THE JUNO

  Translated by Alfred Allinson

  First published in 1853, this vivid sea narrative concerns the wreck of the “Juno” in 1795, one of the most famous naval tragedies of the time.

  The Juno (centre) in 1779

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I.

  CHAPTER II.

  CHAPTER III.

  CHAPTER IV.

  CHAPTER V.

  CHAPTER VI.

  CHAPTER VII.

  CHAPTER I.

  1795.

  WHEN Lord Byron, yet a boy, left Scotland for England, and Aberdeen for Newstead Abbey, lie was sent to a boarding-school at Nottingham, kept by a worthy man named Drury. With his tutor he became a great favourite, so much so, that while his schoolfellows were being drilled, or taking other exercise for which his lame foot incapacitated him, the boy was frequently allowed the run of his master’s library.

  This library, rich in classics and suchlike literature, had a section allotted to voyages and travels, which offered the greatest attractions to the future poet.

  One day his entire attention was absorbed by an account of the shipwreck of the English vessel Juno, and in the graphic account given by John Mackay, second mate. The passage narrating the death of a youth, one of the crew, and the grief of the lad’s father, had such an effect upon him, that, says his biographer Thomas Moore, who quotes the passage twenty years later, its substance may be found repeated in the poet’s masterpiece, Don Juan.”

  The impression thus produced on Byron’s mind, instanced by Thomas Moore, has affected us in a similar manner, and made us frequently desire to read John Mackay’s complete account of the disaster.

  Having at length succeeded in finding it, we have recast it in the following pages, wherein the passage imitated by the author of Don Juan will be easily recognized. The story is as follows:

  At the southern extremity of the Burmese Empire, in the delta of the Irrawadi, which forms a splendid port, stands the city of Rangoon, one of the most important commercial centres of Pegu, whose exports at that time principally consisted of timber.

  In this port, at the beginning of May, 1795, was lying a British vessel of four hundred and fifty tons, named the Juno, Captain Alexander Bremner, laden with teak for Madras.

  When she was on the point of sailing, her second mate fell sick, and it speedily became evident that he could not bear the voyage, and assist in performing the sometimes arduous duty of navigating the Bay of Bengal in the height of the south-west monsoon. It was therefore most important to replace him by a capable man, whom Captain Bremner was not long in finding.

  A man in the full vigour of life, between thirty-five and thirty-eight years of age, a thorough seaman, and a sailor from boyhood, presented himself with excellent discharges, certifying him to be fully acquainted with the latitudes in which the ship was voyaging. His name was John Mackay.

  Captain Bremner questioned him, overhauled his papers, and clearly perceiving that he would be a profitable exchange for the sick officer, made an engagement with him for a year.

  As the state of the ship on which he entrusts himself and his life is of paramount importance to the sailor, John Mackay had hardly stepped on board before he began to examine the vessel from topmast to keel, an overhaul which resulted anything but favourably for the Juno.

  She was old, in bad order, and badly found. The crew, fifty-five all told, all Lascars, except eight or ten Europeans, did not inspire the experienced John Mackay with a confidence sufficient to counterbalance the bad impression produced by the old-fashioned build, the bad condition, and the slovenly stowing of the ship’s cargo. He therefore considered it his duty to speak frankly to the Captain, and tell him what an unfavourable opinion he had formed of the seaworthiness of the ship after his survey.

  But Captain Bremner was a sailor of the happy-go-lucky- class, grey in the service, who argue that because they never have been shipwrecked they never will be.

  He bluntly told his second mate that he had sailed the Juno for twenty years, that she had never come to grief so far, and that, seeing she had kept a level keel for twenty years, the presumption was that she would hold her own for twenty-one, or till the expiration of their agreement.

  John Mackay replied that his remarks were not made from a selfish point of view, but in the interest of all; that so far as he was concerned, thank God! he was so accustomed to the sea that he was ready, if need be, to cross the Bay of Bengal in a skiff, but that, inasmuch as every officer on board a ship is more or less responsible for her safety, he thought it due to himself to make the remarks which he had made.

  The Captain ironically thanked his second mate, and pointing to his wife, who was just then coming on board, and who was to sail with him, he asked him if he did not think that he had weighty reasons for desiring a prosperous voyage.

  A rapid glance at Mrs. Bremner, a bride of six months, was an unanswerable argument in favour of the Captain. She was, indeed, a charming creature.

  A European born in India, she possessed, in addition to her great personal beauty, all that bewitching tropical grace peculiar to Creoles, who incorporate in their style and actions a reflection of that luxuriant nature in the midst of which they have opened their eyes, in which they have been reared, and in which they will die.

  A female Malay slave, dressed in the picturesque costume of the country, accompanied her, forming an accessory which completed the grouping of this picture, in which Mrs. Bremner formed the principal figure.

  John Mackay saw at once that he, who risked his own safety only, had nothing to gain in argument with his Captain, who entrusted the life of his charming wife to the ship which he commanded. He therefore let the matter drop; the stowing of the timber was completed, and, on the 29th of May, 1795, the barque dropped down at flood- tide, in soundings of twenty-five to thirty feet of water over a bottom of soft mud.

  From the moment of weighing, the second mate thought that the ship was being steered out of the proper channel; but Captain Bremner was too experienced a navigator in these latitudes to allow any question that he was wrong in his bearings. Mackay could not, however, help observing to Wade, the first mate, that in his opinion the course was too much to starboard. The chief mate thought so himself, and ordered the lead to be heaved, with the result that less than twenty feet were sounded.

  Matters were looking serious; the Captain was at once informed, but he would not believe the state of affairs till convinced by his own eyes, when he ordered the ship to be put about. Before, however, the helmsman could luff, a violent shock showed that the vessel had grounded.

  There was not a moment to lose; the Captain instantly gave the order to jibe, in order to get the ship off, but it was a useless command; nothing was to be done but try to prevent her from drifting further on the sandbank. Two, bower-anchors were immediately dropped, and, to everybody’s delight, they held, and the ship remained stationary, which gave time to decide upon what to do.

  The Juno had grounded on a sandbank almost as hard as rock, but nevertheless she withstood the shock, and sprung no leak. No real damage had been sustained up to this point, when one of the two anchors began to drag, and made the other drag also. On this the sheet-anchor was at once dropped. The ship, already beginning to swing, drew the chain taut, tightened it like a bow-string, but this stopped her from drifting further.

  Captain Bremner was beginning mentally to acknowledge the justice of his second mate’s remarks; but instead of being grateful to him for foreseeing danger, he felt vexed with him for having predicted it. Such is human nature!

  But, as we have said, no actual damage had taken place, and if the ship could only be prevented from capsizing at low tide, they were pretty sure to get her off at the flood; and as no serious damage had been sustained, she might, when floated, pursue her course, taking no heed of this misadventure.

  The first thing to do was to reduce the top-heaviness of the vessel; to this end the topgallant mast and yards were lowered. At low tide the ship, as had been foreseen, heeled in an alarming manner. It was a terrible moment, but it passed off without accident.

  The Captain, with a swaggering air, accosted John Mackay.

  “Well, mate,” said he, “for an old boat, I think the Juno has not done so badly.”

  John Mackay shook his head. The Juno, no doubt, had behaved well, but all depended on the continuance of her good behaviour.

  The Captain appeared to be justified by subsequent events; at flood-tide the ship floated; the moment this was perceived orders were given to weigh anchor. Every stitch of canvas was set, and she soon found herself in water deep enough to remove all fear on the score of grounding again.

  On the 1st of June the wind changed and blew a gale from the south-west; a heavy sea arose, and the ship laboured a good deal. The second mate had stationed a man at the bottom of the hold; after about four hours’ duty he appeared on deck, reporting that the vessel had sprung a leak, thus confirming the apprehensions which the second mate had always entertained.

  The Captain himself went down into the hold, where the water was actually beginning to rise; unfortunately they had no carpenter on board, and hardly any tools.

  The ship’s company set to work to pump out the ship. To do this all, without distinction, worked at the pumps; but, as if all things conspired to wreck the unfortunate Juno, her ballast was sand, and this sand, mixing with the water, quickly choked the pumps. After eight hours’ pumping, during which the ship laboured heavily, instead of the pumps gaining on the water, the water gained on th e pumps.

  Then it was deliberated whether it would not be best to put about for Rangoon; but as so doing would have been an admission on the Captain’s part that the second mate was right, and as a Captain cannot be wrong, Captain Bremner pointed out that the coast near Rangoon was so low that it could not be sighted further than three or four leagues off; that even if they hit off the right course, and found the ship manageable, they would have to keep in a kind of canal not thirty feet wide, fenced in on both sides by sandbanks on which they had already grounded, and that if they struck again the leak would inevitably be further widened. It was therefore, in his opinion, better policy to keep their course, risking whatever might happen; he further argued that the coarse weather had now lasted seven days, and probably would give place to smoother seas, and that under improved conditions it would be easier to master the leak.

  The Captain was master. His opinion on the course to be taken was equivalent to an order; they therefore held their course for Madras, so far as the boisterous weather would let them.

  At the outset things seemed to prove the Captain in the right.

  On the 6th of June the wind dropped, the sea grew calm, and, as Captain Bremner had foretold, the leak diminished so much that one pump sufficed to keep it under. Search was then made, and the leak was located at the stern- post on the water-line, a spot easy to get at and repair.

  As soon as ever the weather permitted they slung the cutter over the ship’s side, and, as has been said, having no carpenter, and hardly any tools, they were obliged to plug up the hole with oakum, nailing a piece of tarred canvas over it, and covering the whole with sheet lead.

  This simple expedient was at first quite successful, and, in fine weather, they needed only to pump once during each watch, which naturally made them suppose that the leak was got under. Mutual congratulations ensued, every one went gaily about his work, except John Mackay, who, in the midst of these rejoicings, shook his head now and then, muttering a proverb common to the English and the French languages, thus expressed in the latter — Qui vivra verra.

  CHAPTER II.

  THE MIZZEN-TOP.

  ALAS! before long it was but too evident that after all the second mate was right, and that the Juno would have done better to return to Rangoon, whatever dangers she might have risked encountering on the coast of Pegu, rather than hold her course across the Bay of Bengal, to encounter the hurricanes coincident with the south-west monsoon.

  On the 12th of June, in the midst of a gale, accompanied by the mournful groans of the timbers of the ship, which was labouring heavily, a second time resounded the cry which had before turned all faces pale: “Captain, a leak!”

  An investigation between decks showed that the old fissure had opened again. The slight repairs, which held in calm weather, did not suffice against heavy seas. To add to the seriousness of the situation, the influx of water was much greater than before, bringing up more sand and speedily fouling the pumps, although these were kept working simultaneously, and a wooden bucket was also employed for baling. On the 16th the crew, who had been working without intermission for four days, were almost exhausted by fatigue and loss of rest; matters began to look very alarming indeed.

  It was unfortunately now too late to put about; they were at least as far from Rangoon as from Madras, they therefore determined to risk everything, to spread all their canvas, from mainsail to studding-sail, and endeavour to make the nearest point on the coast of Coromandel.

  Once off the coast, they would either proceed along it and skirt it, or beach the Juno and land, according as she was seaworthy enough to continue the voyage or no.

  Thus, carrying all sail, the ship made even more way than they even hoped for, but the faster she sailed the more she laboured, and as every one was at the pumps, nobody had any time to devote to working her. At the end of two days the wind had blown away all her sails, except the foresail; they were obliged, therefore, to lay to from the 18th till noon on the 19th, when they took the sun’s altitude, finding themselves in 17° 10” N. lat.

  Notwithstanding their almost superhuman exertions, it was obvious that the water gained upon them, and that the vessel was gradually getting deeper. At the same time, in proportion to her sinking, she became so water-logged that it seemed impossible for her ever to recover her former buoyancy.

  From this moment a gloomy sadness took possession of all; they felt themselves lost men, and perceiving all their efforts vain, it became difficult to keep the crew at their posts. However, about noon, on the orders of the Captain and the entreaties of his wife, work was resumed; an order was given, and obeyed, to trim the foresail, and they scudded before a following wind under bare poles.

  At the same time their efforts to pump out the Juno redoubled; pumps and buckets were kept going; but at the end of two hours it became evident that the ship was doomed, and that all their labour merely protracted her death agony. About seven o’clock in the evening the hands who were below came rushing up in a fright, stating that the water had reached the main deck.

  Now that John Mackay’s estimate of the ship was justified by the event, so also was his opinion of the crew.

  The Lascars, who comprised three-fourths of the ship’s company, were the first to refuse to work, and gave themselves up to despair, dragging down into the same despondency some Malay sailors who had shipped with them. As for the Europeans, they continued to show a bold front; but their gloomy countenances belied their brave words, and it was plain that they were merely sustained by moral courage, and were under no illusions as to the fate which awaited them.

  Whether supported by ignorance of danger or real courage, Mrs. Bremner, that delicate creature, apparently no more able to withstand the force of a breath of wind than a bending reed, consoled and encouraged everybody. Amongst these despairing men she seemed an angel, invulnerable to material dangers, who had strayed out of her proper surroundings, who, when the time arrived for her to leave her present company, would expand her wings, till then invisible, and remount to heaven.

  About eight in the evening the vessel shivered two or three times, and sounds were heard as of groans. This was caused by the ship sinking deeper and deeper. Ships, like men, suffer their mortal agonies; they moan, and stiffen in the throes of death.

  Then the crew, apprehensive that the Juno was going to founder, loudly demanded that the boats should be lowered; but a mere glance at the two available craft was sufficient to satisfy any one that they were useless under the circumstances; they consisted of the ship’s cutter, so old as to be unseaworthy, and a six-oared pinnace. The crew, after inspecting them, unanimously declined to attempt to make use of them.

  About nine o’clock, the Captain called the two mates into consultation, and it was decided to cut away the mainmast to ease the ship; by this means they hoped to keep her afloat about four-and-twenty hours longer.

  The work was set about at once, the sailors, as usual on such occasions, falling to their task of destruction with a will. In the twinkling of an eye the mainmast, cut away at its base, snapped under the blows it received, toppled over and fell, but, unfortunately, instead of going overboard, it fell upon the deck.

  The confusion which this caused may easily be imagined. The men at the rudder, unable to steer the ship, let her go broadside on to the waves; she shipped a huge sea, and was completely swamped. Instead of retarding the catastrophe, they had but hastened it.

  Then the cry, “We are foundering! We are going down!” resounded on all sides.

  Mrs. Bremner, who reckoned on keeping afloat for several hours yet, and whom, perhaps, her husband had kept in ignorance of the imminence of the danger, had retired to her cabin.

  The Captain, feeling the ship slipping away from under his feet, gave a shout of warning, and tried to reach the cabin hatchway; but he got entangled in the loose cordage, and had only time to cry out to John Mackay, who was near him:

  “John! John! My wife!”

  The second mate rushed to the hatchway, where he found Wade, the first mate, stretching out his hands to reach Mrs. Bremner, who, on hearing the noise made by the falling mast, had sprung out of her berth.

 

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