From Saltwater Tales: The Strange and Tragic, Illustrated Vol. II by Robert Parsons
Many people in Newfoundland today know that the town of Lumsden is named after the Reverend James Lumsden, but not many people realize the preacher was shipwrecked on a rocky crag a little over 100 kilometers north from the town that later bore his name. Furthermore, he nearly perished in the wreck and lost all his belongings including his Bible, reference books and other material related to his calling.
James Lumsden, born in Glasgow, Scotland in 1854, became a Wesleyan (later Methodist) minister to Newfoundland in 1881. He was first assigned to the Random South mission, Trinity Bay.
To get to his parish he booked a passage on a schooner and joined the 60 ton Llewellyn in St. John’s on the morning of September 30, 1881. Llewellyn, chartered by a Mr. Cooper at Northwest Arm, was well-laden with winter supplies for communities on or near Random Island. Aboard were nine people – a crew of four men, a boy, three passengers including a young lady from Harbour Grace and Reverend Lumsden.
The evening of September 30 was pitch black with a heavy wind blowing constantly. The preacher, on his first voyage by schooner, lay in the skipper’s bunk, seasick and overwhelmed by the tossing of the little schooner. At 11:30 p.m. he heard a piercing cry from the skipper on watch. “Hard down the helm, for God’s sake – she’s on a rock.” Lumsden later said, “But it was too late for any move by the helmsman to escape the rock.”
Instantly, he recalled, the vessel struck with a heavy thud that shook it in every beam. The two crew in the cabin rushed on deck; the awakened and alarmed passengers went after them almost as fast. I followed.
The night was not stormy, but dark – “As dark as the grave!” as the skipper said. The deck of the Llewellyn became the scene of intense and solemn excitement. The crew, with the exception of the boy, who lay on the deck crying, behaved splendidly. The young lady was fine, but it was heart-rending to hear her lamentations over her dear parents for the sorrow which she thought was in store for them on hearing of her untimely end.
All this took place the few minutes the crew was at work getting the vessel off the rock. It now glided back into deep water. “All hands to the pumps,” shouted the skipper. “See if there’s any water in the cabin.”
Instantly went back the answer, “It’s a foot deep. Water is pouring in!”
All of us aboard now realized that a few minutes would decide our fate and, fully aroused, we joined with the crew in the shout, “Get out the boat!” This was our only hope.
Quicker than anything the boat was out and we were in it. There was no thought for anything but our lives. Water was now near the level of Llewellyn’s deck and the excited cry went up for a hatchet to cut the rope that fastened our “lifeboat” to the foundering vessel.
A moment or two was supremely critical, but the rope was cut and we were free. A few minutes later we would have been lost. We pushed off. I kept my eyes on the ill-fated schooner. We were only three or four boat lengths away when it went down.
The light that streamed from the cabin was first suddenly extinguished. The vessel was now under water. Slowly and steadily the masts disappeared, until the topmast spar had vanished and Llewellyn was buried forever beneath the cold, relentless waters.
The rock on which Llewellyn received its death blow was Shag Rock, Duck Island, about four miles off the northern side of Trinity Bay.
The punt or lifeboat was cranky and would not have survived in a boisterous sea. One of the crew, called Jacob, rose at the other end of the boat and asked, “How is the parson?” I replied as cheerfully as possible, “All right, thank you.” Not satisfied he plied me with questions until he found I had no boots, when he immediately pulled off his own and compelled me to put them on.
At about half past one in the morning, we entered a long narrow inlet called Ireland’s Eye. After paddling a space between frowning cliffs, suddenly from a cottage window a light shone. Its bright and friendly gleam seemed to assure us safety.
We had to arouse the people in the house, Again and again we knocked and at last a voice responded, “Who’s there?”
“Shipwrecked men,” our skipper replied. Then we heard the same voice in a loud soliloquy say, “O my God! I know all about it – I saw it all in my dream.”
Unfortunately Rev. Lumsden did not say what Ireland’s Eye family so kindly took in the nine shipwrecked people that night. The Reverend was left with nothing but the clothes he wore. His entire stock of goods – clothing, personal possessions, some valuable books, Bible, hymn book, money – all were gone. Although Llewellyn was insured, the owner lost considerably in that there was a large quantity of fishing gear and winter provisions on board at the time.
Undeterred by his traumatic experience, James Lumsden remained a minister in the Random parish for two years and in Newfoundland for eleven years. In 1905 he published an autobiographical book based on his experiences, The Skipper Parson on the Bays and Barrens of Newfoundland (from which the above account is summarized). He also served in the Wesleyville area where one of the communities was called Cat Harbour. In 1917 its name changed to Lumsden in honor of Rev. Lumsden – it is not far from where the good minister was shipwrecked thirty years before.
Source: http://www.newfoundlandshipwrecks.com/Miscellaneous/Other%20Vessels.htm
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Transcribed by Lester Green, April 2017
These transcriptions may contain human errors. As always, confirm these as you would any other source material.