German: "Bulletin." Ed.
During the early months of 1867, the matter seemed forgotten, buried under layers of time and not expected to resurface. But then, new facts were brought to the public's attention. The issue was no longer a mere scientific mystery, but a real and dangerous threat that needed to be addressed. The question had shifted entirely. The creature, once imagined as a simple islet, rock, or reef, now became something far more elusive – a runaway reef, untethered and unpredictable.
On March 5, 1867, the Moravian, a ship of the Montreal Ocean Co., was anchored for the night at latitude 27 degrees 30' and longitude 72 degrees 15'. As it began its journey, traveling at thirteen knots with the combined force of wind and 400 horsepower steam, disaster struck. The ship's starboard quarter collided with an uncharted rock, one that was not marked on any maps of the area.
Had it not been for the exceptional quality of the Moravian's hull, the ship would have split apart upon impact, and all 237 passengers aboard – returning from Canada – would have surely perished.
This incident occurred around five o'clock in the morning, just as the first light of dawn was breaking. The officers on duty rushed to the ship's stern. They scanned the ocean carefully, hoping to spot anything unusual. But there was nothing in sight, except for a strong eddy, breaking three cable lengths from the ship. It appeared as though the water had been violently churned.
The crew took the exact bearings of the location, and the Moravian continued on its course, seemingly undamaged. But had the ship struck an underwater rock, or perhaps the wreckage of some enormous sunken ship? No one could say for certain. However, when the ship was examined in the service yard, it was discovered that part of its keel had been severely damaged.
This event, though serious in itself, might have been forgotten like many others, if it hadn't been repeated under the same circumstances three weeks later. However, due to the nationality of the ship involved and the renowned reputation of the company it belonged to, this incident stirred an immense uproar.
Everyone knows the name of the famous British shipowner, Cunard. In 1840, this clever businessman started a postal service between Liverpool and Halifax, using three wooden ships with 400-horsepower paddle wheels, each weighing 1,162 metric tons. Eight years later, the company expanded, adding four ships with 650 horsepower and weighing 1,820 metric tons. Two years after that, two more vessels with even greater power and size joined the fleet.
By 1853, Cunard's mail-carrying charter was renewed, and the company added the Arabia, Persia, China, Scotia, Java, and Russia—each of them fast and, after the Great Eastern, some of the largest ships to ever sail the seas. By 1867, Cunard owned twelve ships—eight with paddle wheels and four with propellers.
I provide these brief details so that everyone can understand the significance of this maritime company, known worldwide for its sharp business management. No other transatlantic operation has been handled with such skill, and no business dealings have been as successful.
In twenty-six years, Cunard ships completed 2,000 Atlantic crossings without a single voyage canceled, no delays, no loss of passengers, no ship, and not even a letter lost. Because of this, despite strong competition from France, passengers still prefer Cunard over all other lines, as shown in a recent official survey. Given this, it's no surprise that the accident involving one of its top steamers caused such a massive uproar.
On April 13, 1867, with a calm sea and a gentle breeze, the Scotia was positioned at longitude 15 degrees 12' and latitude 45 degrees 37'. It was traveling at a speed of 13.43 knots, powered by its 1,000-horsepower engines. Its paddle wheels cut through the sea with smooth precision. The ship was drawing 6.7 meters of water and displacing 6,624 cubic meters.
At 4:17 PM, while passengers gathered for high tea in the main lounge, the Scotia was struck by a collision. It was barely noticeable, with the damage occurring just behind the ship's left paddle wheel.
The Scotia hadn't crashed into anything; instead, it had been pierced by something sharp. The impact seemed so minor that no one on board would have been concerned if it weren't for the cries of the crew in the hold, who rushed to the deck shouting:
"We're sinking! We're sinking!"
At first, the passengers were alarmed, but Captain Anderson quickly reassured them. There was no immediate danger. The Scotia was divided into seven compartments by watertight bulkheads, making it resilient against leaks.
Captain Anderson immediately went down to the hold. There, he found that the fifth compartment had flooded, and the water was rising fast, indicating the leak was significant. Fortunately, this compartment didn't contain the boilers, so the furnaces wouldn't be extinguished.
Captain Anderson ordered an immediate stop, and a sailor dived down to inspect the damage. Soon, they discovered a hole in the ship's underside, about two meters wide. This hole couldn't be patched, and with the paddle wheels partially submerged, the Scotia had no choice but to continue its journey. By this time, it was 300 miles from Cape Clear, and after three days of anxiety, the ship finally arrived at the docks in Liverpool.
Once in dry dock, engineers inspected the Scotia and were shocked by what they found. Two and a half meters below the waterline was a clean, symmetrical gash in the shape of an isosceles triangle. The cut was so perfect that no punch could have made such a precise hole. The breach must have been caused by a tool with exceptional strength. After piercing four centimeters of sheet iron, this tool had to pull itself out in a way that was truly baffling.
This was the final straw, reigniting public outrage once again. From this moment on, any maritime disaster without a clear cause was automatically blamed on the "monster." This fearsome creature was held accountable for all the lost vessels, a growing number that could not be ignored. In fact, out of the 3,000 ships reported lost each year at the marine insurance bureau, at least 200 of them—whether steamships or sailing vessels—disappeared without a trace, their fates unknown.
Right or wrong, the "monster" was blamed for their vanishings. As travel between continents became increasingly perilous, the public grew louder in their demands. They called for action to rid the seas of this terrifying creature, no matter the cost.
This was the final straw, reigniting public outrage once again. From this moment on, any maritime disaster without a clear cause was automatically blamed on the "monster." This fearsome creature was held accountable for all the lost vessels, a growing number that could not be ignored. In fact, out of the 3,000 ships reported lost each year at the marine insurance bureau, at least 200 of them—whether steamships or sailing vessels—disappeared without a trace, their fates unknown.
Right or wrong, the "monster" was blamed for their vanishings. As travel between continents became increasingly perilous, the public grew louder in their demands. They called for action to rid the seas of this terrifying creature, no matter the cost.