The Sea: Its Stirring Story of Adventure, Peril, & Heroism (Vol. 1-4). Frederick Whymper

      ON THE RAFT OF THE “MEDUSA”—A SAIL IN SIGHT.

       (After the celebrated Painting by Géricault.)

      One can hardly interest himself in the fate of the remaining fifteen, who, if they were not all human devils, must have carried to their dying days the brand of Cain indelibly impressed on their memories. A few days passed, and the indications of a close approach to land became frequent. Meantime, they were suffering from the intense heat, and from excessive thirst. One more example of petty selfishness was afforded by an officer who had found a lemon, which he resolved to keep entirely for himself, until the ominous threats of the rest obliged him to share it. The wine, which should have warmed their bodies and gladdened their hearts, produced on their weakened frames the worst effects of intoxication. Five of the number resolved, and were barely persuaded not to commit suicide, so maddened were they by their potations. Perhaps the sight of the sharks, which now came boldly up to the edges of the raft, had something to do with sobering them, for they decided to live.

      Three days now passed in intolerable torments. They had become so careless of life, that they bathed even in sight of the sharks; others were not afraid to place themselves naked upon the fore part of the raft, which was then entirely under water; and, though it was exceedingly dangerous, it had the effect of taking away their thirst. They now attempted to construct a boat of planks and spars. When completed, a sailor went upon it, when it immediately upset, and the design of reaching land by this means was abandoned. On the morning of the 17th of July, the sun shone brightly and the sky was cloudless. Just as they were receiving their ration of wine, one of the infantry officers discerned the topmasts of a vessel near the horizon. Uniting their efforts, they raised a man to the top of the mast, who waved constantly a number of handkerchiefs tied together. After two hours of painful suspense, the vessel, a brig, disappeared, and they once more resigned themselves to despair. Deciding that they must leave some record of their fate, they agreed to carve their names, with some account of their disaster, on a plank, in the hope that it might eventually reach their Government and families. But they were to be saved: the brig reappeared, and bore down for them. She proved to be a vessel which had been dispatched by the Governor of Senegal for the purpose of rescuing any survivors; though, considering the raft had now been seventeen days afloat, there was little expectation that any of its hundred and fifty passengers still lived. The wounded and blistered limbs, sunken eyes, and emaciated frames of the remnant told its own tale on board. And yet, with due order and discipline, presence of mind, and united helpfulness, the ship, with every soul who had sailed on her, might have been saved; and a fearful story of cruelty, murder, and cannibalism spared to us. The modern Medusa has been branded with a name of infamy worse than that of the famous classical monster after which she was named. The celebrated picture by Géricault in the Louvre, at Paris, vividly depicts the horrors of the scene.

      The wreck of the Medusa has very commonly been compared and contrasted with that of the Alceste, an English frigate, which was wrecked the same year. Lord Amherst was returning from China in this vessel, after fulfilling his mission to the Court of Pekin, instituted at the instance of the East India Company, who had complained to Government of the impediments thrown in the way of their trade by the Chinese. His secretary and suite were with him; and so there was some resemblance to the case of the Medusa, which had a colonial governor and his staff on board. The commander of the Alceste was Captain (afterwards Sir) Murray Maxwell, a true gentleman and a bluff, hearty sailor. Having touched at Manilla, they were passing through the Straits of Gaspar, when the ship suddenly struck on a reef of sunken rocks, and it became evident that she must inevitably and speedily break up. The most perfect discipline prevailed; and the first efforts of the captain were naturally directed to saving the ambassador and his subordinates. The island of Palo Leat was a few miles off; and, although its coast at this part was a salt-marsh, with mangrove-trees growing out in the water so thick and entangled that it almost prevented them landing, every soul was got off safely. Good feeling and sensible councils prevailed. At first there was no fresh water to be obtained. It was

      “Water, water everywhere,

       Yet not a drop to drink.”

      In a short time, however, they dug a deep well, and soon reached plenty. Then the Malays attacked and surrounded them; at first a few score, at last six or seven hundred strong. Things looked black; but they erected a stockade, made rude pikes by sticking their knives, dirks, and small swords on the end of poles; and, although they had landed with just seventy-five ball-cartridges, their stock soon grew to fifteen hundred. How? Why, the sailors set to with a will, and made their own, the balls being represented by their jacket-buttons and pieces of the glass of broken bottles! Of loose powder they had, fortunately, a sufficient quantity. The Malays set the wreck on fire. The men waited till it had burned low, and then drove them off, and went and secured such of the stores as could be now reached, or which had floated off. The natives were gathering thick. Murray made his sailors a speech in true hearty style, and their wild huzzas were taken by the Malays for war-whoops: the latter soon “weakened,” as they say in America. From the highest officer to the merest boy, all behaved like calm, resolute, and sensible Britons, and every soul was saved. Lord Amherst, who had gone on to Batavia, sent a vessel for them, on board which Maxwell was the last to embark. At the time of the wreck their condition was infinitely worse than that of the Medusa; but how completely different the sequel! The story is really a pleasant one, displaying, as it does, the happy results of both good discipline and mutual good feeling in the midst of danger. Nil desperandum was evidently the motto of that crew; and their philosophy was rewarded. The lessons of the past and present, in regard to our great ships, have taught us that disaster is not confined to ironclads, nor victory to wooden walls; neither is good discipline dead, nor the race of true-hearted tars extinct. “Men of iron” will soon be the worthy successors of “hearts of oak.”

      Having glanced at the causes which led to the ironclad movement, and noted certain salient points in its history, let us now for a while discuss the ironclad herself. It has been remarked, as a matter of reproach to the administrators and builders of the British ironclad navy, that the vessels composing it are not sufficiently uniform in design, power, and speed. Mr. Reed, however, tells us that la marine moderne cuirassée of France is still more distinguished by the different types and forms of the vessels; and that ours by comparison wears “quite a tiresome appearance of sameness;” while, again, Russia has ironclads even more diversified than those of France. The objection is, perhaps, hardly a fair one, as the exigencies of the navy are many and varied. We might have to fight a first-class power, or several first-class powers, where all our strength would have to be put forth; some second-class power might require chastising, where vessels of a secondary class might suffice; while almost any vessel of the navy would be efficient in the case of wars with native tribes, as, for example, the Maories of New Zealand, or the Indians of the coasts of North-west America. In a great naval conflict, provided the vessels of our fleet steamed pretty evenly as regards speed, there would be an advantage in variety; for it might rather puzzle and worry the enemy, who would not know what next would appear, or what new form turn up. Mr. Reed puts the matter in a nutshell; although it must be seen that, among first-class powers with first-class fleets, the argument cuts both ways. “In the old days,” says he, “when actions had to be fought under sail, and when ships of a class were in the main