THE JASON
Late in the afternoon of December 5th, 1893, the patrol of the coast guard of Life Savers of Nauset Beach, a few miles south of Highland Light, during a momentary break in the furious storm driven snow, saw the outlines of a great ship, not more than two miles from the beach, heading towards the Port of Boston under close reefed lower topsails, struggling with the grasp of giant waves which threatened every moment to overwhelm her. Soon again the increasing gale hid all the turbulent waters of the great sea. The winter night came on with rapid pace. All along the shore each Life Saving crew had been warned by telephone to watch with increased vigilance for a disaster which their experience had taught them was inevitable. Not a coast guardsman slept that night. All the boats and beach apparatus were made ready for instant use; the patrol watches were doubled; the men at their stations stood ready dressed, anxious, dreading but ever watchful and ready for the call which they expected to come at any moment.
At 7.15 a surfman of the Pamet River station rushed breathlessly and excitedly into the station and shouted, “She is ashore, half a mile north of this station.” All the stations were immediately notified. Then out into the storm and darkness and the blinding snow, along the gale swept beach where the flying sand cut their faces like knives, toiling through the yielding sand with their mortar guns and boats, hoping to reach the scene of the disaster ere it was too late, the Life Savers hurried. Chips and logs along the shore were gathered together and a huge bonfire kindled that those on the ship might know that every human effort was being exerted to aid them. By the glare of the light on the shore away over there in the awful night the faint outlines of the doomed ship could be seen, her great white sails being torn to shreds by the savage fury of the winter storm. Great torrents of gale driven sea swept her decks every moment. Her broken masts fell with a crash to her decks. Soon her iron hull was twisted and wrenched asunder; through her rended decks and battered sides floated portions of her cargo to the shore. The cries of her drowning sailors could be heard above the fury of the storm. The mortar gun of the Life Savers thundered again and again. The shots sped true to their mark and thelife lines fell across the ship’s hull, but her men could not reach them, so madly rushed the waters between. Soon a surfman saw a dark object thrown up by the sea; it was a human being. He was quickly taken up by willing hands and hurried to the station, restoratives were applied and soon he was able to tell the story of the wreck:
“Our vessel was the British ship Jason, Capt. McMillan. We were on a voyage from the East Indies to Boston with jute bales. We did not know our position until we saw the land at four this afternoon. We tried, by crowding every sail upon the ship, to weather Cape Cod; we failed. There were 27 officers and men in our ship’s company. I am the only one that lives; I saw all my shipmates perish when the mizzenmast fell.”
WRECK OF THE JASON
WRECK OF THE JASON
Like many another shipwreck the irony of fate pursued this ship’s company, when her keel was driven into the sand bar by the force of the mighty waves which hurled her forward, the only spot upon the whole ship which seemed to offer a place of refuge from the boiling surf which tore across her deck was the mizzenmast. Into the rigging of this spar every man hurried except the one man who was saved. He was swept from the rail before he could gain a foothold with hisshipmates; but what they had hoped would be their haven of safety was their doom. Scarcely had they climbed above the maelstrom of rushing waters when the mast went down with a crash into the sea, killing many of the sailors in its fall and drowning the others in the wreckage. The foremast stood unmoved by the winter’s storms for many weeks. Could this unfortunate crew have reached this portion of the ship many of them would have been rescued on the following day.
Out there today when the tide is low, protruding through the sands of the bar and the white caps that wash them, are the broken fragments of the sunken ship looking like tombstones in the village churchyard. All along the shores of this wind swept and sea washed coast those half submerged and silent sentinels remind us that up and down this sandy reach the ever moving sea has covered hundreds of those heroic men who have gone down in ships on the great sea.