back on board; it being Christmas he smiled. Later we became more friendly and I would have long chats with him in his cabin and used to lace up his boots, which he found difficult.
