Providence Patriot, Columbian Phenix

THE U. S. SHIP HORNET.

It is now nearly a year since the disappearance of the Hornet. Not a word of intelligence, good or bad, has come back from her. The mariner who has passed with anxious eye over the scene of her disappearance, has been able to trace no vestige of her wreck. Of the thousand floating objects that are apt to cast themselves loose from a sinking ship, and swim upon the surface of the deep, nothing—not as much as an oar or a handspike—has yet come to hand, to tell her fate with something more than the uncertainty of a vague and cruel apprehension. The sea seems, in its insatiate vortex, to have swallowed all. But time the great divulger of secrets, tells a too certain tale. The dreadful conviction of the loss of this gallant ship, with all of her crew, is now as well established as if the eyes of living men had seen her perish, or the drowned dead had come back among us to recount the story of their disaster. The desponding have long since ceased to doubt their bereavement and even hope has died in the bosoms of the faithful.

We have lately passed over the scene of this hopeless disaster, and the facts, as far as they are known, are as follows:

The Hornet happened to be cruising off Tampico at the season of the autumnal equinox. This is a boisterous part of the Gulf of Mexico, which is in turn one of the most inclement and dangerous seas on the globe. Here treacherous currents sweep the navigator far from his course, casting him upon the rocks and quicksands that line the inhospitable coast, while winds pouring in different directions down the opposite coasts of Cuba meet and keep up a perpetual conflict of storms and tempests; or, arrested by the mountains of Mexico, wheel off in terrible and desolating vortices. Here, too intolerable droughts, and rains which threaten to drown the very mountains which rise in bold grandeur in the interior, succeed each other. Heats that burn the earth and almost make the sea to boil, are sent forth by the steady and blazing ardour of a tropical sun. Calms that leave the sea so quiet that it seems to be sinking into the sleep of death, and hurricanes sweeping every thing in their relentless course, in turn vex and devastate the face of nature.

It was the worst of this inclement climate that the Hornet was compelled to remain off Tampico, to protect American property, during the tumults attending the invasion of Barradas. She had taken a considerable sum of money on board, and the day before her loss a number of the residents visited her on a party of pleasure. It was destined to a fearful termination. The weather became threatening, and the Hornet put to sea, carrying her ill-fated guests with her. The prognostics proved too true; the blast came; one of the most awful ever known in that region of violent convulsion. Sweeping down the lofty mountains which form the landward barrier of the horizon, it overturned all before it; crops, buildings, men and animals, disappeared before its fury. The vessels anchored in the smooth river at Tampico, and sheltered by its banks, were either stranded or overturned; and those lying in the roads without, were driven to sea or foundered at their anchors.

There was a schooner in company with the Hornet, the master of which states, that though he showed nothing but his slender low and top masts, his vessel could scarce withstand the force of the hurricane, but was nearly blown over. A ship, with her tall masts and yards, though with every sail furled could, he said, never have withstood it, but must have perished. If a ship can be kept before the wind, it would seem difficult by its mere power, however great without a tremendous sea, to destroy her. For she then presents herself in the direction of her length, in which sense, besides being almost entirely masked, it is impossible to overturn her.

Moreover, in running rapidly away from the wind, its force is diminished in proportion to the velocity.—But the force of the blast may have first taken the Hornet on the side, or in scudding before it she may have broached too against the power of her helm, presenting herself in the position in which, whilst the wind acted with the greatest force upon her, she derived the least support from her stability. It is likely that the ship was thus forced over, filling and sinking within the lapse of an instant, and carrying with her the brave hearts she enclosed, and all her treasures of mature age and youthful promise—of life, strength and intellect. The fate of all was doubtless simultaneous; the sea must have been lashed into such fury as to mingle fearfully with the element that seconded it giving impetus to its attack, overwhelming alike those who made a manly attempt to defer their fate. The strong and the weak together, all dragged down in the vortex with the gallant ship, and true to her when she had ceased to be true to herself. We will not pause to utter unavailing regrets over the fatal chasm: to talk of what fond hopes, what cherished affections lie buried with the lost ones in their weltering grave. He who has himself been called upon to mourn over one thus snatched away, will rather seek in his own secret sorrows the eloquence which words cannot express.