Capsized Leadership and the Wreck of the HMS Wager: Part 2

Charles Brooking's 1744 painting of the wreck of the HMS Wager

Water erupted over the starboard side in a great cataract, sweeping men off their feet. A second crash followed, deeper, louder, as the hull burst open along her belly.

Byron slammed into the deck and felt the breath knocked from him. Pain shot through his ribs. Water flooded around him instantly, swirling with splinters and debris.

The Wager tilted hard, bow-down, stern lifting as if trying to climb free of the rocks. The ship shuddered. She was breaking apart.

Bulkeley shouted, “Cut the boats loose! To the longboat!”

Hamilton rallied the Marines, pushing men toward the main hatch.

The Surgeon Cozens dragged a wounded sailor toward the rail, looking for any chance of escape.

Cheap clung to the quarterdeck rail, staring out at the white water as though he could will the ship off the rocks through sheer anger.

Another wave struck. It hit the wrecked Wager with all its weight. The hull split further. Water rushed in with a roar. The bow sagged, disappearing into foam.

Byron heard someone shout, “Abandon ship!”

The Wager was dying.

Byron felt the deck tilt under him as the Wager began to break apart. The bow dipped, swallowed by white water. The stern rose high, trembling like a dying creature.

He jumped.

The surf hurled Byron toward a cluster of black boulders. He clawed at them with frozen fingers, dragging himself clear of the water. Others followed, coughing, bleeding, half-drowned.

The ship was gone.

And the survivors were stranded on a barren, unknown shore at the far end of the world.

Rain fell in a steady, cold sheet as the survivors crawled higher onto the rocks. The surf boomed behind them, throwing broken timbers onto the shore. The Wager was gone. Only splinters and crates remained, scattered like bones.

Byron sat hunched near a boulder, shivering uncontrollably. His clothes clung to him like wet sand. He saw Bulkeley ahead of him, with a handful of seamen near the waterline. 

“We need what we can salvage,” he said. “Casks. Tools. Powder if any survived.”

They nodded and started searching the surf without being told twice.

Cheap climbed the rocks slowly, leaning on his sword like a cane. His face was ashen. He took in the shoreline with a long, narrowing stare. Jagged cliffs. No trees. No sign of shelter. Nothing but wind and spray.

“We will establish a camp,” he said, raising his voice. “We will regain order. Then we will repair a boat and return to the squadron.”

Bulkeley turned toward him. “There is no squadron anymore. And no boat large enough to take this many men anywhere safe.”

Cheap bristled at the words. “I am captain here. The men will follow my orders.”

Hamilton stepped between them, calm but firm. “We have wounded. We need fire. We need shelter.”

Cheap glared at him but said nothing.

Wreck of the HMS Wager, John Byron

By evening they had formed a crude camp above the high-water line. Driftwood made a small fire. The smoke blew sideways in the relentless wind. The men huddled close, shivering, staring at the black sea.

The next morning brought a bleak gray light and a wind that cut straight through soaked clothes. The men scattered along the shoreline as soon as they could stand, searching for anything the sea had returned overnight.

They found little.

A half-shattered cask of flour, ruined by salt. A coil of rope. A broken oar. The longboat had vanished entirely, dragged off by the surf in the night.

Bulkeley stared at its absence with a grim set to his jaw. “That was our best hope,” he said. “Damn this coast.”

Lieutenant Hamilton approached carrying a bundle of sticks. “The men need fire and food. Half are shaking so hard they cannot speak.”

Cozens joined them, exhaustion carved into his features. “We lost another man in the night. Exposure. If we do not find shelter, more will follow.”

Cheap ignored the surgeon. “Begin cataloging salvage. I want an accounting of all tools and provisions.”

Bulkeley stared at him in disbelief. “Counting nails will not keep men alive.”

“It will keep order,” Cheap said sharply.

“Order is not the same as survival,” Bulkeley replied grimly.

The two men faced each other in the cold morning light, the wreckage of the Wager scattered around them like bones. 

Bulkeley broke away first. He led a group of seamen inland to scout for fresh water. Hamilton took the Marines north along the shore to search for more wreckage.

Wager Island

Byron helped Cozens drag driftwood closer to the fire. Every piece was wet, and the small flame sputtered when they fed it.

“Will it burn?” Byron asked.

Cozens shrugged. “It has to burn. Men are dying.”

By midafternoon the scouting parties returned with little to show for their efforts. The men gathered around the small fire, shivering. Captain Cheap stood before them as if delivering a  . “We will endure. This is temporary. Once we rebuild a boat, I will lead a party back to rejoin the Commodore.”

Murmurs rippled through the group. Not loud. Not disrespectful. Just doubtful. The kind of doubt that spreads fast among starving men.

Bulkeley stepped forward. “We must be realistic. The squadron is gone. The nearest friendly settlement is thousands of miles north. Our only chance is to fortify here, salvage what we can, and keep the men alive.”

Cheap’s face tightened. “I will not have dissent.” 

“This is not dissent,” Bulkeley said. “This is fact.”

Hamilton moved between them again. “Enough. Save your strength. The men need leadership, not argument.”

Cozens nodded. “We need food, fire, and shelter before anything else.” Cheap glared at them all, then turned his back and stalked toward the surf, as if the sea might give him an answer.

No one followed.

Bulkeley crouched beside Byron. “There,” he said quietly. “That is how men begin to lose faith.” The fire flickered weakly, struggling against the wind. Night came early. The cold came with it.

The next morning on the island brought clearer skies but no warmth. The wind had eased, but the cold seeped into every bone. The men rose slowly, stiff and hollow-eyed, shuffling toward the fire with the grim resignation of prisoners.

Cozens handed out the day’s rations: a spoonful of biscuit paste and a scrap of salt pork the size of a thumb. Some men chewed it in silence. Others stared at it as if unsure whether it was worth the effort.

Bulkeley gathered a handful of the strongest seamen and brought them down the shoreline to search for more salvage. Byron went with him, shoulders aching from cold and lack of sleep. They scanned the line where surf met stone, turning over half-shattered casks and broken planks. They didn’t find anything useful.

By evening the tide had receded. The sea lions gathered thick on the rocks, barking and bellowing. Hamilton stood with a group of volunteers, makeshift clubs in hand. Bulkeley watched from behind, gauging the surf.

Cheap appeared from behind the high rocks. His coat was torn, his hair plastered to his skull by wind and mist. He looked thinner, more gaunt than he had even that morning. His eyes darted from man to man, sharp with suspicion.

He stepped close to the fire.

“You defied me,” Cheap snapped.

“No,” Bulkeley answered evenly. “We acted because no one else would.”

The tension tightened like a rope twisting. Cheap’s gaze swept the men around the fire. “Do you think I do not see what you are up to? Whispering in corners. Plotting.” He pointed at Bulkeley. “You want to supplant me.”

Bulkeley sighed. “No one is plotting anything, sir. We are trying to live.”

Hamilton stood slowly. “Captain. None of this talk helps the men.” Cheap ignored him. His eyes fixed on Cozens, who sat beside the fire, exhausted, rubbing his eyes.

“You,” Cheap said, stepping toward the surgeon. “Always undermining me with your quiet little counsels. Turning the men against me with your talk of sickness and death.” Cozens rose to his feet, hands open. “Captain, please. I have done nothing but tend to the wounded.”

“You have done nothing but challenge me,” Cheap snarled. “Since the storm. Since we landed. I should have put you in irons at sea.”

Cozens blinked in disbelief. “For what? For telling you the truth?”

A few men shifted uneasily.

“No more,” Cheap said. “You will obey me. You will all obey me.”

He drew his pistol.

For an instant no one breathed. Cozens froze, his eyes wide. The sound echoed across the rocks like a cannon blast. Cozens staggered backward, clutching his chest. The firelight flickered across his face as he collapsed onto the wet stones.

Captain Cheap shoots Midshipman Cozens

Men surged forward. Hamilton dropped beside the surgeon, hands shaking as he pressed down on the wound. Cozens gasped, breath rattling, blood bubbling between his fingers.

Bulkeley turned toward Cheap, horror and fury mixing in equal measure. “What have you done?” he shouted. Cheap stood rigid, the pistol trembling in his hand.“He disobeyed,” Cheap said. “He threatened order.” Cozens’s breath came shallow and fast. He looked at Byron, eyes already dimming. Byron grabbed his hand without thinking.

Hamilton shouted for cloth. For pressure. For anything. But the wound was too deep. Too close to the heart. Cozens exhaled once, long and shuddering.

Then he went still.

A terrible quiet fell over the camp. The men stared at Cheap in stunned silence. Bulkeley took a step toward him. “This ends now,” he said. Cheap lifted the empty pistol as if it still held power.

“I am captain,” Cheap hissed. “You will do as I command.”

Hamilton rose slowly. His face was pale as bone. “No,” he said. “Not anymore.”

Bulkeley moved first. Hamilton followed a heartbeat later. Two Marines rushed in behind them. Cheap screamed, high and broken, as they grabbed him. He kicked wildly, clawing, snapping his teeth like a trapped animal.

“Hold him!” Bulkeley shouted.

Cheap thrashed, froth gathering at the edges of his mouth. “Mutineers! Cowards! I will see you all hang!” A Marine caught his legs. Another pinned his shoulders. Byron watched, stomach clenched, as Bulkeley tore a length of rope from a salvaged line.

“Captain Cheap,” Bulkeley said, his voice taut with exhaustion, “you are no longer fit to command.”

They bound Cheap’s wrists. Then his ankles. Then lashed him to a jut of rock above the high-tide line. He was half-sobbing, half-cursing, spitting fury at every man who passed.

“You cannot do this!” he howled. “I am the king’s officer!”

No one answered. Bulkeley turned to the men. “We bury the surgeon. Then we talk of leaving.”

The men buried Cozens at first light.

They carried his body to a narrow hollow between the rocks, wrapped in the least torn length of sailcloth they had left. The ground was too hard for tools, so they heaped stones over him in silence while the wind hissed across the cliffs.

Byron placed a smooth pebble on top, the way Cozens once had with a dying sailor aboard the Wager. A small gesture. It felt thin against the weight of what had happened.

When the burial was done, the men gathered near the fire. Hunger carved lines in every face. The wind carried the sharp smell of seaweed and cold salt. 

Bulkeley stepped forward. “We cannot stay here,” he said. “We have no food. The rain has ruined what little we salvaged. If we remain another week, half this camp will be dead.”

The men murmured. They knew he spoke truth. The carpenter shaped ribs from driftwood and broken spars. Hamilton and the Marines hauled stones to heat the pitch they scraped from wreckage. Bulkeley oversaw the stitching of a makeshift sail from patched-together canvas.

On the morning of the fourth day, the boat stood upright on the rocks. Ugly, uneven, but solid. A shape that might survive a coastal voyage if the weather held. The men stepped back and stared at it as if seeing salvation.

Bulkeley ran a hand along its side. “She will float,” he said simply.

A few men cheered weakly. Most simply sagged with relief. The men stood in a loose circle around the finished boat. Hunger had carved their faces thin. Their eyes were sunken, but there was a spark there now. Hope, even if only a thread of it. 

The men heaved together, dragging the boat across the stones and into the surf. The hull groaned. The patched sail slapped in the rising breeze. Byron climbed aboard after Bulkeley, gripping the gunwale with trembling hands.

From the rocks behind them came Cheap’s voice. It was cracked, desperate, almost unhuman.

“Please!” he screamed. “Do not leave me here! I will die!”

The sounds of his voice faded as they rowed into the crashing waves. The island began to fall away behind them, gray and jagged against the horizon. The boat rose on a long swell, then slid down the far side. The men rowed with what strength remained, each pull a small defiance against the cold and the distance and the long, unknown coast ahead.

The wind grew sharper. Spray stung their faces. The island shrank to a gray smudge. Soon even that vanished into the haze.

Only the sea remained.

Read Part 2

Author bio:

Byron Owen is a Reconnaissance Marine with tours as both a platoon commander and commanding officer at the elite 1st Force Reconnaissance Company. He had the honor of commanding several intelligence and cyber units to include Combat Mission Team One, Cyberspace Warfare Task Group 1, and 3d Radio Battalion. He writes about influence warfare and cyber at keyterraincyber.com, and about leadership at broadswordsix.com