Thursday, October 31. — This morning about 2.30 o’clock I was waked up by the ship’s shaking, jarring, groaning, and screeching generally. I at first thought we had been struck by a heavy sea, but a second shock, following soon after the first, convinced me that I was wrong. At the second shock I called Saxton and asked him what the matter was, and we both jumped out of bed, I running into the saloon to see what had happened, and Saxton lighting the candle. The saloon was full of people, excited and running around, but still not noisy. I found out from the hospital steward that the ship was aground. All the while we were bumping heavily, causing the ship to groan and creak in every timber. I must confess that a dreadful shudder ran through me at the idea of being drowned, for so it seemed to me must be the fate of every one on board, as the night was dark and the sea rough. I thought, however, that it would do no good to be frightened, so I put on my trousers, shoes, and coat, then took my watch and ring from under my pillow, and finally took the cork life-preserver from under the bed, and fixed it so that I could slip it on at a minute’s notice, I then left it on my bed, and went up on deck to see how we were getting on. When I reached the deck, the bumping had ceased, and the ship had backed off safely. The pumps were sounded, and everything found snug and tight, much to my delight as well as that of others.
When we struck, the concussion was so severe as to throw several people out of their berths, and those on deck were thrown several feet. We sent up rockets as signals of distress, and as a warning to other vessels of the fleet. Pretty soon the Coatzacoalcos came along, and asked us if we wanted any assistance. We told her we were all right, and she then informed us that the Illinois had also grounded, but had got off without injury. She had been obliged to cut loose the ship which she was towing, which we also had to do, our ship barely grazing our starboard wheelhouse. We backed for some distance, and then steered due East. I went to bed at four and slept till six, when I got up and dressed myself. I saw our ship, the Ocean Express, on our port bow, and about ten o’clock we fastened our tow line to her.
In regard to the behavior of the passengers of the ship, I think it should be praised as a general thing. Most of them were calm and quiet, although some of them made fools of themselves. Captain Comstock says we had a very narrow escape indeed, one of the most wonderful on record. The wind luckily had subsided, and the sea was, compared with the evening before, quite calm. No one seemed to know what shoal we struck, although it afterwards turned out to be the Outer Hatteras Shoal. There must have been some gross negligence, to say the least, in our getting on the shoal, and from all I can learn, the Wabash was to blame, as she at ten last evening gave us the course to steer, which we followed strictly, and consequently ran aground. Hubbell and the second mate, Hallet, saw breakers ahead about three minutes before we struck and told the captain of it. He said it was impossible, and was just going forward when she struck. The captain says the waves were as high as the yards, and that the shoal must have been steep and precipitous on its sides as otherwise we should have struck amidships, and been “hogged.” Lieutenant Richardson, the officer of the day, behaved nobly. He told all the sentinels to do their duty, and stick the first man who came up, while he stood at the head of the stairs with a loaded pistol, and told them he would shoot the first man who tried to pass him. The captain was thus enabled to work the ship easily, which would have been impossible with all the soldiers on deck.
We saw the Illinois with one smoke-stack broken off by her ship running into her, but she has now repaired it. The fleet is either all scattered or else we are away from it, and the latter proves to be the case. I should think that more than two vessels must have struck the shoal. The war-steamer Bienville, blockading off Hatteras Inlet, chased us this morning to ask if we had seen the Wabash. The Bienville also said she went ashore last night on the same shoal. In the afternoon the Atlantic spoke us, steaming back to hurry up the rest of the fleet. She said the Wabash was ahead of us, much to our gratification as we were afraid that a great part of the fleet had been lost on the shoal. A soldier who died of brain fever was buried this evening, and services were held on deck.
