X.L. - Hartlepool - 1843

Carlisle Journal, March 4^th, 1843:
Fatal Shipwreck Hartlepool —Feb. 24,— Yesterday morning, about half-past four o'clock, a most distressing shipwreck occurred at this port, more fatal in its results than any which has been witnessed there for some years. At the above hour the brig X.L., Captain Hinds, of London, and bound from Antwerp to Hartlepool, came ashore amongst the rocks to the north of the harbour.

The rockets were fired, and one of the lines seemed go directly over the vessel, but the crew, either from not understanding its use, or not being able to seize it, made no use of it. The vessel went speedily to pieces, and the crew, consisting of nine persons, and also the captain's wife (with the exception of a boy named Kyffin, who reached the beach on a plank,} all perished. One poor fellow, clinging to a part of the wreck, seemed almost within the grasp of several persons, but when they hoped to seize him, a wave swept him away into deep water, where he was drowned.

This sad misfortune is supposed to have arisen from the master of the vessel mistaking light on the South Terrace for the pier light. The survivor expected soon to recover.

Hartlepool Northern Daily Mail – Saturday 31st July 1880:
The Wreck of the Brig X.L. (A Hartlepool Pilot’s Story)

The following graphic story which has been narrated to us by Mr James Pounder, pilot of Hartlepool will, we are sure, prove interesting to a large section of our readers. The heart-rending circumstances attending the wreck of the brig X.L. of Hull, on the Hartlepool Heugh had a large bearing on the movement for the present erection of the present lighthouse, with the construction of which we shall deal next week.

‘It was, I believe on the 23rd of February 1843 that a sight was witnessed in Hartlepool which I shall not forget to my dying day. Hartlepool was a wild sort of place then. The sea did pretty much as it liked with us, and we pilots had roughish work at times. Many a night while waiting for daylight on board some ship that I had taken in hand to pilot, I have fancied I heard above the howling of the wind the fearsome splash of the billows on the Heugh, and I have thought what a dreadful thing it would be to be struggling among all that surging waste, living all my life over every second and battling in the darkness for dear life. Well I recollect that about 10 o’clock that February night, while I was just walking out a bit on the Foreland, sort of idle like, conning over in my mind some of the rough nights I have seen, and I have seen a good many. I looked out seaward and I couldn’t help my heart giving a big thump as I saw a ship hugging the land there nor’ard of the Moor.
The wind whistled coldly and it was just such a night as would make a man prize a snug hearthstone and a bit of warm supper. I shouted out without thinking what I was doing, but I might just as well have saved my wind. The sound of my voice was beaten back, and I felt how helpless I was against the mighty elements. The sea was running very strong. Land folks don’t know what they mean when they say mountains high. I should say the waves were like mad things leaping and howling in their rage. I knew there was danger and I felt for the men who had naught between them and death, but a straining plank or two. The danger had been seen by some more of our townsfolk and together we shouted from the cliff and urged the Captain to ride out to sea southwards to save his life and the lives of his crew. But he, poor man, not knowing the terrors of our coast as well as we did had preferred to cast his anchor and face out the storm, apparently rashly believing that he could get some shelter from the headland.
We made out that the brig was the X.L. of London that it was coming light from Antwerp and was commanded by Captain Newry. There was a crew of nine hands all told and the captain’s wife. We knew what would happen and we couldn’t go to bed. So we stood and shivered and tried, through the darkness, to give some consolation to those poor souls on board that ill-fated ship. And there we were powerless to help, for a boat wouldn’t have lived a minute on such a sea. And through that long night, in the pauses of the wind, we thought we could hear the calm voices of those men as they spoke in their seamanlike work. Ah! We longed for the light, though we feared the gruesome story it might tell.
Well, it’s no use making too long a story. The morning came grey and dull and cold, and the sea looked as I’ve seen a bull-dog look between its snarls. When it was light enough we could see that the ship was unmanageable, and that the death agony was not far off. Ah those poor things they were brave Englishmen, and they fought hard for their lives; but with no unruly striving. There were no rockets to be had in Hartlepool, and somebody set off post-haste to Seaton for some. They could only get six, and the first missed while the rest went right over. There was naught for it but to try to haul a warp on board, and with some great difficulty we did that at last.
But the poor things didn’t seem to know what to do. We made the rope fast and with all our might we held on. Well, some of them tried to travel, and were fastened to the warp with small ropes. But it was a fearful journey and one by one they dropped into the boiling surf. We could see the captain, brave man I am sure he was, and kind husband; wrap his oilskin cape tenderly around his wife, as though he wished to keep the water off her. That touched many a heart, and among the crowd of men and women that had then gathered there went up many a sob, and many a man who had faced a watery death himself, as he saw that captain forgetful of himself and kind to that poor woman, bid God bless him.
It seems strange that we should see all this and render no help. But we couldn't. It was no lack of will. It was sheer want of power; the creature was powerless against the wrath of the Creator. Then with a crash the ship beat and smashed against the beach, and as a wave receded we saw that they were all struggling in the water. We cast out life-buoys, but they didn’t seem to mind them. One poor thing, all battered and bleeding, was borne inshore by a huge wave, and was rescued. But he died a month afterwards. Ail the rest were drowned, and their bodies were washed on shore at Middleton.
I don’t care to think about the homes that were bereaved of husbands and fathers. I know that for many a day there was a heart-ache at Hartlepool, and people began talk and to say that it was time something was done to warn poor seamen of their danger. I think that had something to with the building of the lighthouse, which now warns poor mariners where to steer, and to keep off our shores, which at times are not over hospitable. Seamen don’t learn their trade as well now they used to do, but they haven’t to face such dangers they once had.’
The following verses were written at the time by Mr Edward Lowden, who himself saw the wreck. Mr Lowden at that time resided at Middleton:
"Behold from Antwerp swiftly sailed vessel called the X. L. Her sails are filled, she mounts the seas, And wafts away before the breeze.
All hearts on board were filled with glee, in hope once more their homes to seeAnd hail with deep-affected joy The friends that wept and said good-bye.
But prospect, like the rose’s bloom, And like the roses are cut down; Or, like the shooting star on high, they swiftly fly and swiftly die.
It was a dark and gloomy night when first the X. L. hove in sight, Off broken water nea r her bow. Which sore dismayed her hopeful crew.
All hands on deck!—the awful sound! The X. L. making fast aground;The boisterous waves around her spread, And every heart was filled with dread.
The showery clouds poured down their rain, the big waves rolled across the main, The stormy winds screamed in the blocks, The vessel dashed the fatal rocks.
But, oh, the shrill, the bitter cry. Of men just at the point to die; While hundreds flocked around to see The deepest scene of tragedy.
All eyes aboard were dimm’d with tears; their hearts were swelled with griefs and fears their aching bosoms heaved the sighs of men in Nature’s last surprise.
They eager looked and long’d to see the lifeboat, but it could not be. The lifeboat! was their only cry O, send the lifeboat or we die.
O, who can look upon the strife Of Nature's dying gasp for life; Or hear the deathly bitter cry O, send the lifeboat or we die.
Or who the awful sight abide, to see them banging on the side. While raging billows seemed to scoff, unloosed their grasp, and dashed them off.
There, see them struggling the main until they reached the wreck again, which furious waves repeat the woe There, off again, and down they go.
There is but one saved out of ten, while one dear woman and eight men has sunk beneath the tempest’s roar. The voyage of life to sail no more.
So mariners hear, attend the call, The voice is unto one and all. which calls in deed and word— Prepare, prepare to meet thy Lord.
Go not again across the seas, nor spread the canvas to the breeze, until you answer to the call And live for him who died for all.
Who holds the waters in his hand, the winds obey his vast command; He walks upon the stormy seas, To still the waves and hush the breeze.
And, landsmen, be ye ready, too, The warning voice comes home to you! To meet your God then all prepare, For death is stirring everywhere.
The land and sea alike to Him The wintry blast or pleasant spring, are seasons when he calls away, Prepared or not, you must obey.
So be ye reconciled to God, For you he shed his precious blood: He's standing waiting, longs to save, The sinner that will turn and live."

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