There was no hope of seeing any of the thirty-two men alive. The velocity of
the set, now running to the east, and the extreme undertow made it nearly
impossible for anyone to reach shore. Superintendent Huntting, feeling duty
bound to make every effort, organized a lantern patrol of about twenty Life
Saving men to search along the beach at forty-foot intervals in the unlikely
event any survivors appeared in the surf. As soon as the mast sank, Captain
Huntting's men, along with volunteers from the crowd on shore, hurried up
the beach eastward to their positions. The moon, once again, broke through
the clouds, and one of the leading patrols spotted a small cluster of
figures on the ocean moving rapidly with the current eastward. As the life
saving crew hastened to their rescue, the figures were carried almost half a
mile before they neared shore. Luther Burnett and life saver Gordon Ludlow
ran into the frigid surf to drag the men out of the undertow to safety.|
Those in the rear patrols, seeing a concentration of lantern light ahead of them and hearing glad shouts as the rescuers and survivors emerged onto the beach, knew someone, at least, had been saved. The news spread rapidly down the beach that four men had miraculously made it to shore on a boat's buoy, and the four men were alive! As several life saving men helped the exhausted survivors back to the shelter of Mecox Station, the rest of the lantern patrol, now hopeful, kept searching the surf for signs of more life.
Once inside the station house, the survivors, so overcome with fatigue and numb from wet and cold that they could not stand, were stripped of their frozen garments and given warm, dry clothing. Immediately they were put to bed near the fire, given coffee and brandy, and given other first aid treatment. Three revived, but the fourth remained unconscious for several hours and it was feared he might die. It was the middle of the day before he was considered out of danger. Those saved were Henry Morle, First Mate of the Circassian, from Taunton, England; John Rowland, Second Mate, from Cardiff, Wales; and Charles Campbell, wrecking company engineer, from Newark, New Jersey. The fourth man was Alexander Wilson, the ship's carpenter, from Birkenhead, England, near Liverpool. There were no other survivors.
As soon as the men recovered, they told their story and gave more details of what had happened on the ship. Henry Morle had been shipwrecked before; and whether because of the nature of the man or the nature of his experience, he remained cool and in command of himself and the situation. Morle has been in the galley with Campbell, Rowland, Wilson, and others, regaining strength and working on a plan of survival. Despite all efforts, no help was coming from shore and the situation was critical.
There were only a few life preservers and a couple of cork fenders from the ship's remaining boats. Morle gave a life preserver to John Walker, a Shinnecock, and cut loose one of the canvas covered fenders for himself. Taking it below, Morle rigged the cylindrical buoy with wooden cleats and ropes, thus making a life buoy about five feet long and one foot thick. John Rowland, who could not swim, asked to share the buoy and Morle consented. When the ship started to break up beneath them, he and Rowland took to the mizzen rigging with the buoy. Studying the flow of the set and the drift of the wreckage, Morle chose the best position possible to gain clearance of the ship if the mast fell. They, among others. were not lashed to the rigging. William Keefe, the boatswain, and Charles Campbell, of the wrecking company, also had a buoy but tried to remain on deck with it. Unfortunately, they were caught by a large wave and thrown across the deck, they and their buoy parting ways. It was at this point that several more men were washed overboard.
Campbell survived and climbed into the rigging beneath Morle asking him for a share of his buoy. Morle agreed and they made plans to reach shore. A few men jumped from the deck taking their chances in the surf. Morle, stayed, his clothes ice covered, the freezing spray numbing his hands and face. The Shinnecock, all in a group in the rigging, were still singing. Many others were praying. Some, having ceased their calls for help, were silent. Suddenly, a huge wave lifted the vessel. As the mast fell Morle, Rowland, and Campbell jumped with the buoy. Rowland and Campbell emerged together from the icy water, in the lee of the ship, clinging to the buoy. Morle, who had let go of the buoy just before hitting the water, swam to the others. All around was a chaos of debris - sail, planks from the ship's boats, spars, and rigging. All around were men struggling and drowning. Alexander Wilson, who had been in the rigging above Campbell, also came up from the water. In a panic, he seized Campbell's neck, almost strangling him. Campbell, fighting for his life, was about to draw his knife when Morle shouted, "Carpenter, let go that man, you are drowning him now." With Campbell's help, Wilson managed to grasp the buoy.
The four men were now positioned two on each side of the cork float. With their arms through the ropes and around the cylinder, they clutched the lines and locked legs with each other below. This helped keep them together and steady the small buoy as it was buffeted by the swells. Morle took charge, commanding the others to breathe before each icy wave struck, ordering them to rest whenever momentarily possible. Nevertheless, after only minutes in the water, they were completely weakened by their struggle and were almost drowned. With one final effort, they plunged through the breakers toward shore.
Exhausted, numb with cold, and at the mercy of the undertow, all were hauled from the surf and immediately wrapped in warm clothes stripped off the backs of their rescuers. Wilson, suffering from severe cramps, was nearly lifeless; the others were so overcome they could barely stand. Had not Huntting's men been on the spot to offer immediate assistance, they would all have perished. They were battered and weary, but they were alive. John Walker hadn't been as fortunate; he had attempted to jump also but had been caught by a huge wave, crushed against the ship's stern, then carried down by a swirling eddy. His life preserver surfaced; he did not.
Meanwhile. patrols along shore kept continuous watch, looking first for more survivors, later for bodies. The storm, affecting the whole Northeast, was the worst such storm in eighty years. New England was badly hit with much damage to its fleets; many vessels had been driven ashore or were badly damaged. Provincetown, Massachusetts had taken a furious beating. Long Island's bays froze over. A heavy snow had immobilized upstate New York and all of New Hampshire and Vermont. Transportation was struggling, if it was moving at all. Even in Bridgehampton, the sleet and slush of the night before had frozen into one slippery mass. On this Saturday morning, as the patrols continued, the weather was still frigid with gusting westerly winds. A glare of bright sunshine reflected on the ocean; cold stinging sand still numbed the patrollers' faces.
Word of the disaster spread rapidly through the village of Bridgehampton. Some townspeople, accustomed to seeing the masts of the ship on the horizon, thought the Circassion had finally gotten free when they did not spot her that Saturday morning. Many, shocked at the loss, ignored the inclement weather and hastened to the beach to assist in the search. All were stunned. When hope was gone of finding any survivors, their shock turned to grief. Neighbors were dead, and the sad search for the missing bodies continued.
From Bridgehampton the news spread to the surrounding areas. At about 9 o'clock that morning, Henry F. Herrick, postmaster of Southampton and elder in the Presbyterian church, brought word to those on the Reservation. He spoke first to James Bunn, father of David Bunn, then from house to house he carried the same message. Quietly and sadly he said, "The ship went down - all of the Shinnecock men have been lost perished in the wreck."
Mrs. Edna Walker Eleazer, who died in 1969 at nearly a hundred years of age, remembered Henry Herrick bringing the news to the Walker household. She was only a girl when her mother answered the knock on her door announcing that both her father and her uncle were dead. Although only a few miles distant, the men had not been off the ship and had not visited their homes in two weeks. Now they would return no more.