seemed to be westerly; and about an hour after, it blew a little
breeze at south-west, with which wind there came into the Sound
that night and the next morning a fleet of fourteen sail of ships
from Barbadoes, richly laden for London. Having been long at sea,
most of the captains and passengers came on shore to refresh
themselves, as is usual after such tedious voyages; and the ships
rode all in the Sound on that side next to Catwater. As is
customary upon safe arriving to their native country, there was a
general joy and rejoicing both on board and on shore.
The next day the wind began to freshen, especially in the
afternoon, and the sea to be disturbed, and very hard it blew at
night; but all was well for that time. But the night after, it
blew a dreadful storm (not much inferior, for the time it lasted,
to the storm mentioned above which blew down the lighthouse on the
Eddystone). About mid-night the noise, indeed, was very dreadful,
what with the rearing of the sea and of the wind, intermixed with
the firing of guns for help from the ships, the cries of the seamen
and people on shore, and (which was worse) the cries of those which
were driven on shore by the tempest and dashed in pieces. In a
word, all the fleet except three, or thereabouts, were dashed to
pieces against the rocks and sunk in the sea, most of the men being
drowned. Those three who were saved, received so much damage that
their lading was almost all spoiled. One ship in the dark of the
night, the men not knowing where they were, run into Catwater, and
run on shore there; by which she was, however, saved from
shipwreck, and the lives of her crew were saved also.
This was a melancholy morning indeed. Nothing was to be seen but
wrecks of the ships and a foaming, furious sea in that very place
where they rode all in joy and triumph but the evening before. The
captains, passengers, and officers who were, as I have said, gone
on shore, between the joy of saving their lives, and the affliction
of having lost their ships, their cargoes, and their friends, were
objects indeed worth our compassion and observation. And there was
a great variety of the passions to be observed in them–now
lamenting their losses, their giving thanks for their deliverance.
Many of the passengers had lost their all, and were, as they
expressed themselves, “utterly undone.” They were, I say, now
lamenting their losses with violent excesses of grief; then giving
thanks for their lives, and that they should be brought on shore,
as it were, on purpose to be saved from death; then again in tears
for such as were drowned. The various cases were indeed very
affecting, and, in many things, very instructing.
As I say, Plymouth lies in the bottom of this Sound, in the centre
between the two waters, so there lies against it, in the same
position, an island, which they call St. Nicholas, on which there
is a castle which commands the entrance into Hamoaze, and indeed
that also into Catwater in some degree. In this island the famous
General Lambert, one of Cromwell’s great agents or officers in the
rebellion, was imprisoned for life, and lived many years there.
On the shore over against this island is the citadel of Plymouth, a
small but regular fortification, inaccessible by sea, but not
exceeding strong by land, except that they say the works are of a
stone hard as marble, and would not seen yield to the batteries of
an enemy–but that is a language our modern engineers now laugh at.
The town stands above this, upon the same rock, and lies sloping on
the side of it, towards the east–the inlet of the sea which is
called Catwater, and which is a harbour capable of receiving any
number of ships and of any size, washing the eastern shore of the
town, where they have a kind of natural mole or haven, with a quay
and all other conveniences for bringing in vessels for loading and