The Shipwreck and Adventures of Pierre Viaud

Narrative of the loss of Le Tigre

The following selections are taken from the 18^th century shipwreck narrative of Pierre Viaud (Naufrage et Aventures de M. Pierre Viaud), as recently retranslated by Robin F. A. Fabel.

One day he [Desclau] approached me with the following proposal: "I have been thinking about your situation. The only thing the matter with you is the fear of remaining here a long time with nothing to do. The reason you want to go back to France without delay is the prospect of a job. You still have some funds. Try your luck. You could triple them. I regularly sail to Louisiana with merchandise I am certain to sell. The product that I get there for the return trip also brings me a decent profit.' I know this trade. I've done this kind of thing many times. Come with me. One day you will thank me for the advice I am giving you."

In the situation I was in, I had nothing better to do. Friendship prompted M. Desclau's offer and I did not hesitate to accept it. I became his partner and invested in his venture. We made the necessary purchases, concerning which he helped me with impressive zeal and the strictest honesty. We chartered a brigantine, Le Tigre, commanded by M. La Couture. Loading the cargo was completed with all possible speed and on embarkation we numbered sixteen: the captain, his wife and son, the brigantine's mate, nine sailors, M. Desclau, a black slave I had bought to be my servant, and myself.

We set sail from the roadstead of St. Louis on 2 January 1766 . .

At last we rounded Cape San Antonio. Fresh gales struck us and opened the leaks again. Although they were in constant use, the two pumps contained them with difficulty. The wind was unrelentingly adverse and the weather worsened. The sea was rough and a violent storm threatened. We could not have survived it. Everyone on the ship was afraid. Any improvement in our sad and terrifying situation seemed unlikely, but in these dire circumstances, on 10 February, at seven in the evening, we met a Spanish frigate coming from Havana. She was carrying a governor and a senior military officer who were going to take possession of Louisiana for Spain and asked us to keep company with her? We agreed with pleasure. Had we not been forestalled, we would have asked permission to follow her. During a tiring and troublesome voyage, nothing is more comforting to sailors than to meet a vessel sailing the same course. It is not that they can count on receiving much help in the middle of a storm, when everyone is too concerned with his own preservation to worry about others', but that an expected danger seems less menacing when one knows that it will be shared.

We did not manage to keep company with the frigate for very long. We lost her at night when she was making way under reduced sail, while we set no sails at all and were compelled to lie to. The following day we found ourselves alone, and, to increase our alarm, discovered a new leak. I was consulted about what we should do. I thought it vital to lighten the vessel at once. It is a harsh necessity for merchants to have to throw away part of the goods they have acquired with so much labor and in which they have invested money in the hope of making more. In circumstances like ours, however, preserving life is the first priority. It becomes the only concern, and all others are forgotten. I had all the heavy cargo thrown overboard. Since the two pumps were not coping, at the main hatch I set up a makeshift pump-well with barrels from our cargo, so that we could bail out the water with buckets. These measures proved useless. The water continued to gain on us. Their work exhausted the sailors without achieving its goal. It was impossible to hold back the sea much longer. We decided to put into Mobile [present day Mobile, Alabama]. It was the nearest port but the wind's direction in fact gave us no other choice. At the time we were twelve or fifteen miles from the Chandeleur Islands.'

We therefore made course for Mobile, but Providence prevented our making landfall there because the wind changed direction after two hours, and we had to give up the attempt. Instead we made every effort to reach Pensacola, which was some distance from Mobile. This plan failed too. The winds continued to thwart us, deflected us again, and kept us in rough seas against which we still strove, lacking any hope of making any port whatsoever, just waiting for the moment when the ocean depths would open and swallow us up.

I have made many voyages in my life. I can remember none in which I suffered so much or had a worse run of luck. Never were Providence and the sea joined with more consistent violence to torment unhappy travelers. In the end we felt that saving our vessel and belongings was out of the question, and even saving our lives was moot. We concerned ourselves solely with preserving life and tried to strike the coast at Apalache [the region around modern day Tallahassee, Florida], but we could not make it. We stayed at the mercy of the waves, suspended between life and death, lamenting our bad luck, sure now that we would die, but never slackening our efforts to escape danger. Such was our condition from 12 February up to the 16th when at seven in the evening we found ourselves grounded on a reef six miles from the mainland. The pounding of the breakers was so violent as to smash open the stem of our vessel. We remained for thirty minutes in this situation, experiencing inexpressible fear. After half an hour the shocking force of the waves threw us beyond the reef. We found ourselves afloat again with no rudder and at the mercy of both the sea which surrounded us and of the constantly rising water entering our vessel.

Until then we had managed to hold onto a scrap of hope. Now it vanished completely. Our vessel resounded to the pathetic cries of sailors making their farewells, preparing for death with prayers for God's pardon, interrupting them to make vows, in spite of the dreadful certainty that they would never live to fulfill them. What a scene, my friend! Only a witness could have any idea of it. What I have outlined is very imperfect, and much less poignant than its reality.

I shared the crew's terror. My despair showed less, but I was every whit as frightened. The excess of bad luck, and the feeling that it was unavoidable, gave me a kind of stability. I accepted the fate awaiting me as unalterable. I abandoned my life to the being who gave it me, but retained enough courage to anticipate the fatal moment coolly, and to concern myself with ways of delaying it.

My apparent calm communicated itself to the crew. At that terrifying time I inspired them with a kind of trust which made them ready to obey my commands. The wind was pushing us toward the shore. I steered with the foresail braces and sheets, and by extraordinary luck, which we had no right to expect, we arrived at nine in the evening east of Dog Island and ran aground within musket shot of the land. The sea's roughness did not allow us to reach it. We thought of chopping up our masts to make a raft which could carry us there. While we were engaged in this task, the violence of the wind and the force of the waves combined to hurl our brigantine onto its port side. This unforeseen jolt all but killed us. We should all have fallen into the sea and perished but narrowly avoided this fate. Some of our sailors, who were jerked into the water by the shock, had the good fortune to get back to the vessel and, thanks to the helping hands we extended, to climb on board again.

Suddenly the moon which, until that moment, had provided us with a feeble light often interrupted by clouds, disappeared from sight altogether. Once deprived of the benefit of moonlight, it became impossible for us to think of crossing to dry land. We had to steel ourselves to wait for day on the side of our vessel. The night seemed endless. We were exposed to heavy rain: the sky appeared to turn to water. The waves rose higher by the minute, swamping our boat and bursting over us. Thunder rolled from every point of the compass. From time to time, lightning flashes showed us an endless horizon and a raging sea ready to engulf us. The ensuing darkness became even more terrifying.

Clinging to the side of our vessel, nailed, as it were, to anything we had been able to lay hands on, rain-soaked, numb with cold, worn out by our efforts to resist the impetuous waves, which would have dragged us away, at last we saw dawn break. It clarified the dangers we had endured and which still beset us. The sight we beheld seemed even more frightening. We saw dry land a short distance away, but could not get there. The wildness of the sea, whose waves crashed with a fury I have seldom seen, deterred even the bravest of swimmers. Any unfortunate wretch who exposed himself to such waves would have risked either being carried out to the open sea or being smashed against the boat or the rocky shore. On seeing them, despair seized our sailors. Their plaintive and doleful cries increased. Thunder claps and the howling of the wind agitating the ocean could not stifle their wails and, combining with them, added to the horror of the situation.

Several hours passed without bringing any change in our lot. A sailor' who from daybreak had wept incessantly and who had shown himself weaker than his comrades, suddenly stopped crying and, after a deep silence of several minutes, got up at last with unusual vivacity.

"What are waiting for?" he shouted with desperate determination. "Death surrounds us on all sides. It will soon come for us all. Let's fly to meet it. Let us speed its leisurely blows. We must find death in the waves. Perhaps if we go to meet it, death will retreat. Land lies in front of us. It's reachable. I am going to try. If I fail, all I'm doing is to hasten my end by a few hours and to shorten the length of my misery."

With these words he dove into the sea. Fired by his example, several sailors wanted to follow him. I only just managed to hold them back by pointing to their shipmate, tossed by the waves, uselessly fighting them. First he was swept to the beach and actually touched it, but was then dragged back by the sea, in which he vanished for several minutes. When he came up again, we saw him crushed against a rock. This cruel sight made the sailors shudder and rid them of all impulse to copy his action.

Most of the day had passed. It was five in the evening. We thought with terror of the night that we had already spent, and we trembled in anticipation of the one to follow. The waves had carried off the masts and shrouds we had cut down the previous evening. The hope of using a raft to save ourselves had vanished. We had a rowboat in bad repair, but it was too dilapidated to make the short crossing from the brigantine to the shore. We had examined it on several occasions, but each time we had given up the idea of using it. Three sailors, braver or more desperate than the rest, dared to set out in this frail craft. They got into it without telling anyone what they were about. We did not realize their intention until after they had pushed off, but believed them as good as dead.

We watched their struggles and the difficulties they overcame, while constantly risking being swamped. In spite of our expectations, they reached the shore. We envied their success and all regretted that we had lacked their boldness. Everyone complained because they had given no warning of their plan. If ever the sight of happiness was mortifying to the miserable it was then. Their gestures to us and their demonstrations of glee stabbed us. Their good luck made us feel our bad luck more keenly. No doubt what I am telling you is horrible and inhuman. Nevertheless this despicable feeling is natural. I admit that it is discreditable. All the same, I say to those who condemn it and consider us as monsters for harboring it, "Let them first put themselves in our position, and then let them judge us."

Soon darkness hid our more fortunate companions from sight. With no choice but to remain with our vessel, we compared our predicament unfavorably with theirs. Our sufferings seemed worse, because they were not sharing them. This second night proved as testing as the one before. The strain was the same, but the exhaustion we felt from lack of sleep scarcely left us the strength to cope with it.

Ever since our vessel had been blown on its side, we had been unable to get inside her. We had not dared to make holes in her for fear of creating gaps for water to enter which, filling up the vessel, would soon have broken her apart. Thus would we have been deprived of our only refuge. Consequently we had no provisions and no way of getting them. We had survived all this time without eating or drinking.

It seemed that God had taken pleasure in heaping on us every kind of misfortune. Our weary bodies vainly craved rest and food to restore their strength. Both were denied. Never had we anticipated death in such a hideous way. Our wrecked brigantine was held in place by huge rocks. The waves dashed against her with appalling force which shook and constantly threatened to shatter her and submerge us. Luckily for us she remained intact.

The following day, 18 February, we witnessed the break of a day we had despaired of ever living to see. Death would have relieved us of our suffering and would no doubt have been a blessing, but the strongest sentiment in the human heart is love of life. Mankind clings to it to the very end. The torments people endure can weaken but rarely quite extinguish it. On seeing that we were still on the side of the brigantine, our first action was to thank God for having allowed us to live and to pray that He would complete His work and crown His mercy by providing a means of reaching dry land.

Never was a prayer more heartfelt, and God seemed to grant it. The wind abated, the raging sea calmed, and we were presented with a sight which, though terrible enough, was much less so than on preceding days. One of our sailors, an excellent swimmer, after gazing for some time at the route he would have to take to reach the beach, decided to make the attempt. "I am going to rejoin my shipmates," he told us. "We'll try to caulk and frap [re-enforce by bolstering with rope] the rowboat. Maybe we'll make her stout enough to make several trips back and save all your lives. It's our only chance. Let's not argue about it. We are getting weaker all the time. Let's not wait until we are totally worn out. Let's use our small remaining strength to get ourselves out of this horrible mess."

We backed his suggestion and, as best we could, helped him to carry out his scheme. It was the only one which could be of any use to us. We gave him handkerchiefs and ten fathoms' of rope which might be used to caulk the rowboat. Loading himself with them, he jumped into the sea. Several times we saw him on the point of sinking. Our anxious eyes followed his every move. We saw in him our only resource, our only possible savior. We shared his risks; our fate depended on him. We urged him on with shouts and gestures, mentally struggling alongside him. We suffered when he had to make an extra effort to overcome the resistance of waves. Our imagination and urgent wishes put us in his place. We experienced what he experienced. We overcame the breakers or were beaten by their fury, and grew weary as much as he. We begged God to help him; his safety became ours. At last, after a hundred alternating bouts of fear and hope, we saw him, after unspeakable effort, reach the shore. At once we fell to our knees to thank God. A spark of joy flamed in our souls and warmed them.

It was then seven in the morning. We waited impatiently for the moment when someone would come to fetch us. We stayed constantly facing the beach. Our eager eyes were always darting there, looking at our four sailors busy around the rowboat, missing not one of their actions insofar as distance allowed it. Such lively and sustained observation seemed to soothe our impatience and to shorten our time of waiting. Although we urged on their work with our longing, it still progressed slowly, and we quaked inwardly at the thought that it might all be futile. The work was done at three o'clock in the afternoon. We saw the rowboat launched into the water and it came toward our vessel. How can I depict the joy of the crew at this sight? It burst forth in the form of shouts and tears of happiness. Everyone hugged whoever was next to him, congratulating him on this sign of divine favor.

These feelings of tenderness and compassion for each other did not last. Everything changed when it became a question of who should go first. The small rowboat could hold only part of our group. It would sink if everybody climbed aboard. We all knew it, but no one wanted to risk waiting for a second trip. The fear that some accident would make a second trip for the rowboat impossible, stranding those left on the brigantine, caused all the sailors to clamor to be among the first passengers. The sailors rowing the little boat urged me to take my chance in it at once, because they feared it was not sturdy enough to make two ferrying excursions. These words, which everyone heard, evoked yet more groans and pleas of increased anguish for priority.

I swiftly asserted myself. Raising my voice, I commanded silence. "Your shouting and fretting are pointless," I told everybody. "They do nothing but delay our rescue. Every one of you will die, if you insist on being ferried all at the same time. Listen to reason. Obey what reason commands, and then hope. We all run the same risks. In the situation we are in, giving preference to anyone is unacceptable. Misfortune makes us all equal. Let us choose by lot those who are to leave first. Accept what chance decides. To show the losers in the lottery that they have no reason to despair, I shall stay with them and be the last to leave the brigantine."

This suggestion amazed them, but they all agreed to it. By chance, a sailor had some playing cards in his pocket, and with this deck lots were cast. From the eleven we now numbered, four set off with the four sailors who had brought the rowboat to us. They arrived on land without incident, and the little craft came back to pick up others. While this was happening, I noticed that the force of the waves had all but detached the counter' from our vessel. Helped by Desclau and my black, I succeeded in breaking it off completely." This flotsam seemed suitable to replace the rowboat as a means of getting to shore. I discussed it with Desclau, who agreed. When all the others had left in the rowboat, Desclau, my slave, and I got onto the counter, followed the rowboat, and arrived at the beach almost simultaneously with it.

How happy we were to be on dry land! What thanks we then offered to God! How sweet it was to stretch out on terra firma, without worrying that it would give way under us! By luck we found oysters on the banks of a nearby river. They made a tasty meal. The hunger we had endured since 16 February provided the best possible seasoning for them. We reveled in our new situation, passing a peaceful night in deep sleep, which restored our strength and was undisturbed by concern for the future. The following morning we awoke with the same satisfied feeling. It did not last long.

The rest of the narrative documents Viaud's struggles to stay alive while making his way across Dog Island to other barrier islands, and eventually to the mainland. The group is encountered, befriended, and betrayed by Indians. They are beset by lions, tigers, and bears, and in order to keep from starving to death Pierre Viaud kills and eats his own slave. This lurid tale ends when Viaud and the surviving captain's wife are rescued by British soldiers stationed at the outpost at Fort St. Marks (present day St. Marks, Florida). It became a phenomenal best-seller back in France, and was translated into many other languages

This narrative has been re-published by and can be ordered through University Press of Florida.

(by Fabel, Robin F.A., published in 1990. 138pp. Notes, index. Cloth, $39.95s. 1000-4. (LC90-33552))