“An old horror of the sea described by a survivor. A lady, after fifty years, tells of her dreadful experience - sufferings of the party which escaped - five days on a raft.”

[Bracketed words were generally left out of the original, and added by me, because I felt they added clarity to the whole, or are corrections to a previous typo. Ellipses … indicate portions not vital to the story which I left out to shorten the whole. Mary DeLashmit, editor]

In the autumn of 1837 “The Home,” a packet steamer plying between Charleston and New York, returning south, [had been] wrecked on the coast of North Carolina. She had [had] many passengers, the majority of whom were lost. This calamity was deeply felt, particularly in the south. The insecurity of the traveling public was never so apparent . . . [They decided on] the building of a boat of greater strength and speed to ply between Savannah and Baltimore, touching at Charleston, remaining overnight, leaving at six in the morning, and taking breakfast the following morning at Baltimore, [thus] being only one night at sea.

The boat was built and named the Pulaski. Her officers and men were duplicated, those who served by day rested at night. She had made three successful voyages, meeting the expectations of the company and her passengers, who, on arriving at Baltimore, tendered complimentary cards to her commander, Captain Dubois, [and] Captain Pearson, an old seaman, [who] was the sailing master. She was a success with the public.

My brother, Mr. Gazaway B. Lamar, living in Savannah at the time, and knowing that I intended going north, invited me to join him and his family on the 13th of June, the fourth voyage of the Pulaski. Having a natural dread of the sea, the “Home” so fresh in my memory, I could not consent. In reply he wrote, “Could you see the boat you would not refuse.” I had suffered so much from seasickness that I dreaded the voyage . . . My brother’s house had been my home for several years before his removal to Savannah, but [our] strong mutual attachment had known no diminution. The pleasure of being once more together, renewing the affections of the children . . . changed my resolution and decided my going with them by sea. . .

The day, 13th of June, when the Pulaski would leave on her fourth voyage arrived. A pleasant breeze was blowing that tempered the heat and made it feel like spring. [We] arrived at the boat. The deck presented an animated picture of unusual brightness, so many happy faces beaming with hope and expectation. [We were] inspired by confidence in the Pulaski, which looked so strong and comfortable. Her passengers were from the elite of the city, sojourners returning home, and others from further south and west, traveling for health or pleasure. The partings over, the steamer sped on her way.

We reached Charleston at the hour appointed, several hours before sundown. The passengers generally went into the city, [but] our party remained aboard. We now sought the shady side of the boat as the heat was felt for the first time during the day. We found three persons there - two ladies were sitting on a settee, one reclining almost fainting on the shoulder of her friend, a gentleman standing fanning the invalid. At that moment my brother appeared followed by a waiter bearing iced syrup. Seeing the situation he directed the waiter to the [other] party and offered the timely refreshment, which was accepted with thanks. During the morning I had noticed the gentleman walking the deck. His dress was that of a clergyman, with the invariable summer hat of black leghorn, his general appearance that of an invalid with prepossessing face and manner.

Other objects claimed our attention as we left the deck, and directed our thoughts from the interesting strangers. That evening I made the acquaintance of Miss Page of Savannah, and as we walked on the upper deck, she pointed to two small boats turned bottom upwards, protected by from the weather by tarpaulin, and the oars alongside of each. These seemed suggestive[sic] as she said, “In the event of an accident I would rather take my chances on the steamer than in one of those. They may leak from being exposed to the sun.” I assented, “Yes, I should prefer remaining on the steamer.” The remarks were soon forgotten.

The Pulaski was a low pressure steamer. Her build was different from the sea boats of the present time. She was broad and sat low on the water. The ladies cabin [was] built in the stern with two rows of berths on each side, prettily fitted up with curtains and mirrors, and every convenience for comfort. There was another cabin at the bow exclusively for gentlemen.* Outside the cabin[s] were projections called guards, built on to the boat, becoming narrower toward the stern outside the ladies cabin, but broadening in the opposite direction, [continuing] to the wheels widening the deck, affording room for the spread of the tables between the ladies cabin and the Captain’s office or stateroom, a distance of twenty feet or more. There were no saloons in those days, neither staterooms, until introduced by the Pulaski’s : two on each side of the boat next the wheels, adjoining in front glass and china cabinets, the doors of which opened on the main deck just described. A passage of five feet ran along on the deck, on each side of the boat to the bow, where there were stairs leading to the upper deck. The stateroom door opened on these passages. Just opposite our stateroom were stairs leading to a lower cabin.

My brother had engaged two staterooms - my sister, her nurse and three children occupied one. Martha, my niece, Eliza (my special charge, the only child of my eldest brother) and I occupied the other. The three boys - Charles 14, William 12, and Thomas not yet 7 years of age - slept in [the] lower cabin. After leaving Charleston, Captain DuBois offered his stateroom to my brother, saying, “I never slept at sea.” We [girls] did not know of the offer, nor did we know then where the boys slept. My apprehensions had so entirely left me that I did not think to inquire.

The staterooms were large, containing every convenience, three large berths in each, the bottom one on castors to slide under the other two after shutting the door, as it occupied nearly the width of the floor, but rendered all more agreeable, giving so much space to each. There was a large window seaward and a transom over the door of the same size, arranged with a long brass hook to fasten it open to a beam. The breeze was so fresh I put on a double calico wrapper over my night clothes, and by abstaining from food, keeping [to] my bed, and plenty of refreshing air, escaped being sick for the first time. My sister and her nurse were not so fortunate, so I dressed and took the baby to the table in the evening to give him supper. I found a lady feeding her child and two men lingering in conversation. The children had dispersed, not one of them had been sick. Eliza had been to sea once before, when she was ill the entire voyage to New York. (I have no recollection of tasting food after leaving the breakfast table in Savannah. I must have had my tea at Charleston but do not remember it, but I am sure I had not tasted anything after leaving Charleston.) I restored the dear little baby to his mother and went back to bed. Eliza soon came in and then Martha. I heard Eliza say her prayers, and as she lifted her eyes, I remember how beautiful she looked as she knelt before me. We went to sleep free from anxiety, hoping to awake in Baltimore. Everything seemed propitious.

We were soon asleep and slept soundly until awakened by the most appalling sound, a sound only equaled when a thunderstorm strikes near. In storms I have heard it repeated, but never without remembering the Pulaski.

June 14th, midnight: Simultaneously with the sound we were on our feet. I leaped from the upper berth unconsciously, and finding my nieces by my side on the floor, exclaiming “What is the matter?” Strange to me now that I did not know. The engines [had] stopped, the wheels no longer moved, and the boat [was] trembling and careening to one side. To open the door we had to push the berth on castors under the others. Martha and I used all our strength in vain. Like a cranky drawer, one end would move only. Martha called out, “Oh, Aunt Rebecca, my strength is exhausted. I can push no longer.” I jumped to the upper berth, saying, “I will get through the transom, hand me Eliza and I will assist you.” I was executing the plan while giving the details. My head and shoulders were through the opening when the boat, in careening, gave a terrible lurch. The berth dashed under and the door flew open. At the same time the glass and china fell in the closets with a crash, every light going out.

We found my sister and her children at her stateroom door with the nurse, perfectly quiet, while the wildest screams proceeded from the ladies’ cabin, from the women and children. My brother had not appeared, nor the boys. Near by, in the darkened passage, were groans. I stepped to see, and found a poor negro man on his hands and knees in agony. I said, “Daddy, what is the matter?” “Oh, missis, my feet and legs done burnt off.” My heart was full of compassion but what could I do? At [that] instant the [younger] boys appeared, coming up on deck with their arms filled with their clothes. I hastened to help them dress. Charles followed, dressed, save his cap. He had made the children precede him up the stairs. We held the clothes, handing the articles to each. Charles held William’s jacket, and as he handed it [William] said, “Thank you brother.” The last words and never forgotten. Charles mentioned the fact to me after he [himself] was a father, with tears in his eyes, saying, “He was the best boy I ever knew,” and all who went to school with [William] said the same.

A man came along, the only one we saw, begging us to go on the upper side to help balance the boat. We asked him what was the matter. “There has been a collision, the boat is leaking, and I want someone to help bail her, but come up and help balance her.” We did not move, still waiting for my brother. The poor negro’s condition ought to have suggested the facts of the case, but the truth had not forced itself upon our minds. At last my brother came. (He had not heard the explosion but was awakened by the cries of women and children.) All called out “What is the matter?” “I don’t know. Stay here. I will run and see.” He returned pale and trembling, scarcely able to articulate the words, “The boiler has burst, the boat is sinking, and we shall be lost in five minutes.” These hopeless words were received in silence. Eliza was the only one who uttered a cry. She could only repress her cries by holding her breath. I was the first to speak. Could we not get on the upper deck? “Stay here until I run and see.”

The man came again, urging us to go on the upper side to help balance the boat. Jane, my sister[-in-law] said, “Let us go, he will think us obstinate in remaining here - but be careful that we are not separated from the children.” We moved in as compact a body as possible, each holding or carrying a child as we went. Martha exclaimed, “Aunt Rebecca, what must I do?” “Look to Jesus, who only can save us.” We reached the outer circle of the mass of women and children on the upper guard[sic] the women crying for their husbands and the women screaming with fright - but [we] not seeing those we touched, so fearful lest some one of the children might be lost in the crowd.

My brother came seeking us, and said “Follow me.” We retraced our steps more quickly as the lower side was [now] deserted, and stopped at an iron davit where the day before hung a boat with oars, but now gone. As we stopped, a voice said, “Mr. Lamar save my children and Mr. Mackay will bless you.” “I will do all I can for you but I see no hope for any.” He then said to Martha, “Climb the davit and get on the deck, and I will hand up the children.” She was up, and he handed a child. She caught it, but cried out, “Don’t let go, I have no strength.” I took her place, and soon we were [all] on the upper deck where there was only a solitary man, a Mr. Huntington of New York, … an acquaintance of my brother’s.

They [Mr. Huntington and my brother] had stripped the covering from one of the boats, but before turning her [over], Mr. Smith of Augusta, with his wife and child gained the deck from the higher side of the steamer. He came at last to their assistance, aided in turning and placing her nearer the edge of the steamer, searched for substitutes for oars and something to bail with. There were no means to lower the boat nor time to accomplish it had there been. The ladies and children were getting in. I [had] put Eliza in when I heard a cry from the other side of the steamer for help. I found a colored woman clinging to the rail - I gave her my hand and she gained the deck. I ran back to Eliza, she had ceased to cry after getting on deck. All were in the little boat; the steamer rapidly sinking; when on a level with the water, the little boat was to be pushed off with its human freight. Mr. Lamar and Mr. Smith were to get in to row the boat. My brother invited Mr. Huntington, but he said, “I prefer to remain on the steamer.” [Those were] the [very] words I had used the night before at Charleston when not excited!

The little boat before me [was so] crowded with women and children, I could see no place where the rowers could use their oars, and if the boat should leak, who would bail her? These words I spoke aloud. Mrs. Mackay said, “Oh, Mr. Lamar, I will bail the boat.” My brother said, “I implore you to get into the boat.” (I had lifted Eliza out when I said, “I, too, prefer to remain on the steamer.”) [He continued,] “I do not promise that you will be saved, Rebecca, but it is our only hope.” Immediately I put Eliza in with my arms [still] around her, facing the sea. But [I was] not convinced, for no oars had been found, only pieces of plank, nor could I believe that the men could jump in a boat so crowded, in time, when [it was] suddenly thrown in the water. Suppose they failed to reach the boat. These thoughts passed rapidly, but I did not give expression to them. My brother’s agonized face at my refusal was enough. I got in the boat with Eliza, my arms around her, facing seaward.

Instantly I felt a blow on my chest and the sensation of drowning - the blow and the drowning were so simultaneous that it seemed but one moment. I never saw the child [Eliza] again. The steamer had suddenly parted, the machinery went to the bottom and the two ends stood up out of the water. The boiler in bursting had driven the planks out of the right side of the steamer. The water running in [had] caused her to tremble and careen to our side, and [had]prevented the men in the bow from reaching the ladies cabin and prevented us from gaining the upper deck by the stairs, because the sea was breaking over the boat beyond the wheels.

The water was so buoyant that as I rose upon a wave I could catch [sight] of struggling people around me. Once I caught hold of something beneath the wave as I rose; I saw I had hold of a man’s vest just between the shoulders, the white sleeves protruding. I let go for fear of drowning myself and him. My brother’s vest answered the description of the glimpse I had in the water. It was the only conscious thought I had while struggling in the water. A piece of scantling nine or ten feet long but not heavy floated to my arms. I folded them over it as it lay across my chest and immediately began to float on my back seeing only the sky. Soon [I] floated against something that resisted the touch and I saw the stern of the steamer from which I had been precipitated. I caught a stanchion, [and] braced my foot against another, my head downward, lying on the extreme edge, with the waves lapping partly over me. I was so exhausted I could not think.

My brother came swimming. He extended his hand, calling out, “You will be washed off there, come up higher.” I was lifted to my feet and stood near the water, [I] saw a little way off, struggling people, heard occasional screams and cries for help. Then a wave with a dash at my feet bore my niece Martha, who called out, “Give me your hand, Aunt Rebecca!” I caught the extended hand. We recognized at the [same] moment each other and she was now beside me. Charles came swimming to us. My brother stood with his feet in the water, watching an opportunity to help. We [also] continued to stand near the water. He called out, “Go up higher.” The stern was gradually rising up. We crept up and took hold of the steamer wheel, each holding a spoke. The deck was fast assuming the perpendicular, and my brother cried again, “Go up higher, the wheel will break off with your weight.”

We crept up the steep ascent and reached the railing around the stern and took hold. We saw that the windows of the ladies’ cabin were nearly horizontal. There we saw a colored nurse seated on one of the panels between the windows with a beautiful child two or three years old. I said, “Whose child?” Quick as a flash we were thrown [back] into the sea - the deck had broken from the stern. My brother told me afterward that he had his second son by the hand when we were again dash[ed] into the sea.

I found myself again struggling with the waves - was it drowning when I did not struggle or swallow sea water? I did neither. I was alternately on the waves and under the waves - sometimes when rising almost sitting on the wave, but for an instant. Soon I caught in my arms a feather pillow; it was a life preserver. I floated once [more] on my back until I felt something under my feet. I stood up, and saw that I was again on the deck from which I had been twice precipitated. I still held my pillow. A solitary man stood on the wreck, his back was to me, he at one end and I at the other. He had in his hand a carpet bag, the other in his pocket, from which he drew a key and fitted it to the lock and it opened. I had instinctively approached [him, but] before reaching the person who was not aware of my presence, my brother swam to the side of the vessel, coming between me and the unknown. As he stepped on the wreck he exclaimed, “Oh my sister, do we meet once more.” He opened his arms and embraced me. His voice attracted the gentleman, who turning, recognized my brother, and I was introduced to Mr. Hutchinson of Savannah.

The stars were out but not bright, yet we in our excitement could see as well as in the brightest starlight. On the steamer, when the lights went out, our vision was so intensified [that] we saw in the imperfect light and recognized each other and saw the way we moved as if we had lights still burning. There was [now] about six inches of water covering the wreck; the water was deeper on the ends where the planks were torn, perhaps a foot if not more. It was large still. The cover for cordage remained intact. The covering of the hold of the Pulaski had floated on[to the wreck], affording a seat for many . . . A pile of lumber floated on [also], but so jammed , the ends sticking out in all directions that no use could be made of it conveniently.

Mrs. Smith was the third person on the wreck, without her babe and her husband. The next who came was a man with a child in his arms, calling out, “Whose child?” We had lost so many that my brother and I worked toward him but it was not ours. The child saw and recognized her father, calling out in a joyous tone, “Papa, Papa!” and he replying, “Corinne, Corinne, my child!” It was Mr. Hutchinson’s daughter, not [more] than three years of age. He was much affected, perceiving which she tried to divert his attention, calling, “Papa, see the pretty stars.” She felt the changed circumstances and tried to adapt herself to the new situation and did not ask for her mother or nurse. Her efforts seemed to increase his emotion, and he brought her to me, saying, “Will you keep the child for me?” putting her in my lap as I readily assented. A brown camlet had floated on with the carpet bag, which he put around us. I was seated on the cover of the hold with Corinne in my lap. She did not object to my taking her, but ceased to prattle.

Many came to us that first night, never to be forgotten, 14th of June 1938. The next person was a man with a child, calling, “Whose child?” It was Thomas, my brother’s child not seven year’s old. . . I at once gave Corinne to her father and took Thomas in my lap. He was picked up on the end of the wreck as the man came aboard. He was greatly moved, [and] could not speak for tears but cried himself to sleep in my arms, but not audibly. He [had been] a child of great independence of character, full of vivacity and intelligence for his years, [but was] now so depressed that he never spoke unless spoken to. I feared to question him of his experience. He only cried the first night, but never recovered from his depression. I don’t think he asked a question or said a word save in reply. Mr. Hutchinson sat beside us with Corinne. indeed it was a seat for all. The only other was the cover for the cordage, fastened to the deck, three or four feet high, which the men used exclusively.

The box of cordage afforded seats for three men comfortably. It was high enough for them to sit with their feet out of the water and the spray from the waves did not reach them, as it sometimes did us. While the men were walking about, someone would catch a nap of a few minutes, besides they alternated in sitting on it. There was no exhibition of selfishness. Mr. Hutchinson opened his carpet bag and dispensed the garments it contained to those who needed. I must record a touching instance of sympathy to myself. Dr. Stuart of Maryland, a consumptive, one chilly morning before the sun appeared, asked the loan of a knife and cut of the tops of his long woolen stockings and gave them to me because I was barefoot. I never forgot the sacrifice but always regretted it, for he could ill afford to sacrifice any comfort he enjoyed in the state of his health.

14th of Jun. The night was nearly spent; many had come on the wreck; all had found places and quiet now reigned around. The surge and lapping of the waves were all the sounds that broke upon the stillness and our profound sorrow. Suddenly a manly voice beyond us rang out, “Help! Help!” The reply was, “We have no means to help.” Another voice called out, “Who are you?” “Colonel Ball, wife and daughter of Columbus, Georgia.” So near and yet so far. They were never heard of after. The wreck, covered with canvas painted white, could be so distinctly seen spread out on the ocean, a swimmer could have reached it so easily -but there was sacrifice to duty and affection.

The quiet so profound now reigned once more. A voice from the wreck now called out, “See the light; what can it be? It may be a ship approaching. It is growing brighter. Let us unitedly call that we may be heard.” A shout was given, then the moon seemed to rise from the sea and our hope fled.

The morning of the 15th was beautiful. We could see in the early light, ships far off sailing from us. The men began to brace the wreck, stretching cables from end to end. Small sails were improvised to increase the drifting. We were supposed to be in the Gulf Stream.

The sea around us was a melancholy sight, covered with the debris of the Pulaski and things belonging to the situation; so came so near as to be hooked by a piece of plank. The first, a champagne basket, that belonged to some passenger, open, but having still two bottles of wine, one a quart bottle, the other a pint bottle of champagne; a small bottle of laudanum and one of peppermint. The person who recovered it brought it to me to care for. Then a little boat came near so as to be recovered; she did not leak but had a hole high up on the side. She was immediately fastened to the wreck and was considered a valuable acquisition. A young man took refuge in her, his clothes were torn and the flesh visible was bruised; it was a great relief to him for he could now lie down comfortably.

A considerable distance off another boat was seen, containing two men who were rowing. It was watched with interest which was increased by one of the men jumping into the sea, swimming now for his life. The man in the boat soon reached us, the boat leaked and the man jumped for fear of swamping her. The men shouted and cheered the swimmer, promising to throw a rope when he was near enough, which they did. It was a cable and now they were pulling him in wondering who he was - no one knew. When he was near the wreck I recognized him, calling to his wife, “Mrs. Smith, it is your husband!” He stepped aboard, tottered to his wife, threw himself at her feet and wept, unable to speak. Many wept in sympathy. Mr. Smith was tall, large in proportion, a young athlete in appearance and he certainly maintained the character of a swimmer.

The boat had been drawn on the wreck; the men caulked her with knives and bits of rope. She was then fastened to the wreck. She was smaller than the first boat. Then two trunks were caught by Caroline (Mrs. Stewart’s maid), one filled with papers but open, the other contained two silk dresses and two silk shirred bonnets in the fashion of the day. [Caroline] put them on the pile of lumber to dry.

Another object now came in view, two settees lashed together, a man holding to the arms on one end and a woman on the other. The settees dipped one end, then the other, each time the water wetting the person exposed. Now the smaller boat was manned and the settees were dragged on the wreck. The man was lifted out and laid on the cover of the hold where we were sitting, the lady now lying on the settees, both speechless from exhaustion. The peppermint was used as a restorative, wetting the lips and bathing the face. The gentleman held out his tongue [for some] which seemed to revive him. Then he caught a glimpse of the trunk of papers. He got up and staggered to it. Pointing to it he said to Caroline, “They are mine, dry them.” She replied, “this is a nice place to dry papers.” He would have fallen if his friends had not caught him and laid him on the cover again. The same means were used [again]: his face was bathed in peppermint, his hands chafed, but he never spoke, though he continued in his senses and died without a struggle. The blood had settled under his nails, his lips were blue and his skin mottled; circulation had almost ceased. He was very fair with light blue eyes; an Englishman by birth. For some reason he had stripped off his clothes and was nude save for a linen sheet around his loins.

The lady was Mrs. Smith of South Carolina. She was dressed in a tight fitting dress of dove silk; her neck was bare, [and] her neck and face nearly blistered with the sun. It was the fashion of that time to wear low neck dresses with capes of the same material; it was also the fashion to lace tightly. She was a young, pretty and fair brunette. She might have survived if somebody had unhooked her dress and cut the corset strings. To revive her from exhaustion was all we thought of. The peppermint had that effect and she was soon able to speak and raised her head, leaning on her elbow while she said to my brother, “I saw your son this morning. I called to him and told him not to give up.” “Where did you see him and how came you to know him?” “I went to school in Savannah and knew Charles at Mr. White’s.” “Where was he when you saw him this morning?” “He was floating on a little box. I called to him and you must keep a lookout. He will be along directly.” We were now all excitement and gazing in the direction of his coming. It was not long before an object was seen approaching in the far distance. It was not a little box but a portion of the wreck. Long before I could discern the object upon it, my brother said that he knew that it was Charles approaching. The little boat was got ready for the rescue. We could now see a man and a boy supporting a lady leaning on their shoulders. My brother called for Mr. Smith to come with him on the boat. “Oh, I am tired.” “Smith, it is my son!” He went immediately in the boat with another man and the persons were safely transferred to the wreck. The lady was laid by the side of Mrs. Smith.

Charles came to my arms. The peppermint was used, the few drops that were left, and the small bottle of champagne opened for the benefit of the ladies. Charles cried himself to sleep seated on the cover, with his head and shoulders in my lap. His emotion prevented speech, and the corpse by my [other] side was a sad spectacle to him and Thomas. The gentleman who came with [his wife] and Charles [was] greeted by several gentlemen, and I heard the gentleman called Mr. Woart. The name was very familiar [to me], though not the person.

Charles awoke and said, with tears streaming from his eyes, “Aunt Rebecca, what do you think has become of mother and the children?” I could not tell him what I almost knew, but said, “We must not talk of them now but let us hope they may be picked up; try not to cry, it will exhaust your strength.” Dear little Thomas sitting by, hearing, but not speaking a word. He must have had a dreadful experience to have changed him so. . .I dared not increase his sadness by questions, nor did I inquire of Charles for the same reason. [Charles] never could speak [of it] in after years without tears, and then only remark the subject was too painful.

As soon as I could leave the children I approached the gentleman with whom Charles came, saying, “Are you the Reverend Mr. Woart?” “Yes, I am the Reverend Mr. Woart of Tallahassee, Florida.” In the fullness of my joy, I exclaimed, “I thank God that we have one good man [ie: man of God, a minister] among us!” With almost sternness he replied, “I warn you not to trust to an arm of flesh - look to God who can save all who trust in him.” I replied, “Surely it cannot be wrong to wish for the company of the righteous, when Sodom would have been spared had ten righteous persons been found.” He then said, “Are you a Christian?” “I hope so,” was the reply. “But where did you hear of me?” “When you were a guest of Colonel Lindsay, USA, near Augusta, when our volunteers were going to Florida, you prayed for them on the boat before they left. I did not see you but I heard your prayers.” He came and sat beside me, and seemed so tired and feeble that I asked him to lean upon my shoulder, which he did for a little while.*

[*This paragraph was originally after the one following, but it works better here.]

In the early light on Friday, we discovered a man lying on his face, drowned. His dress was that of a gentleman and my brother and Mr. H. seemed to hesitate before turning him, fearing to find a friend in the deceased. He was turned and their fears were realized when they saw it was Mr. S.B. Parkman of Savannah. His three daughters and a son were also among the lost. In a few hours when my brother was giving some wine to the ladies, the last one rescued said, “Sir, in you I discover the person who offered the refreshment at Charleston, and now you are so kind in your attentions.”

The cover for the rope was unfortunately broken down by too many getting on it at a times. Now there was but one only seat and that without a back. Mr. Woart was anxious about his [sick] wife, she [had wanted] to stay at home with friends, [but] he [had been] anxious that she might reach her relatives. They were expecting her, and he mourned their anxiety on that account. I wondered how they managed to escape from the steamer in her feeble condition, but did not inquire - but he told me he took a mattress to the side of the steamer and told her to stand on the edge, that he would throw the mattress in the water and she must try to jump on it, which she did. He could swim so he reached it too. They floated for a time till the piece of the wreck on which he came to us was near enough for him to transfer her from the mattress to it.

Charles was on a portion of the wreck with a gentleman and his son from Beaufort, South Carolina. But the weight [of three people] made it unsafe. The piece of wreck on which Mr. Woart and his wife were, was larger and drifted more rapidly than that on which Charles was sitting and as it was passing he called out to know if he might get on with them. Charles transferred himself, with permission, and proved a mutual benefit. [However,] the persons he left were never heard of afterward.

Sails, distant and going from us continue[d] to be seen. The children [would] soon be exhausted, and the invalids too. Dear little Corinne had never cried, nor had she asked for water or anything at the present moment. It was, “Oh, Papa, won’t you give me a cup of tea when you get to New York?” “Yes, my daughter.” It would be increased, according to her thirst, for “two and three cups of tea” but not more, and always “when you get to New York.” How quickly children comprehend the situation. Such was the excitement of mind, so occupied mentally, that I was not conscious of bodily wants or ailments. No one was hungry, and some did not recognize even thirst while others suffered acutely. I am inclined to think that the eating of human flesh is not because the shipwrecked feel hungry, but as a precautionary measure to save life.

The men were inclined to leave the raft, especially those who had children or invalids who needed protection and food. A proposal was now made and carried - some were not able to vote and others acquiesced, as I did, in the will of the majority - that the small boat should carry the larger number, being whole and sound, while the larger boat, having a hole in her side, should take the fewer so as to equalize the chances. The hole was above the water line, but was as large as a man’s hat, and though the sea in calm might not rush in, yet in storm it was not only possible but probable.

There were two sailors and a captain of merchantmen with us; they were anxious to go. The little boat was now ready and immediately filled [including our family.] Those left on the wreck naturally complained that all the able bodied men were in the small boat, leaving those [who were] helpless or nearly so to go on alone. Captain Hibbard immediately left the boat, saying he would not leave them. My brother now offered rewards to any who would get out of the boat and go on with those on the raft. These rewards were conditional of course.

One of the sailors sat next to me while the argument was going on. He was telling us how fearful was the risk we were taking. That the boat was too crowded, that in the event of any change in the weather we would be swamped, might be lost without a chance, but would certainly be lost if we reached the breakers, all who could not swim. The boat would be upset in the breakers, and only expert swimmers could reach the shore. The man was pleading for his life, in broken English. I said, “But if you think the raft safe, why did you leave it?” “Because I could not be alone, and if I go, I must go in the best boat.” I called my brother’s attention, but he would not heed, nor quite comprehend the Dane’s broken English, so I began to translate to him and others what the man had said, which carried conviction to my mind, so that I was as earnest as he was. He continued to [try to] dissuade them, hoping someone would be persuaded if my brother would not. In the midst of his expostulations, and my entreaties, the boat was pushed off, but neither the Dane nor I stopped the argument. We had not gone fifty yards or one hundred at farthest, before my brother gave the order to return. I felt a joy in returning greater than I did when I was floated on the raft on the night of the 14th, by aid of the pillow. I was then alone, but now with those dear, all of whose lives were precious and dear to themselves and to many.

We found those we had left standing as we had left them, nor did they ask why we had returned. No doubt Captain Hibbard had satisfied them of the peril we would have encountered, and they saw the wisdom of our return. To the earnest Dane we owed our lives, and I have regretted that I did not learn his name. His memory is precious and I have always felt great interest in sailors.

We went back to the cover on which the corpse lay without a covering and night approaching. I suggested to my brother the removal of the dead but it was objected to. At night my brother urged me to lie down, even if I could not sleep. To please him I tried, but rose up with St. Paul’s words, “Who shall deliver me from the body of this death?” [I] sat down in close proximity to the poor gentleman whom I had seen die, and his body so exposed now as to make us shrink from it. The boys sat on either side of me, leaning on my shoulders with my arms around them so they could sleep. I was not conscious of sleeping except for an instant of time, when startled by a dream, which was the only evidence [of my sleep.] The night was darker than the last, the silence profound, broken only by the monotonous lapping of the wave[s], and that far off sound of the throbbing sea - so suggestive.

The morning of Saturday - the air was chilly in the early morning, but we were always glad to see the light, yet disappointed to see in the far distance sails - so many sails - going from us. Yet it was more comfortable than if we had seen none, and I comforted myself by hoping that the next would be coming towards us. It was my nature to hope, and I hoped on, feeling that the chances were increased for tomorrow, or the next few hours perhaps.

Captain Hibbard now proposed that six men should take the boat, that none who could not rely upon himself as a swimmer must venture. That when they neared the shore they would encounter breakers, the first one would upset the boat and each [person] must swim for his life. Mr. Hutchinson said to me, “I am not willing that the men should take the boat and leave us helpless, unless Mr. Lamar goes in her. I have urged him to do so and you must persuade him to go, and he will consent. We have seen vessels every day but they have not seen us. This may be repeated every day. The children cannot survive much longer without food. relief must be sought and the sooner the better. These men are strangers; they leave no loved ones behind, they might not have the influence to send relief. We know Mr. Lamar can send help, and he leaves his dearest interests on the wreck. He ought to go - persuade him and he will go.”

“Now how can I persuade him to the peril I had heard described? Would it not be better to hope still for some ship, to come and take us aboard?” I thought only of the hazards to him. He said, “You must decide for me, I cannot. I will do as you say.” I thought of the children, the invalids, and the responsibility. They were wasting away before my eyes, starving literally. “I consent [to the departure], on two conditions. First, that you will let me tie this pillow around your waist as a life preserver, promising you will not take it off until you reach land. Second, that the dead be removed before you leave.”

Mr. Hutchinson gave him Mr. Parloman’s spectacles and watch to take ashore, for an infant son of the deceased at home, the last of the family. The dead were removed to the extreme end of the raft, and laid down where the water was deeper, and left for the waves to float them to their burial. The same pillow that [had] floated me to the wreck was [now] tied around my brother’s waist. As he got into the boat he called, “Thomas!” The little fellow’s face brightened, and he obeyed the call with more life than he had manifested heretofore, but one of the sailors pushed off the boat before the child came near enough to reach it. I did not comprehend the movement then, [but] learned afterwards that [my brother] had intended to take Thomas with him, and no doubt that intention decided his going. Yet it was a merciful Providence that it was frustrated or both would have perished.

The wine in the small bottle was used up. Captain Hibbard proposed before leaving, that the large bottle should be opened and each person should take a swallow of wine. it was handed [around] and each one took a swallow. My brother brought it to me and said, “Keep this for the children.” He was the only person that did not taste the wine. There was no one wise enough to propose a sacrifice in favor of the invalids and children, which, I am sure, would have been accepted by all and no one sooner than Captain Hibbard. I drank without thought and because it was expected. Only about a gill of wine was left for three children and four invalids. The peppermint was exhausted the day before. The laudanum remained in the hands of a gentleman I supposed to be a Dr. Ely but I could not find his name in the list of passengers. At any rate, he was a gentleman, a friend of Mr. Woart, Mr. McKay, and Dr. Stuart (the supposed doctor from Philadelphia.) He was polite to me. A Mr. Rohan, a young man not over 25, of fine healthful appearance, drank sea water which caused cramps in the stomach. He came to me in agony and asked for the laudanum and said he wished to kill himself. I was afraid to trust him so I asked the doctor to give the dose. Mr. Rohan was relieved of pain, but he drooped and never seemed well, though he did not complain.

There was another person, a man with piercing black eyes, who would come for a drop - “only a drop” - of wine. His eager look obliged me to comply, yet he did not seem to be an invalid. I would simply say, “You know this is for the children.” “Yes, I am ashamed to ask for it, but as some excuse, look at my tongue.” His tongue was hard, brown and dry, parched with fever.* He showed it, and Charles said, “Aunt Rebecca, give him my share.” Mr. Woart was deeply touched. He put his hand on Charles’ head and said, “You are a noble boy.”

[*This sentence was originally at the end of this paragraph, but it works better here.]

The little [wine] now left was a sacred trust for the children, shared of course by the ladies, who were now speechless. It was the last time [Mr. Woart] asked, yet he carried it to his wife and Mrs. Smith. Mr. H. would give it to Corinne, and the children never asked me for any. I fear I did not give it to them as often as I ought. Mrs. Woart retained her senses to the last. Mrs. Smith was apparently in a stupor. Poor young lady, she ought not to have died, and I cannot account for my stupidity in not perceiving the cause of her stupor; but the awful circumstances surrounding us and the charge of the children, and I, sustained by the excitement of the situation, and [yet] consumed by fever, unconsciously, for I never thought of not being well. At night my back ached, forcing me to think of it, aching as it did, when there was not so much to direct thought from self as in the day. I don’t remember its ever aching except at night.

The departure of the six men depressed rather than made hopeful those that remained. The active spirits had left us more spiritless, till the wind changed and hope revived as we thought we would drift towards shore. The thought was depressing to me - I could not swim. Charles could, but there was hazard in drifting ashore, we knew not where. Thomas could only take care of himself. Nor could I foresee how we could accomplish the landing in the day, and it was now getting late and we might be driven ashore in the night. The men discussed the probabilities of making land. That the raft would be broken in pieces in the surf and those who could not swim be floated on shore by pieces of wreck or clinging to a plank. This plank spoken of, at once furnished me with something to do. I immediately took a plank from the pile of lumber and got some rope to keep in readiness for the emergency when it should arrive.

Having provided the means, the next thing was to reconcile Thomas to the idea of being tied. At home he was as active, intelligent, independent, as a child with those characteristics would be at ten, yet [also] good, affectionate and obedient. I knew his manliness would revolt at the idea of being tied; so I first explained the danger of landing; that I could not swim and would have to cling to a plank. But I feared his hold might be broken and as he could not swim he might not reach land, so he must let me tie him on the plank which would then float him ashore. For the first time his independence was roused, “Oh, if I could see the land, I will manage to get ashore.” I had to reason and argue the case before he would consent to be fastened if the occasion required it. . .

[However,] were we driven ashore, I felt the loss of life would be imminent, and could not anticipate anything but death to women and children. I was even fearful for Charles as he had not eaten anything since the 14th, and might not have strength to battle with the surf. My only hope that the wind would change and blow us back in the path of traffic. We had seen so many vessels going from us, why should not we hope to meet some, or be overtaken by a vessel? So I kept my hope alive, and felt “Thou God seest me.” That we are in His hands, who can deliver all who trust him.

So I kept my hope alive, and felt “Thou God seest me.” That we are in His hands, who can deliver all who trust him.

The clouds gathering, distant thunder [was] heard, the wind suddenly veered around driving us seaward, and great drops of rain began to fall. Instinctively my mouth opened to receive them. Up to that moment I had been unconscious of thirst; when I took a swallow of wine that morning, I did not realize thirst but did as the others had done. Though I had kept the wine and dropped it for others, I never desired it for myself nor did I long for water. The anxiety of mind triumphed over pain and suffering. Hope never forsook me but for [one] instance of time when the billows swept over me on the wreck, filling my ears with water. The wind blew a gale; the darkness was black, we were scarcely visible to each other. The rain continued all night, the wind increasing, fortunately there was neither thunder nor lightning.

Sunday morning the 17th of June. We had the night before left the accustomed seat and sat in the water on the wreck so as to lean back with Mama, an African nurse to Mrs. Nightingale’s baby. Her voice was heard in prayer in a low monotonous tone almost like chanting. Fearing she would exhaust herself, I ventured to remonstrate but in vain; she must pray audibly or not at all; she knew no other way, and prayed till day. None slept. The boys nestled close to me, though silent, did not sleep.

A fierce gale was [still] blowing; the clouds as black as ink, the rain continuing in torrents. I have never seen such rain before or since. In a few hours it ceased to rain. The sky was still black as far as [your] eye could see, and the billows began to rise. Mr. McKay said, “Mr. Woart won’t you pray for us?”

“I have not ceased to pray since I came upon this wreck.”

There was a pause. I then said, “Will you not pray aloud so all can join you?” He at once rose to his feet, his eyes to Heaven, his form erect, he seemed no longer feeble. The turbulent sea lashing itself into foam as the waves would break against each other, but ever rolling towards us, the black sky as a background. Then his full toned musical voice commenced a prayer for life: that God in His infinite wisdom and mercy had implanted the love of life in all creatures for its preservation, therefore it was not wrong to love life or pray for its continuance; then for faith in Christ, the all sufficient Savior; then for perfect submission to His Divine will, that each one might be able to say, not my will but Thine be done. I never heard a more eloquent prayer; never expect to see in this world so sublime a spectacle. I have often wished I could present it to others as I recall the scene. Had I been an artist I would have given it to the world long ago. . .

The wind continued and the billows increased in size. Some resumed their seats on the cover; all were sitting prone on the raft. The sail cloth at the ends was loose where the planks had been wrenched from the steamer; the action of the sea rolled it up continually and the planks where they were pierced broke away as they were uncovered by the water. For security we sat near each other in silence, near enough to cling to each other as the billows came over us.

Some feared the raft would be broken to pieces. I feared that we would be drowned upon it. A large cable, attached to each end of the raft for security, now held a detached piece of the raft in the direction of the wind and the waves. As a wave would come, this loose piece would be driven by force over the raft to a certain distance, the distance increasing as the billows grew stronger. I was nearest as it approached. No one seemed to see but me, though it shook the raft as it receded, then checked by the cable fastened at the other end. I asked for the loan of a knife from a gentleman near me. He was so occupied with his own thoughts that he did not see me sawing away at the separate strands of the rope in the intervals between billows, nor when the last strand was severed, with what velocity [the piece] was borne away in the receding wave. It seemed only an instant of time and it was gone. I handed back the knife and he received it unconsciously.

Mr. Smith, becoming alarmed, ran to the little boat tied to the end of the raft and jumped into it. Mr. Hutchinson receiving the panic, ran with Corinne in his arms, with cloak around her, also to the boat. He reached the place just as Smith jumped back to the raft. In meanwhile one end of the cloak had been disengaged from his grasp and trailed. As he stopped he slipped on it and stumbled. In recovering himself, his hold relaxed a little and the wind lifted the child and the cloak and bore it to the waves. The cloak had a red lining. It was doubled up on the receding wave and the little figure of the child lay upon it in her white gown, distinctly visible for a few seconds. The father returned to his seat with his head bowed to his breast almost. How we react upon each other! Yet it was better so; she could not have lived many hours and her [slow] death to him would have been more distressing. God took her, the patient child.

Mr. Woart could not [easily] lift his wife from the settee; fearing she might be washed off, he took her head and shoulders in his arms and trailed her feet and limbs through the water and placed her near us. She was dying with a serenity of countenance that was an expression of the peace within. Her countenance was remarkably intelligent and her large blue eyes so expressive as she turned them to her husband and me. There was not a struggle, not a difficult breath. She simply ceased to breathe and was dead. He let her head fall through the water at his side, clasped his hands around his knees and said as he closed his eyes, “My poor dear wife.” As he did so, that instant a tremendous billow came rushing over us. He did not see it in time to grasp his neighbor as we bowed our heads to the wave. As we lifted them we saw Mr. and Mrs. Woart being born off to the ocean and to Heaven.

The violence of the storm abated as night approached but left the sea in great commotion; the waves dashing against each other emitting streams of phosphorescent light, the most brilliant display I ever saw. Drs. Ely and McKay became restless. They walked about the wreck. Dr. Ely sang “Praise God from whom all blessings flow,” and sang it well. He and Mr. McKay imagined they were in Florida, and proposed a visit, seeing a light in the distance, and walked off together into the sea, but soon returned. I hoped the experience would prevent a recurrence. They were again deceived and again stepped into the sea, never to return. They were both gentlemen, friends of Mr. Stuart and Mr. Woart, and were traveling companions and members of the Episcopal church. Thus within a few hours we lost from our midst five lives, but felt that they had gone to that life above, and [we] could not wish them back. Poor old Mama commenced her prayers aloud but was too exhausted to continue them long. Her strength was wonderful for one of her age.

Monday June 18th. The morning appeared cloudless and lovely, the waves peacefully flowing; the wreck somewhat diminished but not seriously injured. Dr. Stuart [was] too feeble to sit up without support and leaning on Caroline’s shoulder. Why he did not move [to] the cover where he might have laid down, I do not know, and at the time never thought of suggesting it to him. I fear we were all absorbed in our own thoughts so much as not to think of it. Mrs. Smith [was] still alive, but in a stupor; I always think of her death so regretfully as it was needless.

[We saw] sails at a distance bearing away from us. Mr. Smith’s attention fixed on an object in our rear so far as to appear a mere point in the distance. It continued to maintain its relative distance from us, from which he conceived it to be a lightship or a stationary light. He thought it not more than ten miles from us. [He said] that he would make a raft and go to it for help. Mr. Hutchinson endeavored to dissuade him from the attempt and so did I. At last I called to Mrs. Smith, “Why do you not entreat your husband not to go?”

“Because when Noah makes up his mind to a thing there is no use to say a word.”

When I spoke of the danger again to himself, he said, “ I lived on the coast when I was a boy and often made little rafts and paddled out on the water.”

He seemed so determined, so self-reliant, and so satisfied that because the object maintained its relative distance it must be a stationary light, though it was supposed we were drifting five miles an hour, [that] neither Mr. Hutchinson, Mr. Smith, or myself had sense enough to perceive the absurdity of the proposition. Mr. Hutchinson consented, after persuasion and hesitation, to loose the raft. It was now almost twilight. We thought no doubt he would soon have the stationary light to guide him in his course. We watched him until lost to sight as he paddled first one side then the other as canoes are propelled, and for an instant a ray of hope penetrated my mind. Poor fellow, it was the last ever heard of him.

My attention had been so absorbed that my thoughts had been directed from dear little Thomas, who now startled me by a groan. I had thought him asleep. He had been in a drowsy state all day; now he was in a stupor, his nails and lips were blue. I chafed his hands and called him, but there was no response. He was in my lap, and as I bent over him once he said, “You hurt me.” I must have pressed heavily in trying to recover his feet as the limbs stretched beyond my lap. I continued to chafe his hands until I knew it [in] vain. I saw he was dying. I was in despair, my distress indescribably great. He never spoke again. Charles was quietly seated by my side, taking no notice of Thomas, of which I was not cognizant at the time, as all my attention and thought were for the dying child. Charles suddenly started to his feet, crying in great excitement, “See, Aunt Rebecca, Boatswain is drowning!” He made two or three steps and fell in the water. I called to Mr. Hutchinson, sitting near me, to pick up Charles, which he did, and seated him by my side. The vision of his dog drowning was repeated, and each time I called in alarm, lest Charles be drowned before he was reached. Finally Charles became unconscious, yet retained his sitting position by my side and so quiet. I felt no longer anxiety for him.

Thomas was now writhing in the death struggle. I managed to keep him on my lap, yet now and then his legs would fall off my knees and his feet in the water. How many times I gathered them up would be impossible to remember. I cried and lamented, having lost all self control, but neither of the boys heard me. Now and then a groan would escape the child [Thomas]. . .My strength began to fail; each time I lifted the limbs it became more and more difficult, this added to my distress. At last his stiffened limbs were in the water and I had no power to move them. I was alarmed, horrified; my distress was unspeakable, not for myself but for the child. I never thought of myself -- to be incapable of taking care of the dear little boy [was] my sole feeling of sorrow. Monday night, again I called frantically for assistance to Mr. Hutchinson. Soon the weight in my lap became intolerable - a burden - I felt a strong desire to throw it down. The next groan would recall my senses, my affection, my remorse for my heartlessness. The last and saddest of all was my calling to Mr. Hutchinson to come and see if he were dead for I could hold him no longer.

I never knew how he responded to the call, for with it I became totally unconscious and remained so until dawn when I awoke in delirium, imagining myself at Montgomery where I had spent a day before leaving some friends. Looking around I was alarmed by the dead I saw, none of them I recognized, and Charles was forgotten. In alarm I turned to Mr. Hutchinson and Mrs. Smith and called out, “When will the carriage come to take us to Savannah?” They replied, “Soon.” I called them by the names of the friends who had taken me to Montgomery.

June 19th, Tuesday morning. I now, for the first time, thought of my appearance. I saw with shame my bare feet, my nightgown, my torn dressing wrapper. I almost cried, exclaiming, “How can I go into Savannah in this plight? I am not decent.” I tried to fold my wrapper over my nightgown, half crying because I could not accomplish my purpose, as several breadths of the [garment] had been torn off in squares to cover the heads of the boys, keeping them wet as a protection against the sun and thirst. At night these would be lost and my wrapper supplied other pieces for the day until the gown was left with but one breadth hanging to the sleeves and waist. How I looked, how it looked, had not been thought of until I was in delirium.

I fretted at the condition of things, until turning, would catch [sight] of the dead. Then I would call to know when the carriage would come. Again I became unconscious, from which I was aroused by Mrs. Smith, shaking me by the arm and calling me to look there, pointing to an object not far off. I saw a vessel, her sails all spread and filled, her hull painted black, and a dazzling sun shining on her canvas, making it look to my eyes as white as snow. I exclaimed, “How beautiful, how beautiful!” and immediately relapsed [into] profound unconsciousness. To me she was only a thing of beauty. It was the schooner Henry Cameron from Philadelphia, Captain Eli Davis, Commander. All the living were rescued from the wreck, the dead were left. I recall not a moment after seeing the ship, yet to this day I often recall the image of the ship, at will, and its beauty. . .

I recall nothing after seeing the ship until late in the afternoon. I found myself on a locker in a cabin, dressed in a sailor’s suit, without mattress or pillows, [with] a table in the middle at which a gentleman sat gazing at me. I recognized him immediately, although I had not seen him for ten years. I said, “Mr. Greenwood, where are we?” He came to me in surprise that I should speak and recognize him. “We are on a vessel that will take us to Wilmington.”

“Oh, why not to Charleston?”

“Why do you wish to go to Charleston?”

“Because my brother said he would go to Charleston and I want to be with him.” I then asked for Charles.

“He is in the berth beside you.” I looked and was satisfied, though he was lying like a log, totally unconscious. But I had not consciousness [enough] to know his danger. “Where is Thomas?”

“I don’t know, but there was a smaller boy.” Just then the image of the child in the water presented itself as a revelation. I now inquired for Mr. Duncan and Mrs. Duncan. They drew the curtains of their berths aside and answered. I saw them now as Mr. Hutchinson and Mrs. Smith, and knew I had been in delirium. Mr. Greenwood asked if I would like some water. I said yes, but had not thought of it, nor [was I] conscious of a want. He gave me from a bowl with a teaspoon, some molasses and water, which I thought delicious and asked for more. Not liking to refuse and afraid to give more, he left me and went on deck. Another gentleman came that I did not know personally, but by character, introduced himself and gave me the particulars of our rescue by the ship.

Captain Pearson, the sailing master of the Pulaski, with twenty-three persons in all, escaped on the deck of the bow. The Captain had noticed something (as did Mr. Smith) as they drifted, that maintained its relative distance till lost sight of at night. He was so impressed that it was another portion of the wreck with people on it that he communicated what he had seen to Captain Davis [when he was picked up] and begged him to look for us. Capt. Davis put off his course, tacked back for some hours unsuccessfully, and then went on his way to Wilmington. Captain Pearson felt so certain that other persons were floating near that he entreated Capt. Davis to look again for us. He was again unsuccessful and went his way. The third time Capt. Pearson’s importunity succeeded. In tacking about, we were discovered to the gratification of all, but more especially Capt. Pearson. My informant said Capt. Davis knelt on the deck and returned thanks to God for the lives of so many.

When I was lifted aboard by two men, their hands under my arms, my feet trailed along the deck without an effort to step; totally unconscious, my wet garments were taken off and woolen clothes put on, then laid upon the locker where I found myself. I [did not know] what hour of the day we were found, but presumed it was early, as I had recovered so fully, which must have required time -- yet I was not, in any way, recovered. My dress did not in any way surprise me or annoy me; the only sensation was that it was comfortable. I was incapable of connected thought, but strange that I never forgot a word or the appearance of that little cabin.

On the night of the 14th, when the explosion took place, two little boats had been filled immediately. They put off to a distance and waited until they saw the steamer break in pieces and sink, took it for granted that all but themselves had perished, and immediately made for the shore, and reached the coast of North Carolina on Friday afternoon. The report of the disaster reached Charleston and Wilmington on Saturday and Sunday. The wreck of the Pulaski occasioned sorrow throughout the United States. Every section seemed to have been represented on that fatal boat, occasioning greater distress than ever before or since, [it] happening before the telegraph had inured us to calamities, or at least lessened feeling for them.

When the vessel ceased to move, we heard the tramp of many feet on deck. I knew that we had reached port but that was all; I never thought of the future. At last two colored maids came into the cabin bearing bandboxes and said they had clothing for the ladies. I immediately slid from the locker to the floor [where] the maid dressed me with underclothing and nightgown. A cloak was now thrown around me. Mrs. Smith was waited upon at the same time, and [then] the maids announced to persons on deck that the ladies were ready. Two gentlemen entered the cabin. I asked where I was to be taken. They told me, and I said, “Will you take my nephew to the same place, for I cannot go without him?” They promised, and I was satisfied. The two gentlemen, finding me standing unsupported in the cabin, could not know that scarcely an hour had elapsed since I had emerged from a profound stupor of ten or more hours.* [But] they made a seat with their hands and I sat thereon, with my arms around their necks, and was conveyed to a carriage. Then Mrs. Smith came and took a seat beside me.

[*This sentence was originally after the two following it, but it works better here.]

It was some distance that we had to go and we went slowly. How I endured the ride has been a wonder to me. At one moment I could see houses and gardens that we were passing, the next minute I thought it was as black a night as darkness could make it, the next to my surprise day would appear, and I could, as before, see the houses and streets we were passing. Not a word was spoken. At last the carriage stopped. I was taken out in the arms of the two gentlemen and borne up a flight of steps that seemed to me interminable, and I imagined the house to be many stories high, so innumerable did the steps appear to my distorted imagination. It was night, the room was bright with light. They laid me on a large bed; never had I experienced such a sensation; it was perfect rest and blissfulness. A number of ladies hovered around the bed, they seemed almost angelic. The room and all it contained seemed very elegant, and such kindness and sympathy [was shown me], it was almost Heaven. Not a thought marred the blissfulness of that moment; my eyes were nearly closed so as to exclude the brightness, my sensations were all that occupied my mind.

The doctor called the lady to have some arrowroot prepared immediately. She said, “Father, do you wish it cold or hot?” Before he could speak, I replied, “Cold, if you please.” The company was startled to hear me speak. I was not far wrong in supposing it was like heaven, for my experience during my stay convinced me that it was the most Christian [house] I ever entered. The doctor was an old man with silver hair, benevolent face, gentle voice and manner. After feeling my pulse his attention was directed to my feet. I was unconscious of anything being the matter with them. They were cut by floating planks on the wreck and the salt water made them sore, now swollen to an unusual size and almost purple in color. Even now as I glanced at my feet I was not conscious of hurt; the general repose of body was such that I was only conscious of peace and rest, no pain, no care.

The arrowroot was brought, the first food I had tasted since leaving Charleston. At last I remembered to inquire for Charles; I was told he was in the next room to me and was satisfied. Afterwards I learned that he was so ill that two physicians watched him all night, fearing he would die. He was better next day and improved so rapidly that on Thursday he was out of all danger, and in a week in his usual health.

Thursday his father reached Wilmington. Our meeting I will not attempt to describe. I afterwards learned some particulars of his experience in the boat and on land. The subject was so painful to us all that it was only incidentally referred to in our after life. Neither he nor Charles ever knew of my experience, but my brother knew enough from the condition in which he found me to add to his wretchedness.

The six men who left the wreck to procure assistance [on the 16th] saw land that afternoon. They made for the shore, [but] the boat was upset in the breakers and each man had to swim for his life. [My brother] told me he would never have reached shore had it not been for the buoyancy of the pillow I had tied around him. It was late when they reached the shore, where they remained lying on the sand to rest for an hour. They then walked seven miles before reaching a habitation; it was near an inlet where there were small crafts, but the captains said they could not get out to sea till wind and tide both suited; these were both averse.

[My brother’s] strength was so wasted that he had to go to bed. He had hired a young man to ride express to Wilmington with letters to have vessels sent out in search of [our] raft and others that might be found. At noon he was greatly shocked to see the young man enter his room; he inquired why he had betrayed his confidence. The man told him the sea captains told him he was running a great risk for no good; that a wreck such as described would not live in such a storm; that before he could get to Wilmington we would all be lost, and not to endanger his life for no propose. The captains acknowledged the advice they had given, and convinced my brother of its probability, if not its certainty. He now mourned us as dead and regretted leaving us. Supposing we might be floated ashore, he hired men to watch the beach for bodies that they might receive burial.

[My brother] was not only sick, but had a painful cut on one of his feet from broken glass which was on the deck of the Pulaski. He had prayed for himself and for us till he feared his prayers were an abomination to the Holy God. There was nothing to alleviate his desolation and despair until the carriage arrived from Wilmington bringing the intelligence of my safety and that of the two boys. Very naturally he concluded that they were his two sons, Charles and Thomas. His spirits revived only to be again bereaved, the other boy was a son of Major Twigg of Augusta, rescued from the first piece of wreck. Fortunately Charles was out of danger and in a few days, out of bed and rapidly recovered. Two brothers and a brother-in-law came to Wilmington to see [us]; they were with us only two days but persuaded Charles to go home with them and inconsiderately coaxed his father to consent to his going. He gave it reluctantly and painfully and hourly repented of it when he was gone. It was almost another bereavement, his anxieties increased daily, not knowing what might befall Charles. It seemed more than he could bear, and prevented him from recuperating - the constant anxiety about his [now] only child. I urged him to leave me and go to Charles, but he would not consent. I, too, became anxious for both father and son. The good doctor was consulted every day to know when I could go. The fever was gone but I could not sit up in bed yet for I was myself a wreck. The doctor, his daughters and friends, were all opposed to my going, but while I appreciated their kindness, I fully resolved to go, for my brother was losing flesh and strength each day as anxiety was now added to his grief.

At the end of a fortnight every preparation was made for my departure. Dr. DeRosett sent a faithful servant with me to Charleston. At Charleston I was met by a favorite servant whom we called Aunt Hannah - she was the nurse of my brother George’s children and the most devoted and affectionate I ever knew. She was waiting at the wharf when the boat arrived. It had hardly stopped before she was in the cabin and had me in her arms bewailing my condition and embracing me in the most affectionate manner.

The boat was behind time. We found a relative of Dr. DeRosett on the wharf who informed us that the cars [ie: train] had gone and insisted upon taking me home with him, where I spent the time with friends. A car at Charleston was fitted up with mattresses and pillows for my accommodation,* and the next morning we left Charleston and arrived at Augusta without accident or fatigue. I was met at the depot by my brother George with his carriage fitted up with pillows and a mattress, and [thus] found myself at home.

[*This phrase was originally in middle of preceding paragraph, but it belongs here.]

To return to the wreck: the [small craft] captains’ idea of it was entirely erroneous as events proved. Her lightness and buoyancy was our safety. It was a frail thing to look at in a storm but she offered no resistance to the waves - nothing to strike against. With the swell of the sea the wreck would be gradually lifted and only half a billow would break over us, and by clinging together that was resisted, showing that sometimes there is strength in weakness.

On the portion of the wreck with Captain Pearson, the sailing master, only one death occurred, and that by the falling of the mast killing Mr. Auzee of Alabama. They had no food, no water, and no means to catch the rain as it fell. Captain DuBois was not seen after the explosion. On our portion of the wreck we had fourteen men and three children and six females - twenty-three in all. During the rain the empty bottles were filled by being held under the corner of a little sail ([which had been] projected to increase the drifting of the wreck), and immediately filled and passed from hand to hand until nausea ensued. The delirium and deaths which followed must have been caused by drinking so much water.

Six men had gone from us in a little boat to ask relief on Saturday; the rain commenced Saturday and continued raining till noon on Sunday; then the winds and billows were fearful till night. Five died on the wreck. Two men walked overboard in delirium; Mr. Woart was carried off by a billow with his wife who had just expired; the wind swept Mr. Hutchinson’s little girl from his arms. On Monday evening Mr. Smith left us on a raft to seek help and was heard from no more. Seven souls in all were rescued by Captain Davis from our portion of the wreck.

Of the two boats that left the Pulaski immediately after the explosion and carried the news of the disaster, one under the control of Capt. I.H. Cowper of Georgia, contained twelve persons, all of whom reached the shore in safety. The other in charge of the mate Mr. Hibbard contained eleven persons of whom only five reached the shore, one, a scalded fireman died in the boat and was thrown overboard before reaching the breakers. Judge R. of New York, Mr. N. of Georgia, two Negro women and another scalded fireman were lost. Lieut. Thornton, U.S.A. and another gentleman reached the shore together on another piece of wreck.

So far as I could ascertain there were 131 passengers, 54 saved, 77 lost.

END

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