by Joan Druett
But as the first dusk fell “the wind increased, and very soon gathered into a hurricane. The surface of the sea was covered with enormous billows; they raised us upon their huge backs to sink under us immediately, and plunge us into the depths of their shifting abysses.” Up and down the boat jerked and lurched, many feet at a time, until all three men were dizzy and sick. “It was impossible to think of food; we could do no more than swallow a few mouthfuls of water.
“Night came on,” Raynal continued; “the hurricane, stronger and ever stronger, brought with it showers of biting hail and snow, to increase the horrors of our situation.” They had already taken in two reefs of the big sail, and now they reduced their canvas still further. “The following day was no better,” he went on. The horizon was black and bruised with cloud, and the sea was growing savage. When the Rescue sank in a trough, all they could see was gray waves that rose high above their mast, and all they could do was brace themselves for the lift and surge to the top. Even when they felt as if they could have eaten a little of the roast seal they had brought with them, it had become so rancid that they threw it overboard, utterly revolted.
By six in the evening the conditions were too dangerous to keep the little craft before the wind. “The monstrous waves broke around us with a terrible din, and besprinkled us with their phosphorescent foam,” he wrote later. Captain Musgrave was forced to give orders to bring the little craft to, and meet the sea head-on, for fear that they would be swamped by an overtaking wave. Within half an hour, however, a huge wave rose high above them, reared its crest, and crashed down on the boat, sending her spinning round and round. According to Raynal, all three men screamed aloud in terror and panic. “We thought our last moment had come. And, in truth, we must have perished,” he meditated, “had we not been fastened in our sail-cloth cases.”
Luckily, the iron ballast they had secured in the bottom of the boat held firm, and when the huge wave passed on, the Rescue was floating upright again. The men gagged and retched to get rid of the water they had swallowed, and sailed doggedly on.
“JULY 21ST,” WROTE RAYNAL. “Bad weather; the storm continued.” However, they had managed to make sail in the intervals between squalls, and were back on their course. The third night was even more terrible than the previous ones—twice, within a half-hour period, they were seized and spun about dizzily by huge waves. When the fourth day dawned the three men were in a very bad way. Their clothes were completely drenched with the constant torrential rain; they were frozen with cold and faint with hunger; their hands and faces were burned with wind and salt. They stared feverishly north, “in the hope, always and always, of sighting land,” but there was nothing but gray, heaving ocean and whipped foam to be seen.
Then, on the fifth morning, they glimpsed a distant bulge on the horizon. They had raised Stewart Island, the southernmost and smallest of the three islands of New Zealand, and were in reach of their destination, as Musgrave put it, “after a miserable passage of five days and nights.” He himself had been on his feet the whole time, “holding onto a rope with one hand and pumping with the other,” while the other two worked the sails and relieved each other at the tiller. “The wind, although fair, was so strong that we were obliged to lay-to nearly half the time, and the sea was constantly breaking over the little craft; and how she lived through it I scarcely know.”
The men’s physical state was precarious. “I had not eaten an ounce of food from the time of leaving until we arrived,” Musgrave wrote; “and only drank about half a pint of water.” Oddly, up until the day they sighted land he had felt no fatigue, but as they came close to the island he suddenly collapsed on the deck with exhaustion. He stayed there for a half hour, gaining just enough strength to get them to land—“but had we been out any longer I feel convinced that I should never have put foot on shore again.”
Raynal himself felt so drained that the sight of land triggered just a fleeting sense of joy before he lapsed back into a state of dull endurance. The wind had fallen, though the sea was still turbulent, and they were making very little headway. They had oars, but not the strength to wield them, and so the Rescue dipped and rolled, getting nowhere, until they began to wonder if they would perish within sight of their goal. Toward evening a light breeze sprang up, pushing them toward the coast, but because dusk was upon them they were forced to lay to again and undergo another night at sea.
That night seemed endless, but day at last broke, and, said Raynal, “we united all our efforts to loosen sail anew, and at eleven in the morning we entered Port Adventure. It was the 24th of July 1865.”
AT FIRST THE ARRIVAL was a terrible anticlimax. The hills of Stewart Island surrounded them, covered with primeval forest, apparently quite uninhabited. The waves broke hard on the beaches and the ebb tide was so strong they were compelled to beat to windward to keep out of the current. Raynal described how hard it was to work the ropes, their hands being grossly swollen with cold and salt water, and their arms very heavy and tired. “A few hours more, and nothing would remain for us but to lie down on the deck of the boat and await the coming of death.”
Then, doubling a headland, they came across a Maori fishing village, where they saw their first sign of life—a large Newfoundland dog. Holding the dog’s lead was a European man. Beyond him, some Maori women were spreading fishing nets on a fence to dry. As the Rescue glided in, the dog suddenly caught sight of the boat and began to bark. All those on shore turned and stared in astonishment. “A few moments, and our boat touched the shore,” wrote Raynal. “The crowd surrounded it.”
The three men were utterly overcome by the sudden attention. Alick passed out with the sudden easing of the strain they had been under, and Raynal and Musgrave had trouble summoning words to answer the flood of questions. Understanding that they had endured an extraordinary ordeal, the crowd helped them out of the boat, and tenderly assisted them to the European man’s house. Raynal, too overwhelmed by emotion to talk, walked in silence, but “an immense joy, a profound gratitude, filled my heart.” The European’s house seemed a haven indeed, with a garden, an orchard, and a vegetable patch. “The simple sight of so much comfort was enough to console and reinvigorate us.”
The owner was Captain Tom Cross, who had married “a young native woman, gentle and affectionate, who had already borne him several children.” Originally a seaman, he had settled here, and made a living out of growing fruit and vegetables to supply visiting ships, and acting as a middleman for Maori who wanted to exchange potatoes, fish, and flax for tobacco, arms, and gunpowder. He was also the owner of a fifteen-ton oyster-cutter named Flying Scud, which he used for fishing, collecting shellfish, and for carrying goods from Stewart Island to Invercargill, the closest port on the mainland.
Tom Cross’s wife immediately made the three men a warm bath, in which they luxuriated while their clothes were dried. Washed and dressed, Musgrave, Raynal, and Alick sat down in front of a huge repast of fried pork, fish, “a pyramid of smoking potatoes,” and bread—“bread all warm and fresh from the oven!” As Raynal went on to comment, they were so hungry they thought they could eat it all, but their stomachs had shrunk so much that they could only manage a few mouthfuls—“And these we had scarcely eaten, before a profound and irresistible sleep fell upon us.”
They slept soundly for twenty-four hours. When they awoke, to their amazement they found they were at sea again. Blinking confusedly, Raynal saw that he was in the between decks part of a ship, with his comrades, still asleep, on a mattress beside him. When he stood, they woke too, and the three men stumbled out on deck, to find they were on board the Flying Scud. The Rescue was with them, drawn behind the oyster-cutter on a tow rope. “A young Maori was at the helm,” Raynal wrote, “and Mr. Cross was pacing the deck of his little vessel.”
As soon as he saw them he strode up, asking how they were, and they all confessed that they were very hungry again. “Come below,” he said, and when they were back in the cabin he hauled out a great quantity
of food that his wife had prepared. “After our meal, to which this time we did full honour,” they returned to deck, where Captain Cross answered their questions by telling them that they were crossing Foveaux Street to the port of Invercargill, where he would get a doctor to check them out, and also make arrangements for a vessel to be sent to Auckland Island to retrieve their two fellow castaways. And how had he spirited them on board his craft without their being aware of it? Some Maori helpers had carried them from the house to the cutter without disturbing “the jolly sleep” they were enjoying.
Getting over the bar and through the breakers into the port proved rather exciting, because it was well past high tide, but under Cross’s sure, experienced hand, the Flying Scud made it safely. “But such was not the case with the unfortunate Rescue,” as Raynal wryly described. The tow rope snapped, and the men watched the little boat driven onto the rocks, “where the breakers dashed her into fragments. Thus, in a few seconds, was destroyed, under our eyes, the work which had cost so much labour, and to which we owed our deliverance.” Unsurprisingly, the sight brought tears to their eyes.
TWENTY
A Sentiment of Humanity
In the frontier town of Invercargill, it was a fine midwinter morning. Low sun reflected brightly on ice-crusted puddles in the wide, rutted street, and the air was clear, crisp, and very frosty. Horse-drawn drays rattled by, splashing up mud and water. The shadows of shopkeepers passed back and forth across the front windows of their clapboard stores, and housewives hurried along planked sidewalks, the wooden clogs called “pattens” that they wore over their slippers echoing loudly in the morning quiet. At the top of the street a dairymaid sang out for customers as she jingled her milk cans, while a placid cow ambled along at her heels. Beyond the shops, the Flying Scud glided into view, breasting to a mooring at the town quay, but the busy citizens took little notice. She was a familiar sight at the dock, just as her owner, Captain Tom Cross, was a familiar sight in town.
Then, however, the passersby saw the three men Captain Cross assisted onto the quay—scarecrow men with haggard faces and eyes set deep in hollowed sockets, their teeth glistening as white as bone amidst the dark tangle of their beards. The trio hobbled stiffly, supporting each other while Tom Cross gently urged them along. People gathered curiously, calling out unanswered questions as the three scarecrow men tottered up the board sidewalk of Clyde Street. At the first store the strangers reached, they stopped, evidently too weak to move any farther. The proprietor came out, spoke to Tom Cross, and then solicitously ushered them inside. After that, the street was quiet, save for the low babble of whispered speculation. After waiting a little while the onlookers dispersed about the township, taking their strange news with them.
That day, the local paper printed a notice:
INVERCARGILL, Thursday, 4:50 P.M.
Captain Musgrave, the mate, and Alick, a seaman, of the schooner Grafton, of Sydney, wrecked at the Auckland Islands twenty months since, have arrived. Two of the crew are left on the island.
“On the morning of the 27th July, 1865, I landed in Invercargill, and, in company with Captain Cross, walked up the jetty and entered, I think, the first store we came to—that of Mr. J. Ross,” recorded Musgrave. “I had not been there more than five minutes when Mr. John Macpherson, of the firm of Macpherson and Co., came in.” After hearing the tale, the merchant instantly offered all the help he could. “He took me at once to Mr. Ellis, Collector of Customs, who was the first person that I should see,” Musgrave went on.
After giving Ellis the ship’s papers, Musgrave asked for a vessel to be sent to the island to rescue Harry and George, but the government official said he could do nothing. “Mr. Macpherson then waited on the Deputy-Superintendent,” but with the same disappointing result. Undeterred by these setbacks, Macpherson took the men to his house, and gave them lunch. Then he walked about town, going from store to store and house to house, soliciting money, blankets, and clothes for the poor destitute men, and telling the story of their astonishing escape from the Auckland Islands.
The response was generous, not just because openhandedness was typical of pioneer society, but also because the locals had a very good idea of the shocking ordeal the Grafton men had endured, many Invercargill men being mariners and fisherfolk who plied their trade in subantarctic seas. “For five days and nights did these brave men unremittingly battle with the winds and waves, sustained by the hope of life and the prospect of deliverance,” related the Southland News on July 29. A benevolent publican, “Mr. Colyer, of the Princess’s Hotel,” immediately offered accommodation for the three men, free of charge, and the small community took the castaways to their hearts. Over the next two days a hundred pounds was contributed, besides clothing and blankets, which Musgrave proudly—and also to wreak a little revenge on Uncle Musgrave, no doubt—refused to accept without payment. According to his own account, he wrote out and handed to Macpherson “a bill for the amount on Sarpy and Musgrave,” the total of which also covered the advance of a sum of money.
François Raynal, safely ensconced in the Princess Hotel, related that “a large number of the inhabitants came to see us, and express their sympathy.” Mr. Colyer set apart three rooms for their use, and “Doctor Innes came to see us, and refusing to accept any other remuneration than our thanks, lavished upon us the most assiduous care.” The illness that had nearly cost Raynal his life on Campbell Island had returned: “I could hardly move a step without supporting myself on a stout staff.”
Raynal, like Musgrave and Alick, was appalled that the government, for unknown political reasons, was unable to do anything about saving Harry and George. Instead, the local officials promised in vague terms “that they would take the matter into consideration at a later date—in fact, as soon as they could. At a later date!” Raynal exclaimed in disgust. While they were waiting for the wheels of government to turn, Harry and George could be starving to death. Even if matters were going reasonably well with them, they were most certainly counting the hours until they learned whether their shipmates had reached New Zealand. There was no doubt about it: “Later meant—too late!”
By now, the indefatigable Mr. Macpherson had raised enough money to cover the cost of sending a ship to Carnley Harbour. Unfortunately, though, the only vessel available was Tom Cross’s little oyster-cutter. “Several schooners were expected, but when they arrived they would occupy a certain time in unloading before they could undertake a voyage,” Raynal went on—and how could anyone reconcile himself to such a delay?
A public meeting was held, and after due deliberation it was decided that though the Flying Scud was really too small, she was so well built, and possessed such excellent sailing qualities, that with a fine, practical seaman like Tom Cross in command, she could carry out the mission—as long as Captain Musgrave went with her as pilot.
As Musgrave himself phrased it, it was considered “incumbent on me to accompany Captain Cross, so as, from my knowledge of the place, to be in some measure a guarantee for the safety of the vessel, as she is not insured.” After some heart searching, because he was overwhelmingly anxious to get to Sydney and find out how his family was faring, he agreed to go, even though he was still exhausted from the arduous voyage in the Rescue, and had an abscess in his armpit. As Raynal meditated, “Obeying a sentiment of humanity, this noble heart kept down his ardent desire to revisit his beloved family, and though just escaped from the clutches of Death, was willing to confront it anew, in accomplishing what he conceived to be a sacred duty!”
Provisions and gear for the voyage were collected, much of it donated, and the cutter was loaded. Musgrave, who had written a long letter to his wife, entrusted it to Mr. Macpherson to send to Sydney on the first available ship. Then, about four in the afternoon on Saturday, July 29, accompanied by Raynal, Alick, and just about the whole population of Invercargill, he walked down to the docks. “I grasped my friend’s hand,” wrote Raynal, “and penetrated by an emotion I could hardly restrain, I s
aw him set out again for the Aucklands, on board the Flying Scud.”
THE FLYING SCUD sailed at 5 P.M., “followed by ardent prayers and warmest wishes of this community for a speedy and successful issue to her voyage of benevolence and mercy,” according to the Southland Times. As it happened, the Flying Scud did not get very far that night. By the time the cutter arrived at the bar the tide was too low to cross it, so, as Musgrave noted, “we brought up for the night in a snug anchorage, at a place on the west side of the river called Sandy Point, about six miles from town.”
Early the following morning they got through the breakers with the use of long oars called sweeps (one of which they lost) because the northerly wind was so light. After a daylong struggle with the uncooperative breezes, they wafted into Stewart Island at dark. Then the wind shifted to the northwest and increased, giving them a quick run into Port Adventure, the same fishing village where the castaways had landed just a week previously, and the place where Tom Cross had his home.
The wind promptly shifted again, this time blowing contrarily from the south, so that they were detained there for a week. Musgrave was still suffering from the aftereffects of the dreadful passage to New Zealand, writing, “I fear that I am going to be attacked with some serious illness.” However, it passed away. One of Cross’s sailors rowed him about the port, so Musgrave could study the various anchorages. He stopped to converse with a Maori party who were gathering oysters: “They presented me with four or five dozen, which I must pronounce the finest I have met with in the Southern Hemisphere.” The timber that grew on the surrounding slopes was interesting, too, in that it was very similar to the ironwood that had given the castaways such difficulties at Carnley Harbour, but grew straight and tall.