Great-Great-Grandfather Horatio

My recent trip to England afforded me the opportunity to look into some interesting maritime records at London’s Guildhall Library concerning my great-great-grandfather Captain Horatio Lawson. From my readings I gained the impression that although Horatio was an exceptional sailor, he was somewhat lacking in restraint whilst on shore.

Horatio at the helm

I draw this conclusion from the diary of one Blarney McTattle, sole survivor of Horatio’s last fateful voyage.

Blarney states that when they set out from Boston Harbour on the fourth of September, 1874 aboard the schooner Lady Sheila bound for Maracaibo, Venezuela, Captain Lawson, ‘appeared to be somewhat less than sober, and possessed about him, the distinct aroma of the fairer sex.’

McTattle goes on to say that despite this, Captain Lawson, ‘Conned the vessel out through the tangle of anchored ships with consummate skill…and as far as I was able to observe, did not partake of a drop during the remainder of the voyage.’

There were only two other crewmen aboard the vessel—Bosun Sean Boyle, an Irishman; and Able Seaman Lincoln Merriman, an American negro—a decidedly small complement for such a vessel, as noted by the writer.

McTattle was a rather longwinded diarist so I shan’t bore you with his account of the first part of the passage. Suffice to say there were a couple of gales which, ‘The Lady Sheila and crew handled admirably.’

Some three weeks into the voyage however, fortune appears to have deserted the party when the full force of a hurricane descended upon them, dismasting and subsequently sinking the vessel. By some miracle, captain and crew survived by clinging to the remains of the mainmast.

The Lady Sheila

On the second day following the passing of the storm Blarney writes: ‘We were all of us sore oppressed by thirst and hunger and we of the crew did come to agree that we would be better served by abandoning the spar and allowing the Good Lord to take us. But the Captain did then, by summoning a strength from whence I have no idea, push his shoulders high from the water by levering upon the spar. “No need for despair,” said he, “I see land up ahead. If we all kick hard we’ll reach it by morning.” Thusly instilled with newfound hope we kicked lustily throughout the night.’

And just as predicted, with the rising of the sun, captain and crew arrived at an island.

But this landfall unfortunately proved to be but the beginning of their travails. No sooner had their feet touched sand than, ‘An horde of Indians did come pouring forth from the jungle, launching a fearful fusillade of spears and arrows toward us. We then took cover behind our spar from which position Boyle did offer the opinion, “We’ve had it now lads, better to swim back out to sea and drown.”

But Captain Lawson did then say to the bosun, “No Sean, I feel rocks underfoot. I believe we can defend ourselves.”’

And so they began furiously hurling rocks at their adversaries and were, in fact, able to halt their advance.

Here, Blarney’s account becomes a trifle murky. He claims they fought for two hours but then currents somehow took him away from the others. I suspect however, that those currents were bred of his imagination and that his departure from the others could be attributed solely to cowardice.

He does admit though, to landing on the other side of the small island, sneaking back to the Indian village and witnessing, from a place of concealment, the events that followed the inevitable capture of his fellow crewmen.

The three captured men ended up tied to stakes set upright in the ground with the Indians, ‘dancing and whooping around them. The chief - who, along with his native language, spoke a little English - addressed Captain Lawson. “What we do with captives,” he said, “is skin alive and make into canoe.” With that, he pointed to a number of wooden canoe frames off to one side of the clearing.

The three captives were understandably aghast at this prospect. The chief then added, “But as you have fight so valiantly, I allow you to kill yourselves before we take your skins.”

He approached Captain Lawson and enquired as to what method he might choose to do away with himself. The Captain replied that perhaps the other two should have first choice of weapons.

This answer appeared to imply that Captain Lawson, in accordance with the maritime practice observed by civilized nations, desired to be, in effect, the last to depart the foundering vessel.

The chief then went to Boyle who chose a pistol—apparently part of the spoils obtained from a Spanish galleon which I later learned had foundered upon the shores of that island. After blowing his brains out, Boyle was cut down from the stake and the Indians began the gruesome work of flaying the skin from his body.

Next was Merriman. There were no more pistols so he was provided with a knife. He made little hesitation before severing the veins in his neck and allowing his life’s blood to spurt forth.

Then came the turn of Captain Lawson. Having seen his crewmen off the ship of life and observed as their skins were stretched around the frames of canoes, he prepared to meet his own fate.

"What weapon you choose?” inquired the chief.

“A fork,” said Lawson boldly. “Give me a fork.”

“A fork?” echoed the chief incredulously.

“Yes, a fork,” the captain asserted.

Shaking his head in bewilderment, the chief cut the captain’s hands free and handed him a fork.

Captain Lawson did then grip the fork tightly and turn to the chief. “You’re not making a f*****g canoe out of me,” he snarled as he plunged the instrument repeatedly into his body.

A healthy streak of irrationality appears to run in the family!  Davina