The Liberator

The Philadelphia North American gives the following interesting narrative of the events connected with the late disastrous shipwreck of the William Brown:

Loss of the Ship William Brown.

Capt. Harris, of this ill-fated ship, called upon us on Saturday. His details of the loss of the Wm. Brown, and consequent sufferings, were thrillingly interesting. He is a stout-built, warm-hearted sailor, and during the recital of his hair-breadth escapes, the tears coursed down his hardy cheeks.

The first suspicion he says he had of his contiguity to the ice, was the terrible collision. It was about 11 o'clock, and the night dark and foggy. He found, as soon as the examination could be made, that his bows were stove in. His ship was going at the rate of nine knots, and soon began to fill. The passengers rushed from their berths in consternation. The boats were got out as soon as possible, and he freely told all on board what must be their fate. He assured them that a portion would be saved, if they would not overload the boats.

When the long-boat was let down, the frantic people jumped into it promiscuously. He expressed surprise that it did not immediately fill. The jolly-boat was let down with more caution astern by the sailors, and pushed from the ship. While they were calling to Capt. Harris to save himself, the terrified women and children clung around him, and pleaded that he would not desert them. Their screams were heart-rending. He did not leave the ship until her decks were nearly under water.

When he leaped on board the jolly-boat, he found it overloaded, but both boats kept near the wreck, attached to it by lines, until it sunk, which took place in a few minutes after he left. Capt. Harris told the mate not to cut loose from the wreck until he should give the signal. Each stood ready with a hatchet. About 11 o'clock the ship had settled to her scuppers. Suddenly her bows went down, and she was engulfed forever. He had just time to sever his own rope, and gave the word to the mate, when the yawning deep swallowed up ship and passengers, accompanied by a terrible shriek. Not a fragment remained to tell where she was after the sea closed over her, except a large water cask. Boats remained near the spot until near morning, when the horrors of their situation were fully disclosed.

Capt. Harris's boat was 12 feet long, and contained nine persons, while the long-boat had crowded into it forty persons! He says they were so thick they could not move. They literally stood and lay upon each other. Most of the females were in their night-clothes, and many of them were chilled to insensibility the next morning, from the severity of the weather. The oars could not be reached, the water remained unbailed, and the boat utterly helpless upon the surface of the water. After taking a list of those on board, and advising them to be of good cheer, Capt. Harris determined to try to reach Newfoundland. He had in his boat forty pounds of bread, and a canister with five gallons of water. He immediately put all on a short allowance of half a gill of water three times a day, and at morning and evening one-third of a sea biscuit. The case for his sail needles, which he exhibited to us, was the little vessel out of which they drank this precious allowance of water.

During the six days and nights they were in the boat, it rained and hailed, and the sailors suffered bitterly with cold in their feet. They could not change their position, and of course had no exercise, and the bottom of the boat was continually covered with water. The feet of all the men were frozen badly, but the woman did not suffer much, as the sailors each contributed of their clothing to preserve her from the cold. During this period of time, Capt. Harris says he is not conscious of having slept a moment. He was at the helm constantly. It required the utmost care to prevent his little boat from shipping seas, which would at once have swamped her. He had a blanket hoisted as a sail. On the end of the boat-hook a red handkerchief, as a signal of distress, was displayed. The oars were kept in motion during the day, but as the nights were foggy and dark, they remained motionless.

Two days before they were rescued, Capt. Harris says a schooner was seen approaching them. Their joy was intense, but when within half a mile, she changed her course. A fog came up, and they lost sight of each other. Almost frantic, he made every possible cry of distress, and a horn was heard in the fog. Two days elapsed after this before they were taken up by the French craft which rescued them. He said his resolution and courage were strong to the last, although the famished condition of his fellow-sufferers told him they could not hold out much longer. Yet when he reached the deck of the ship, and felt that he was safe, his strength failed, and he fell senseless. At this time, he supposed the next day would have enabled him to reach land. It was his intention to get a supply of provisions, and prosecute his perilous voyage. He found he was 200 miles from shore, among ice, and in a suffering state, and he abandoned the thought, and received every possible kindness from those who had rescued him and his companions from their perils.

Capt. Harris believes nothing was done on board of the long-boat, but what inexorable necessity demanded. The mate said before they parted, that some of them would perish with exposure and want of provisions, and a slight breeze would swamp the boat. He relieved her, by committing to a watery grave those who were insensible, and nearly dead, and thus saved the living. The idle fictions about cruelties practised, were set on float by French news-runners. In conclusion, out of 82 souls on board, 33 were swallowed up in the fathomless ocean with the ship. Their anguish was terrific, and the scene appalling, as they crowded upon her bulwarks and rigging, still imploring of the hapless survivors to save them. But in that hour of terror, all considerations but self-preservation were forgotten. While vainly pleading for help, the mighty deep yawned, and husband and wife, child and parent, were instantly 'in the deep bosom of the ocean buried.' Capt. Harris states that even now, he starts involuntarily in his sleep at the recollection of the appalling scenes he has witnessed. Never from his memory will be stricken out the horrors of that awful night.

The Boston Post contains the statement of John Messer, one of the seamen of the William Brown, who was saved in the long-boat. His description of the horrible scene enacted in the boat does not tend to relieve the mate from any of the odium which public opinion has placed upon him for his barbarous treatment of the unfortunate passengers. After describing the loss of the ship, &c. and the embarkation of a portion of the crew and a portion of the passengers, he goes on as follows:

'Before leaving us, the captain addressed the boat's crew encouragingly, desiring us to keep our hearts up, not to quarrel or fight among ourselves, but to be advised by the mate, and to do what he should desire us. He then bid us good bye, and in fifteen minutes or so he was out of sight.

During the whole of the day the weather was extremely cold, and the sea very rough. We rigged a drag with our oars, in order to keep the boat's head to the sea, and to break the force of the waves. Towards night-fall the mate consulted in a low voice with several of the crew, about lightening the boat. I was aft at the time with my back against the stern. At last he said to me and another man, who was near me, 'Well, I suppose you have no objections to lending us a hand to lighten the boat?' I inquired how he intended to do so? and while I was speaking I heard a splash alongside, and the whole boat was in an uproar—the work of death had commenced. The other man and myself both remonstrated against such cold-blooded proceedings, and said 'If we are to die let us die fair—let us cast lots.' 'Very well,' said the mate, 'they will throw you overboard next.' I then drew my sheath knife, and swore that whoever should lay a hand on me should share my fate. The mate then called a tall negro, one of the crew, aft, to toss me overboard, but when he saw my knife, he went forward again and lent the others a hand. My companion stuck close to me during the whole of the heartrending scene, determined to defend himself to the last.

One old man, a native of Ireland, when about to be seized, fell upon his knees and entreated them to spare his life, and he would give them all he had. He then drew from his purse a number of sovereigns and offered them to the crew, but they were thrown aside and himself passed overboard. A lad about 18 years of age, requested time to say his prayers, which was granted, and when he concluded he said, 'I am now prepared—I do not wish you to throw me overboard—I will go myself,' and he stepped off the gunwale of the boat into the sea. Of all who were thrown overboard, not one, to my knowledge, succeeded in getting on board again. There were no hands cut off nor any blood spilt; neither did any one, excepting the young man already mentioned, jump overboard voluntarily.

The unfortunate passengers offered no resistance; prayers and entreaties were all they used. 'Oh spare me! spare me!' several of them cried, even while they were half overboard. I will not attempt a description of this awful scene—it would melt a heart of stone. I believe there were sixteen thrown overboard.

The boat was bailed out after she had been lightened; she then rode very well, and made but little water. The following morning I discovered a sail, and communicated the fact to the mate.—Boston Journal.