THE WRECK OF H.M.S. SYLPH

Among Long Island's most deadly shipwrecks was that of the British 22-gun sloop-of-war Sylph, which went aground near Shinnecock Point in a snowstorm on Jan. 16, 1815. The captain, Henry Dickens, was lost, along with all but one of his 12 officers and all but five of a crew of 121.

After striking the sand bar at about 2 a.m. with such violence as to prostrate all aboard, a high tide and heavy surf took the ship over the bar and by 9 a.m. she had broken apart on the beach.

Ironically, the Sylph, which had been an active pursuer of American shipping in Long Island Sound during the War of 1812, was lost just two weeks after peace was signed.

The Brooklyn Times reported, "A number of men assembled on the beach and attempted to rescue the people on the vessel, which was fast breaking up. The surf was running very high, a furious snowstorm was raging, and the weather was bitterly cold. After several efforts the villagers succeeded in launching a fishing boat and after desperate exertions the purser and five seamen were brought ashore. All others were lost."

A witness to the tragedy saw a spar come ashore through the breakers with 12 frozen bodies lashed to it, their frozen legs sticking up into the air.

According to Jeannette E. Rattray, there was a tale told locally that the man at the helm had been abused by officers, and that he was heard to say, "I'll send some of them to hell tonight, if putting her ashore will do it."

In St. Andrew's Dune Church in Southampton there is a memorial plaque made from red cedar from the Sylph. One of her cannons stood for many years on the common in Bridgehampton, where it was fired to mark the Fourth of July and to congratulate newlyweds.

(Of that, C.H. Hildreth wrote in The Bridgehampton News in 1910, "The wonder is, that nobody ever got killed or hurt. Twice that I know of, the old cannon came to Wainscott, when James Topping was married and when Charles W. Strong brought his wife home. . . . But the biggest time of all was when Captain Charles A. Pierson was married . . . They got the gun so near the house that some 40 panes of glass were broken and other damage done.")

THE WRECK OF THE SYLPH

'Tis nigh on seventy years ago

Since the Sylph came ashore

'Twas the War of eighteen hundred and twelve

And she was a British sloop of war.

Lord, I can see it all again -

The gale, and the spray, and the wild surf's roar,

and the wave-lashed corpses of drownded men

Though I was but a lad of ten

When the Sylph came ashore.

And the old sea-captain's silver hair

Fluttered and tossed in the summer air

As he leaned at ease o'er his garden gate,

And told me the tale of the Sylph's hard fate.

Did we know the craft? Aye, we knew her well

From Montauk Point to Fire Island light

Many a time from her decks had a shell

Screamed through the air in the quiet night,

Waking the silent village street

With its roar and tramp of flying feet!

Many a night had a ruddy glare

Lighted the landscape far and near,

As some old homestead and barns were burned,

And the labor of years unto ashes turned.

And so, when one cold December morn,

Ere the moon's pale light had faded out,

A hurrying sound of feet was heard,

And on the chill night air rang forth the shout -

"The Sylph's ashore on Southampton beach!"

We wasted no time in idle speech

But each man sped to the beach away

To meet the foe that was now at bay.

This was the sight that met our eyes

In that cold dawning dim and gray, -

A white-capped mass of swirling foam

Filling the air with its icy spray;

Out of its midst there rose a mast

Black with the bodies of men lashed fast;

And each wild wave, as it came ashore,

With its icy fingers some poor wretch tore

From his frail hold, and with wrathful hand

Beat out his life on the hollow sand.

What could we do in a strait like this?

What ship could live in so mad a sea?

Women wailed as they watched it all;

Strong men looked on helplessly.

Crash! All at once the mast went down,

Hurling them sheer in the surf to drown.

One mad struggle, then all was still;

Only the wild wind whistling shrill.

Out of a hundred and twenty men

Only six walked the earth again.

We buried the dead that came ashore;

You may see their graves at the inlet still.

But the wreck turned out a prize indeed,

And we picked her bones with a right good will

From her guns and timbers of cedar-wood

We built us a meeting-house strong and good

And I've often heard the parson tell

That he heard these words in her swinging bell:

"To pruning hook ye shall beat the sword;

For the wrath of men shall praise the Lord."