by Jeffrey Cook
I have learned since that one of the engineering crew was also killed, crushed as the ship was tossed about, and all but one of those good men was injured to some degree. There is very little to hold to in their workspace unless a man is near to some stair step with rails or at stations for difficult weather, but in this case, the wind turned from rough to this devil storm so suddenly that there was no chance to respond.
Sir James was able to entangle his arms and legs in the rails so firmly that he was able to hold to the ship, trying to reach for Eddy, but giving up at last lest he be lost entirely. I cannot imagine that he could have seen much beyond a few feet from his face amidst the torrential winds and rain. Though I am certain he was still trying to get to his friend, at one point he reached blindly enough that I was able to grab his hand, and though he pulled hard, I was able to keep my grip enough to pull him in out of the weather. I can take no credit for saving his life, for it is quite possible that his grip may have been enough to survive the storm, but he credits me with it anyway. The people at the front eventually had been able to secure themselves firmly enough to ride out the storm, though I do not think anyone can call themselves unhurt.
I do not know how long the storm lasted, though even with all evidence now suggesting that it is over, I am still sorely tempted to say that it seemed to go on forever. There is no chance that the Captain long had any idea of where we were headed, but he kept the ship from spinning or diving entirely, though I am unsure his hands will ever be the same from his grip upon the wheel, and both hands are heavily bandaged now. Still, it seemed that the first heading he had us on with Eddy's heroic aid was enough to keep us just ahead of that horrible wind tunnel, for eventually, when the storm passed us by, we were inland some way, and drifting with a gentler wind. I am not certain even now who was the first among us to realize that we were no longer being battered so, and it seemed had survived the ordeal, but eventually, those of us still able began to try to find our legs again and move about to rescue the rest and check upon the unconscious. The damage done is extensive, and no one's quarters survived intact, of course. We eventually made our way back to New York City, which is heavily damaged, and the storm had such an effect on the region that a section of the land once attached is now an island off of New York. How any of us escaped alive we are unsure, but most grateful for. It shall be some time before we are able to resume our journey now, and indeed, we must take some stock of the situation now, for we have lost our guide, and most tragically, the Captain and his wife have lost their ward, along with the first mate and an engineer both dead to the storm.
Eddy is also in such condition that it is not yet known if he will live or die, for he was most battered about, has a broken arm where the rope was tied most securely, and nearly drowned. That he lived exposed to the storm is a testament to the fortitude of the man. We are told there is hope if he lives out the day. The rest of us who survived will recover, though I am unsure if the Captain and his wife's spirit will ever be fully recovered, for they loved Matthew as their own son.
I do not know what else to say, dear Cordelia, save that I am sorry for even in theory resting such tragedy as this on your mind, but I must write down these events, and at least pretend to share them with someone else, for my failure to save Matthew's life when I might have rests most heavily upon me, and I think I will never be the same again. Even if the voyage, now seeming ill fated, carries on, I will have to long consider my own path forward. Only the hope that I may yet return to England as your fiancé gives me any motivation in the least to keep going, if it is decided that we continue at all.
Thank you, my love. Today, though you are not here, you have given me more solace than you can know, as you have always eased my mind from the days of our youth.
My love, always,
Gregory Conan Watts
Editor's note:
Gregory would never send this letter to me, of course. Not a thing for a young woman, or any woman of England, to read, especially in that time, but I am glad I was able to give him succor in his time of trouble, of course. I believe the only reason that that letter never found the fire, and instead was buried in his journals, was probably as it gave him some manner of comfort in difficult times to come.
– Dr. Cordelia Bentham-Watts
The Great September Gale of 1815
New York Evening Post, Special Morning Printing, September 24th, Free Extra.
The Press of New York would like to apologize for failure to print on September 23rd, as is the press's duty to the public. However, even should printing that morning have been possible, distribution would not have been, for most citizens were sensibly well in shelter.
At the Naval Air Post in New York, sudden action was required to save the Colony's only Airships. Two of our great ships were vented, a process only available due to the age of their design. These were there bound down with as many ropes as possible to ground based buildings. The third Airship was severely damaged when it crashed into the new 10-story building currently in progress up town on the newly named 4th street. Air Naval officials assure us that the third can be used for parts to repair the other two. The Air Navy's mooring area had Oxford wind sensors rated up to 125 miles per hour. They were ripped off of the roofs.
Outside of New York, the barrier island known as Rockaway Beach to the southeast of the main island was overcome. The next day it became clear it is now two islands. Already, there are plans to call the second, further island by a new name, although the only proposed name so far is the uninspiring 'Long Beach.' The newly organized Port Of New York has sent some remaining ships out to view the changed coastline, and are confident that shipping can continue uninterrupted once they have found all the ships.
The Airship of Sir James Coltrane and company, The Dame Fortuna, limped into New York in the early morning hours of the 24th, having borne the storm on the open skies. Tales of a brave Captain lashed to the wheel were told in hushed voices, although their damage was great, but not yet enumerated.
In other areas in the region, damage was also severe. Providence, capital of our little sister Rhode Island, was flooded by an 11-foot storm wave that funneled up Narragansett Bay destroying uncounted houses and ships. They have marked the flood with a line on the Old Market Building, hoping to always remember and never see its like again.
This storm also caused damage throughout the region in Connecticut, Massachusetts (notably damaging the bridge at Dorchester) and up through New Hampshire. Full reports will become available as stunned citizens make reckonings of the damage.
Already a talk has been announced at Harvard. Professor John Farrar, the Cambridge-trained Hollis professor of Mathematics and Natural Philosophy wishes to share his observations of the storm, and propose a theory of 'moving vortex’ storms.
The last recorded damage of this magnitude was The Great Colonial Storm of 1635, which recorded 14 foot tides in Providence. The early settlers feared for the end of the world. The Editors of this fine Paper hope we may avoid any further storms of this magnitude for at least another 180 years.
From the journals of Gregory Conan Watts,
September 26th, 1815
New York City
40º 47'N 073º 58'W
My failure is, through circumstance which I will never forget and remain in awe of, undone, and for it I must rethink my opinions of Samantha Bowe. While she is most unladylike, she is also now a heroine to not only the royals of France, but to both myself and Matthew Fisher-Swift. I do not know how she caught hold of the ornithopter, how it survived the storm, and least of all how she found Matthew before he struck the sea, but it seems she must have done all these things as she claims.
We were trying to assess the condition of the ship at the mooring post in New York today, for there is no better way to forget tragedy for a time than setting to hard work. Sir James is recovering well, and Eddy has regained consciousness but will not be walking any time soon. Miss Penn and Mr. Franzini will be under doctor's care for
some time longer, and the Fishers were about mourning, but Sir James, myself, and Harriet Wright were about assessing the ship, with Miss Coltrane keeping a close eye on her brother, when we heard a terrible creaking. Though there were quite a few people gathered about, watching in what cannot be anything but awe, the crowd parted.
Samantha Bowe came back to the dirigible, torn half to pieces, bleeding and bruised all over. Over one shoulder was the limp form of Matthew Fisher-Swift, and at first it seemed as if she had recovered his body, at least, until I noticed his back rising even when she was still – though in poor condition, obviously, he breathed. Partially serving as a crutch and partially being dragged by Miss Bowe was the frame of the ornithopter. It was still moving, but with both wings stripped to shreds, one axle broken, and a handful of areas which should be securely bolted coming loose.
We rushed forward, of course, and Miss Wright, the closest of us, was just able to grab Matthew in time to hear Miss Bowe croak something which Miss Wright was sure was “Fix him,” before she collapsed forward. I do not know her condition now, nor what her odds of further survival are. I do not know how long she traveled to get here, but what has been revealed to us is that though he will be in bed for some time, Matthew Fisher-Swift will live, and while scratched and bruised quite badly, he has escaped with a broken leg as the worst of his injuries. The doctors believe that when they hit the land or sea, Miss Bowe must have cushioned his fall with her own body, and the ornithopter slowed them enough that the fall was not immediately fatal.
Harriet Wright has since been frantically setting to trying to repair the device, and Sir James has gone to help her. Though I am still certain that it was the product of the worst kind of mad science, I cannot any longer call it a devil machine, and can no longer doubt that it has not only recognition, but some true kind of loyalty. Much as it pains me, I find myself hoping that Sir James and Miss Wright's memory for repair are sufficient to repair it. Miss Coltrane has occasionally followed them to see to their progress and supervise Miss Wright as they work frantically, but just as often has been forced to remain abed to rest and have her own injuries tended. All of them have said that though the workshop is in ruins, and Sir James's device is in terrible repair, Sir James and Harriet Wright will not work on anything else so long as the ornithopter still seems to have animation to it. In the meanwhile, given her state when last I saw her, some doctors are saying much the same of Miss Bowe.
I myself write this from near the front of a church, for while I normally do not perform work such as this documenting while at worship, it seemed somehow only right to note the occurrence of a miracle in these surroundings. I joined Mrs. Fisher, who has been here almost constantly, save for the short time she was permitted to visit Matthew. I can only imagine that she, too, will be much easier on Miss Bowe going forward, unless she sees her attempts to make a lady of her as some kind of favor, in which case she may become more determined. Best I not pass such suppositions on to Miss Bowe should she ever be fit to receive visitors, lest she wish she were dead.
September 26th, 1815
New York City
40º 47'N 073º 58'W
Dear Sir,
I know that communication has been forwarded to you regarding our state and the tragedy that befell us as we returned to New York. With Eddy and Miss Bowe somewhat recovered from their individual injuries, we have had opportunity to discuss the future of this mission, and you will be pleased to know we have elected to press on once we are more fully recovered, though we are making some sacrifices to this end for the sake of haste. The rescue of Matthew Fisher-Swift was most heartening for all of the crew, and it was felt that the brave men of the ship who perished in the monster storm would have wished us to go on.
For the sake of having more time for them to recover, as they represent most of our ground operations in non-critical, non-combative situations, Eddy and Miss Bowe will be mostly at rest for the first portion of our voyage, and aboard the dirigible. They – and I – will disembark once we reach the furthest edges of American civilization to the West and travel on the ground from there. I will supply you and the English public with what pictures I am able as we travel, along with the written account of our journey. The dirigible will track our progress as we go, but as the largest part of our mission is to locate Dr. Bowe's route to the Pacific ocean following his account, we will not be returning to the ship at any time save as is required for survival. This may be considered necessary at times, and will be at the discretion of our guide and Sir James, as this winter is already suggesting itself to be exceptionally difficult in these climates, and I can only imagine that it will be as bad or worse further inland.
The repairs upon the ship proceed almost as quickly as the injured parties are healing, and the city of New York has been more than generous in supplying us with everything we might need in order to speed these repairs along and prepare for our voyage west, including spare parts from their worst damaged airship. Dr. Mitchell's drawings on winter-proofing and insulation, which seemed fantastical overkill in April, are now being treated as scripture by the engineering crew. If they have their way, no pipe on this dirigible will be left uninsulated, nor any cable joint left without reinforcement.
While I am certain all of England is quite interested in our progress, we seem to have caught the spirit of this city as well. I have come to understand that there are a number of celebrations here to mark the decision to continue to the west, despite efforts to prepare for a harsh winter time and the efforts that are going towards the war effort to our south.
I have not heard any great news as concerns that conflict, save that the American colonist soldiers under the command of Col. York have so far been able to hold the ground taken, and there may be some plan to attempt to take one further Spanish holding in Florida in the near future. Sir James has tracked that progress and planning to a greater degree than I have and, of course, with a firmer grasp of tactics. I wonder, is there any news as to further reinforcement from England? It would be most welcomed in this conflict should it continue to escalate.
Yours,
Gregory Conan Watts
Letter from Heathsville, Northumberland County, Virginia Colony Archives, Wright Collection.
September 28, 1815
Mother! (and Daddy too!)
I hope all is well down on the farm. Did you get hit by the Great Gale last week? I do hope the orchards are doing well.
We were hit by the Gale while in the air. Don't you go panicking, although I will admit I did so while it was all going on. Jillian and I entangled ourselves in the railing and clung on. Cousin James and darling Eddy were braver then brave, and I'm sure that Captain Fisher (who tied himself to the wheel) saved us all. Samantha Bowe (Dr. Bowe's daughter, you remember) showed her family's true grit when she leapt from the ship to fetch back our ship's boy, the captain's ward. She arrived in New York looking like a drowned swamp rat, but with a whole Matthew and herself in a state.
We're in New York for a bit more, doing repairs and insulating. We had frozen pipes while looking at waterways up north, and we'll not be able to rely on constant water supplies inland. The crew is fully capable of wrapping pipes, so I've been replacing ropes with cables where they connect the envelope to the carriage. Those ropes were snapping right and left during the storm. (No panicking, Mother.) That's how we lost our first mate. (You either, Daddy.)
Jillian is fully in her in town mode, here in New York. Her fashion dolls for autumn and winter came here to the main post office and were waiting for us. Of course, not content to be the most fashionable person in New York, she's gone bigger. She's hosting a fundraiser tea for the soldiers injured in New Orleans (you've had that news, right?). She'll share her fashion dolls with all the best Ladies of New York in return for the sentiments on behalf of those brave men. The Ladies are glad to pay to be around Jillian and be seen supporting the cause, and James is thrilled that she's keeping New Orleans and the cause in people's minds. I am fixing the s
hip rather then attending, as the ship is the priority, and we leave as soon as it's finished. I am still trying to fully reconcile myself to that.
It's odd, I suppose, to be back in the Americas and not have stopped by to say hello. I swear (using only the most lady-like language to do so, Mother) that we flew almost straight over the plantation on the way down to New Orleans, or was it the way back up? Anyway, if you saw a dirigible, it could have been us, but we didn't stop, as we are so behind, and running before the frost. (Speaking of Frosts, Daddy should ask one of the College Professors about Tambora. Scary stuff. Harvest early.)
In response to Mother's letter, yes, I was in the same location as the Queen of France, but no, I do not believe that she remembers me. That was quite the night, before the men hustled us back to the ship. The men went back out again, but Mrs. Fisher was so in shock about the whole thing that she added Port to our tea, not even just brandy. Imagine that!
We go west next. We'll likely beat the post to St. Louis. I have no forwarding address to give you, for you cannot send mail to be held at the Pacific Coast. Perhaps New Orleans, or New York?
Give my love to everyone, and ask the dear Reverend to light a candle in the name of my crew every Sunday.
Your Loving Daughter,
Harriet Wright
The West by Air
Wonders of the West
From the journals of Gregory Conan Watts,
October 4th, 1815
Ohio Territory
