Melancholy
Shipwreck.— Tramore, January 11, 1845—About half-past four o'clock this morning
a vessel was driven on shore at the Burrow, in this bay, about half a mile from
the town. An immediate alarm was given, and several of the more respectable
inhabitants were on the instant attendance, with many hardy sons of Erin, ever
ready to lend a helping hand in cases of distress. When nearing the place
where the vessel had struck (within a few perches of the beach) the cries
their fellow-men fell upon the ear in such deep-toned agony that almost
rendered the party incapable of action; however, the spirit of humanity, and
the indomitable spirit of bravery, even to the courting of death, soon set all
in motion for the rescue of a brother from the dark shapeless hulk, then
only discernible by the white foam on the crest of the recoiling mountainous
wave, momentarily teeming its destructive surge over the ill-fated vessel, and
threatening instant annihilation to any who should dare encroach upon the
precincts of so terrific an element.
At this particular moment, a scene the
most agonizing presented itself. The vessel broken up—the shore strewn with
fragments—the hollow shriek of the shipwrecked mariners for succour, still clinging
to the wreck, now almost imperceptible, wound up the feelings of the brave
fellows, who were waiting with breathless anxiety, some of them stripped,
panting for leave to face the tempestuous billow, to rescue the distressed, or
die in the attempt. Two men, Kenny and Sinnot, plunged into the foaming surge
in the teeth of the floating wreck, and succeeded in reaching a portion where
one man was clinging. Their intrepidity and decision of
mind never forsook them, and on the instant handed him to chain of equally
daring men, willing to share in victory. One poor fellow was safely landed.
Kenny and Sinnot, following up their success, with awful effort, boarded the
hulk, and succeeded in like manner in getting on shore the three other survivors;
the delight of all on such a happy consummation of their efforts may be better
imagined than described. The party thus snatched from the jaws of death are
John Travers (captain), Michael Fleming (mate), and Michael Neill and Patrick
Murphy (seaman).
We learn that the ill-fated vessel was
the Elizabeth of Bristol, 150 tons burden, which sailed from Newport at six on
the morning of the 9th. She was laden with coal for Kinsale, and had on board
in addition to the crew saved a fine cabin boy, named James Nugent, aged 16,
who was highly spoken of and much regretted by the captain and crew,
particularly Murphy, who clung to him until the last, the boy literally dying
in his arms from extreme exhaustion; his body has not yet appeared.
Scarcely had the crew been rescued when the Elizabeth was driven up to the very
beach a perfect nonentity, hardly retaining the semblance that she had
ever traversed the vasty deep. On the evening of the 9th she encountered a
desperate gale near the Smalls, which continued with increasing violence to a
perfect hurricane (wind due south), until she was drifted into this beautiful
but dangerous bay, which seldom permits the unwilling visitants ever to escape
when once within its vortex. The Elizabeth was 14 years old, American built,
all deal, of a very inferior quality except the sheeting, which is of
black birch. She must have been for years, one mass of rottenness and the only
wonder is that she kept afloat so long. Scarcely a vestige of the cargo has
been saved.
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