"O Pilot, 'tis a Stormy night,
There's danger on the Deep. "
On a bleak and dismal night, last December, past midnight, a large number of hardy looking men were seen hovering in the darkness near the foot of Fort Ontario. In the distance, surrounded by gloom and the roar of the tempest, the light of an approaching vessel was seen. It neared the mouth of the harbor and in a vain endeavor to enter it, the Schooner Mohawk was dashed against the eastern pier. The scene was a fearful one, and as she beat with appalling violence upon it, the surf carrying her nearly over its top, those on board seemed beyond the reach of human aid. Almost superhuman efforts were made by the noble-hearted men, who had watched her progress until she struck the pier, in their struggles to save the sufferers. Five of them who sprang from the doomed schooner were saved, but the heroic commander Carmichael, refused to leave his barque, but perished with her, when she was cast helpless on the beach.
A walk in the vicinity of the wreck the other day, when the lake was comparatively calm, was full of melancholy pleasure. There is always a mournful interest attached to a wreck. A few hours before, perhaps, she freighted with joyous beings, moves like a thing of life, with sails set and the graceful motion of a bird.
Now she lies helpless, broken in fragments, and deserted. The bows and part of the frame and a portion of the storm, are all that remain of the gallant Mohawk. The storms of the past winter have broken her robust frame. The surf washes sullenly through her timbers, with a moan that makes the heart ache, when it is known noble men perished with this fatal shipwreck.