Captain Elwell and His Crew

Full many adventures have Gloucester men known. But none in their whole history, More strange than the tale of a rudderless ship, Afloat on a strange, unknown sea. It happened in seventeen seventy-nine, An Annisquam captain set sail From the distant West Indies and headed for home, With never a sign of a gale. They traveled along without hindrance or harm, Till round the first day of the year, When bordering Gloucester, the wind swung about, And rendered it harder to steer. "The wind's shifted north and we're in for a gale," Said Elwell, the captain, one day. "If Fortune evades us, we'll surely be blown A mile or two out of our way." He spoke very truly; the following day, The wind tossed and turned them around; The storm took their rudder and sad to relate, Their vessel was soon outward bound. "We seem to be heading due nor'east, tonight," The helmsman remarked through the squall; "There's nothing to intercept whither she goes; Our good ship is doomed for a fall." "That's no way to talk, for a Gloucesterman, boy," Ike Elwell rebuked him with zest. "Although she may founder, undoubtedly, still, We sailors are pledged to our best. "We'll stick to our guns with the spirit that makes Our Gloucester lads known for their grit; We'll gain more by fighting a miserable end Than to languish and weakly submit." Then started a terrible, tragical time For Elwell and all of his crew, Who rudderless, tossed on a turbulent sea, Where breezes ungraciously blew Them hither and thither and this way and that, Away from the shores of Cape Ann; Throughout that cold winter and well into spring, Till never a vigorous man Had dry bread or water to furnish him strength, Alike, one and all were deprived Of aught but parched cocoa and Indian corn, Yet all but one sailor survived. "We cannot continue forever like this; Unless some ship rescues us soon, There'll be a sad end to this Annisquam crew Before the next turn of the moon." So spake Jacob Lurvey to Witham, one night, Some months since they started to float So helplessly round on the treacherous sea, In their rudderless, broken down boat. Just then of a sudden, appeared from the sea, A monstrous and competent fish, Who bounded on deck towards the famishing men, In pleasant response to their wish. And so they continued for more than six months, Till confidence wore pretty thin, And even John Woodward and Allen and Ike Considered their fate with chagrin. Sam Edmundson quickly waxed feeble and ill. And one day retired to bed: "I cannot endure starving rations," he moaned; "God give me fresh water and bread!" Unfortunately nothing could remedy this, And slowly they drifted along. "A difficult life," Captain Elwell remarked, "And surely a test for the strong." In Annisquam sadly their families sat, Immersed in the depths of despair; For the capable vessel that foundered at sea, And the sailors gone no one knew where. Memorial service was held in the church, And suitable sermons were read For the seamen who met so untimely an end- All Annisquam wept for their dead. But out on the ocean when prayers had been said For greater salvation above, Six men in a rudderless ship floated on, Sequestered from brotherly love. "That old Ancient Mariner had a bad time, We know what he suffered today; I'd give twenty years to be landed in Squam," Nathaniel heard Edmundson say. Then out of the depths on that warm August day, From England came good Captain Neal, Bound nor'west and sailing a beautiful ship, With Henry himself at the wheel. "Great Heavens!" he shouted. "A ship in distress. Ahoy! we are coming," he cried. As, shocked by the vision, six pitiful men Escaped falling over the side. The captain from Dartmouth then helped them on board And fed them with infinite care, And carried them nearby the port of New York, And when they were bordering there, Not far from Long Island, on August the tenth, He gave them a seaworthy boat, Which the Annisquam skipper and indisposed crew Had no trouble keeping afloat. They journeyed along by the coast till at last, They sighted the Annisquam shore; "Good God!" cried Sam Edmundson, raising his head: "No human could ask any more!" Then Sam, overcome by the weight of his joy, Lay back on his pillow and died; But the happy survivors returned to their homes, Swept back on a fortunate tide. And all over Annisquam, thankfulness reigned, And prayers for the living were said; Though the court had long settled the captain's estate, And they'd published the names of the dead. These seamen were rescued and almost unharmed, And such a conclusion deserved, That labor should terminate all over Squam And a festival duly observed- And so ended well what so recently seemed A tragedy, grievous and dark; And though Captain Elwell was hearty and hale, No more did he ever embark. He lived as a merchant for many good years, And postmaster too of the town; And when nearing ninety, in eighteen three-two, His last earthly garments laid down.