For this volume of TELLER’S TALES, I have selected the “SHIPWRECKED ORPHANS, a True Narrative of the Sufferings of John Ireland” and a little child, named William Doyley, who were unfortunately wrecked in the ship Charles Eaton, of London, and lived for several years with the natives of the South Sea Islands. The remainder of the passengers and crew of this ill-fated ship, were most inhumanly murdered by the savages soon after they landed from the wreck. The Narrative was written by one of the Orphans, John Ireland, and I give it to you in nearly his own words, having made but few alterations in the style in which he tells the story of their sufferings.
The people of some of the South Sea Islands, are of a very cruel disposition; some of them are cannibals; that is, they eat the flesh of those unfortunate persons who may happen to be shipwrecked on their Islands, or whom they may take prisoners of war. Others, on the contrary, show the greatest kindness to strangers in distress. May the time soon come when civilization and the Christian religion shall reach all these benighted savages, and teach them to relieve the distressed, and to regard the unfortunate as their brethren.
As very little is yet known of the manners and customs of these savage tribes, I trust this Narrative will prove both interesting and instructive to you all; and I hope you will feel grateful that,—unlike the sufferers in this story,—you are surrounded with the comforts of life, and have kind parents and friends to watch over you and defend you from the dangers and miseries to which these poor Orphans were so long exposed.
Your old friend and well-wisher, THOMAS TELLER.
Roseville Hall, 1844.
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THE SHIPWRECKED ORPHANS.
Having obtained a situation as assistant in the cabin of the ship Charles Eaton, I went on board on the 28th of September, 1833, to assist in preparing for the voyage. In the month of December following, I had the misfortune to fall into the dock, and not being able to swim, narrowly escaped drowning; but through the exertions of Mr. Clare, the chief officer of the ship, I was with difficulty saved.
About the 19th of December, we left the dock, with a cargo mostly of lead and calico. Our crew consisted of the following persons: Frederick Moore, commander; Robert Clare, chief mate; William Major, second mate, Messrs. Ching and Perry, midshipmen; Mr. Grant, surgeon: Mr. Williams, sail-maker; William Montgomery, steward; Lawrence Constantyne, carpenter; Thomas Everitt, boatswain; John Barry, George Lawn, James Millar, James Moore, John Carr, Francis Hower, William Jefferies, Samuel Baylett, Charles Robertson, and Francis Quill, seamen; and John Sexton, and myself, boys. The passengers were, Mr. Armstrong, a native of Ireland, and twenty-five male and female children from the Emigration Society, with some other steerage passengers.
We had a favorable passage down the river to Gravesend, where we took leave of our pilot. A pilot is a person who takes charge of the ships in those parts of rivers where they are dangerous. On the 23d of December we went on our voyage, passing Deal on the 25th, and arrived at Cowes, in the Isle of Wight, on the 27th.
The wind here proved contrary, and we were detained in the harbor until the 4th of January, 1834; when, as we were attempting to quit, a schooner ran against our vessel and broke off our bowsprit and jib-boom, and did other damage to her. The bowsprit is the mast that sticks out in front of the ship, and the jib-boom is the top joint of the bowsprit. We were therefore obliged to remain there until the repairing of the ship was completed; and on the 1st of February left Cowes.
Manner in which the Murray Islanders spearfish—a female assisting. See Page 41. ]
This accident caused great alarm among the passengers, and more especially among the children; indeed it was well that we escaped as we did; for even in our own harbors in England, ships are often in great danger.
We arrived at Falmouth, near Land’s-end in Cornwall, on the 5th of February; and having on the 8th completed our cargo, left England with a good wind, and every prospect of a happy voyage.
About the latter end of March, we crossed the Equator; that is, that part of the world where the sun is over head and makes no shadow; here we went through the usual ceremony of paying tribute to Neptune, to the great amusement of the passengers.
We came to the Cape of Good Hope, which is in Africa, on the 1st of May, and here we landed several of our passengers; we again set sail, on the 4th, for Hobart’s Town, in Australia, upwards of twenty thousand miles from England, where we arrived on the 16th of June; at this place we bade farewell to our young emigrants, and some of the passengers.
On the 8th of July, Captain and Mrs. Doyley, with their two sons, George and William, the one about seven or eight years old, and the other about fourteen months, came on board as passengers to Sourabaya, intending to go from thence to Calcutta, in the East Indies. William, the youngest, was my unfortunate companion.
Nothing particular occurred after our leaving Hobart’s Town, till we arrived in Sidney, in New South Wales, on the 13th of July. There we took in some ballast; that is, heavy articles which are put in the bottom of the ship to keep it from turning over with the wind. Our boatswain, Mr. Everitt, left us at Sidney, and we took on board in his stead Mr. Pigot, and two or three seamen.
We set sail for China on the 29th. An accident happened two or three days after leaving the town, which almost caused the death of our excellent chief officer, Mr. Clare. An anchor is an iron instrument affixed to the end of a long chain, and is used to keep ships in one place. It generally hangs at the bows, or fore part of the vessel. The men were getting the anchor in its proper place, and Mr. Clare was helping them; on a sudden, the wood of the implement which he was using broke, and he fell into the sea. We immediately stopped work, and let down the boat, and he being an excellent swimmer, was able to keep up till the boat reached him. We were at that time going about six miles an hour.
We sailed this time with fine weather and good winds, and made the entrance to Torres Straits, a narrow passage between two islands in the Southern Ocean, on the 14th of August, in the evening.
The wind now began to blow rather hard; so much so that the captain thought it necessary to take in some of the sails, and would not attempt to go on during the dark. However, at daylight on the next morning we again set sail, although the wind was very high, and the water getting rough, that is, forming itself into large waves.
The wind continued to increase till about ten o’clock in the morning, when the ship struck on a reef called the “Detached Reef.” A reef is a number of rocks in the water, at a short distance from the land, over which the water just rises, without leaving room enough for a ship to pass. The Detached Reef was near the entrance of Torres Straits.
So violent was the shock, that the rudder (that by which a ship is guided,) and the keel, (that ledge which runs along the bottom of the ship,) were both knocked off, and the captain gave it as his opinion that nothing could save the ship.
The chief mate cut away the masts, in order to lighten her; but without effect, and we then found that the bottom was broken in, at which place the water soon made an entrance, and completely spoiled every thing she contained. The high and swelling waves broke completely over her, and in a short time the vessel was a perfect wreck.
It was happy for us that the upper part kept together as it did, though there was so much danger, from the water rising, that every one expected to be washed over. There was plainly to be heard above the din of the wind and sea, the horrible groaning of the planks forming the sides of the ship, between which the water rushed as through a sieve; and as they were one by one broken away from the ill-fated vessel, we felt that we were approaching nearer to a death from which we could not hope to escape, unless by some merciful interposition of Divine Goodness we should be rescued from our watery enemy.
Nor were these thoughts lessened by seeing that ours was not the only vessel that had cause to repent the dangerous and almost unknown navigation of these straits. About three or four miles from us, to the windward, or that side from which the wind blows, we observed a ship high and dry, that is, lying out of water, upon the reefs; she had her masts standing, her royal yards across, and her sails set; in which state she had seemingly been left by her crew.
At the time of the vessel striking, Mrs. Doyley was taking coffee in the cabin, and her infant was asleep in one of the berths, little dreaming to what future ills his weak and helpless frame was to be exposed.
The distracted mother instantly ran on deck in alarm; and I went into the cabin, where I saw the poor child washed out of its berth, and crying on the floor. I took him to Mrs. Doyley, who, after that time, for the seven long days which were occupied in making the raft, could not by any means be persuaded to give up her dear charge.
Upon finding how the ship was situated, Captain Moore ordered the boats to be got ready, and furnished with provisions, in order, if possible, to save the ship’s company, and reach the island of Timor, regretting the stern necessity which urged him to such a step in such a sea.
I once heard Captain Moore declare that he was sorry he had not made use of his own chart, instead of one that he bought at Sidney, lest there might be any mistake in his own.
We were in possession of four boats; the long boat, two cutters, and a small boat called a dingy. Three of the seamen seized one of the cutters; and two others got on board of it next morning by swimming across the reef at the imminent peril of their lives. A little biscuit, a ham, and a keg of water, with some carpenters’ tools, had been placed in the boat on its leaving the ship. As soon as the two men had got into the boat, they rowed away, and I have never heard any tidings of them since.
The persons remaining on board the wreck now held a consultation as to what was best to be done in this miserable state of their affairs. There were about thirty persons, without sufficient provisions to sustain life, much less satisfy the cravings of hunger, for a month, without any fresh water, and with no prospect of escape from their forlorn condition.
Every care was requisite to prevent the least excess or extravagance. We were all put upon allowance of a few damaged pieces of biscuit and two wine-glassfuls of water per day, during the seven days of making the raft, which was our only hope, and on which we went to work with all the energy our desperate state allowed us. A raft is formed of pieces of wood roughly fastened together, so that it will float on the water; some have been made large enough to hold a hundred and fifty people.
