Captain William Gooding was commander of the Tewksbury Sweet, of Portland, Maine, and was lost in the South Pacific in the spring of 1889.  This fine American bark sailed from New Castle, New South Wales, on the 17th of March, bound for Hong Kong.  Everything went well until the 9th of the following month, when she encountered a severe gale.  Despite all that skillful seamanship could do, and in the face of the most strenuous exertions, she struck the dangerous Susanne Reef, near Poseat Island, one of the Caroline group of the South Sea.

The wreck was a total one.  The vessel broke up rapidly, and seeing that nothing could be done, the captain and crew, numbering ten men in all, took to one of the boats, carrying with them only a single chronometer belonging to the ship.  Even after entering the small boat they were still in great danger, and only succeeded after the utmost difficulty in reaching a small islet some miles to the southward.  The storm was still raging so violently that the shelter was a most welcome one, though as there were no animals or vegetation, or even water upon the island, their stay of necessity could be only temporary.  They had saved nothing to eat or drink, and to remain where they were meant a lingering death.

After several hours waiting, the tempest abated somewhat, and launching their boat once more, they rowed toward the main island.

“The end is likely to be the same in either case,” remarked the captain to the second mate, George W. Harrison, as they approached the land.

“And why?” inquired the latter:  “we shall find food and water there.”

“True enough; but there are no fiercer savages on the South Sea than those of this island, and I have never heard that they were particularly friendly toward the crews of shipwrecked vessels.”

“They may not discover us until we can signal some passing ship.”

“There is no possibility of any such good fortune as that.”

“Stranger things have happened, and—­”

“Does that look like it?” interrupted the captain in some excitement, pointing toward the island.

The sight that met the gaze of every one was startling.  Fully thirty canoes, each filled with eight or ten natives, were putting off from shore and heading toward them.  Several of the crew favored turning about, and putting to sea; but that would have been not only hopeless, but would have invited attack.  Nothing is so encouraging to an enemy as flight on the part of his opponent.  It impels him to greater exertions and gives him a bravery which otherwise he may not feel.

The savages, in their light, graceful craft, and with their great skill in manipulating them, would have overhauled the white men “hand over hand.”  There was a faint hope that by presenting a bold front, and acting as though they believed in the friendship of the savages that they might spare the unfortunates.  At any rate, it was clear there was no choice but to go ahead, and the white men did so, rowing leisurely and calmly, though the chances in doing so were hastening their own doom.