“Dreadful night! thy gloomy veil covered these cruel combats, instigated by the most terrible despair.”
—from Narrative of a Voyage to Senegal in 1816
During the Age of Sail, no maritime disaster elicited as much shock and controversy as the wreck of the French frigate Medusa. The circumstances of her fate produced a widely read account penned by two survivors, as well as one of the most significant paintings from the French Romantic period.
The year was 1816, dawn of a relatively stable time in post-Napoleonic Europe. The Bourbon monarchy had returned to the French throne and sent Emperor Bonaparte into exile. After decades of revolution, the government of King Louis XVIII began returning favors to royalists who had remained loyal to the crown.
These political preferments included the appointment of a privileged naval officer—Viscount Hugues Duroy de Chaumareys—to command of the 40-gun frigate Medusa. De Chaumareys’ orders were to escort another royalist, Colonel Julien Schmaltz, to the reclaimed French colony of Senegal in West Africa, where Schmaltz had been appointed governor. At the time, Captain de Chaumareys was 53 years old and had not commanded a ship in more than two decades.
The Medusa: Drowning in Incompetence
As the Medusa sailed south with a convoy of three other vessels, de Chaumareys quickly proved he did not understand his charts. Instead of trusting his naval officers, de Chaumareys inexplicably handed the job of navigation to an unqualified civilian passenger named Richefort, who fatally mistook a cloud bank for a critical landmark.
Sailing recklessly ahead of their convoy off the western coast of Africa, de Chaumareys and Richefort ignored all warnings of increasingly shallow water. Even when they could see the sandy bottom and brown waves breaking, the captain refused to listen to the beseechments of his officers.
On July 2, 1816, just off the coast of what is now Mauritania, Medusa ran aground at high tide on the notorious Bank of Arguin.
The frigate lodged fast in the sand. No amount of cargo thrown overboard could set her free, and the arrogant captain refused to jettison the ship’s heavy canons. Fearing the Medusa would break apart, de Chaumareys gave the order to abandon ship. There were about 240 persons aboard and only 6 lifeboats.
Everyone to the Boats! (Except You People)
To make room in the lifeboats for the captain, Governor Schmaltz, navigator Richefort, and nearly one hundred other privileged passengers, the officers came up with a terrifying plan. They would build a raft to hold the remaining 147 men and one woman, who were mostly lower-ranked crew and soldiers. The boats planned to tow the raft to shore some 50 kilometers away.
They named the raft “La Machine.” It measured about 65 by 23 feet and was lashed together from broken masts, spars, and planks of the Medusa. It had no rudder and barely enough buoyancy to stay afloat. Knee-deep water washed constantly across its surface. The only dry and stable area was in the center.
As the lifeboats pulled away from the Medusa with La Machine in tow, the sea swelled, and the raft lagged. Panic quickly ensued. Fearing that they might be overrun by the raft’s terrified passengers, those in the lifeboats either cut or set loose the tow lines. They continued rowing away, leaving passengers on the raft alone at sea with shouts of “We forsake them!”
Terrors of the Medusa
Their nightmare began immediately. Within a day’s time, the raft had lost about 20 men to the waves. Two young boys flung themselves overboard in despair. By dawn, hunger and madness began to spread.
On the second night, with precious little water to slake their thirst, a revolt erupted among intoxicated soldiers who had broken into a barrel of wine. The drunken mutineers were of various nationalities, largely ex-convicts described as “…the scum of all countries, the refuse of the prisons, where they had been collected to make up the force charged with the defence and protection of the colony.”
Throughout the night, hand-to-hand combat with knives, sabers, an axe, and even teeth slicked the boards with blood and gore. Mutineers threw the only woman overboard. Twice. Other passengers got crushed, mangled, or trapped by shifting boards of the makeshift raft. Upwards of 65 men perished during the night, around 20 of whom “drowned themselves in despair.” The mutineers, mad with dehydration and paranoia, had thrown two barrels of wine and the remaining two casks of water into the sea.
The next night saw a second mutiny, and soon there was no food left. Some men chewed the leather of their boots, hats, and belts. They fought over a few cloves of garlic. Others began carving pieces of flesh from the dead. Out of fresh water, they drank urine and sucked on pieces of pewter. One sailor “…attempted to eat excrements, but he could not succeed.”
The Saharan sun burned during the day and the wind chilled at night. Sharks circled constantly. By the sixth day, only 30 men remained alive. The rest had drowned, been murdered, or gone insane. To conserve provisions, survivors rolled their mortally wounded but still-living comrades into the sea.
On day thirteen, a ship from the original convoy finally appeared on the horizon. When the brig Argus approached the raft, her crew found only fifteen men breathing. Strips of human flesh had been hung from lines to dry in the sun.
Five of the raft’s survivors died soon after rescue. Only ten made it back to France alive.
In The Words of Witnesses
Two of those survivors were the ship’s surgeon, Henri Savigny, and an engineer named Alexandre Corréard. Together, they wrote down what had happened so their government would know. Their account leaked to the press, and in 1817 they published the story in book form as Narrative of a Voyage to Senegal in 1816.
The terrifying memoir became a sensation across Europe. They exposed how the raft had been abandoned, how Captain de Chaumareys had ignored all warnings, and how the monarchy had appointed men who were unfit to command.
Their book described the mutinies in brutal detail and documented the cannibalism. It called out not only the captain but also Governor Schmaltz and the entire culture of political favoritism that put such inept men in charge.
The French government tried to bury the story, but it was too late. The scandal led to widespread public outrage.
Géricault’s “The Raft of the Medusa”
Among those who read the book was a 25-year-old Parisian painter named Théodore Géricault. Obsessed with the story, he tracked down survivors for interviews. He visited hospitals to sketch the dying. He studied corpses in the morgue and even kept amputated limbs in his flat to accurately capture the colors of decaying skin. Over two years, living reclusively with this morbid fascination, Géricault poured his entire life’s ambition into one vast canvas.
The Raft of the Medusa, completed in 1819, stands over 16 feet high and nearly 24 feet wide. It shows the moment the survivors first spotted the Argus. The sea heaves. Limbs hang limp. One man waves a tattered rag in desperation. The painting is not heroic. It is raw and intentionally confrontational.
Géricault’s painting became a symbol not just of disaster at sea, but of abandonment—by the officers, the government, and the world. It was anti-colonialist and, by putting an African man at the apex of the composition, carried overt abolitionist symbolism.
The Paris Salon of 1819 exhibited it to gasps. Critics were divided. Some hailed it as a masterpiece. Others saw it as repulsive and a direct attack on the state. But no one could look away. The painting toured Europe and cemented Géricault’s reputation as a visionary. Today it hangs in the Louvre and is considered one of the most important works of the French Romantic period.
Aftermath of the Medusa
Savigny’s and Corréard’s brutal account of the disaster led to Captain de Chaumareys’ court-martial. The state found him guilty of “incompetent and complacent navigation” and of abandoning his passengers. He could have faced the death penalty. Instead, he served only three years in prison. After release, he lived quietly at his mother’s chateau and died so heavily in debt that the chateau was seized after his death.
Governor Schmaltz escaped blame for the disaster and kept his post in Senegal, but he was recalled after four years. Richefort, the civilian navigator, disappeared from the public record. Artist Theodore Gericault lived just five more years after completing his painting, dying of a tubercular infection at age 32.
Survivor Henri Savigny returned to his medical practice but was haunted by the experience his entire life. Alexandre Corréard, who had consulted with Gericault on his painting, worked as an engineer. Both men fought to keep the story in public memory. Their account, along with Géricault’s painting, became a lasting indictment of aristocratic favoritism and political preferment.
What follows is an excerpt from Narrative of a Voyage to Senegal in 1816. The passage depicts the first night of mutiny aboard La Machine. Although this account is now the stuff of legend, there were no myths in those 13 days of darkness—only a true story of saltwater, blood, and the savage will to survive.
Excerpt from
Narrative of a Voyage to Senegal in 1816
by Henri Savigny and Alexandre Corréard
If the preceding night had been terrible, this was still more horrible. Mountains of water covered us every moment, and broke, with violence, in the midst of us; very happily we had the wind behind us, and the fury of the waves was a little checked by the rapidity of our progress; we drove towards the land. From the violence of the sea, the men passed rapidly from the back to the front of the raft, we were obliged to keep in the centre, the most solid part of the raft; those who could not get there, almost all perished. Before and behind the waves dashed with fury, and carried off the men in spite of all their resistance. At the centre, the crowd was such that some poor men were stifled by the weight of their comrades, who fell upon them every moment; the officers kept themselves at the foot of the little mast, obliged, every instant, to avoid the waves, to call to those who surrounded them to go on the one or the other side, for the waves which came upon us, nearly athwart, gave our raft a position almost perpendicular, so that, in order to counterbalance it, we were obliged to run to that side which was raised up by the sea.
The soldiers and sailors, terrified by the presence of an almost inevitable danger, gave themselves up for lost. Firmly believing that they were going to be swallowed up, they resolved to soothe their last moments by drinking till they lost the use of their reason; we had not strength to oppose this disorder; they fell upon a cask which was at the middle of the raft, made a large hole at one end, and with little tin cups which they had brought from on board the frigate, they each took a pretty large quantity, but they were soon obliged to desist, because the sea water entered by the hole which they had made.
The fumes of the wine soon disordered their brains, already affected by the presence of danger and want of food. Thus inflamed, these men, become deaf to the voice of reason, desired to implicate, in one common destruction, their companions in misfortune; they openly expressed their intention to rid themselves of the officers, who they said, wished to oppose their design, and then to destroy the raft by cutting the ropes which united the different parts that composed it. A moment after, they were proceeding to put this plan in execution. One of them advanced to the edge of the raft with a boarding-axe, and began to strike the cords: this was the signal for revolt: we advanced in order to stop these madmen: he who was armed with the axe, with which he even threatened an officer, was the first victim: a blow with a sabre put an end to his existence. This man was an Asiatic, and soldier in a colonial regiment: a colossal stature, short curled hair, an extremely large nose, an enormous mouth, a sallow complexion, gave him a hideous air. He had placed himself, at first, in the middle of the raft, and at every blow of his fist he overthrew those who stood in his way; he inspired the greatest terror, and nobody dared to approach him. If there had been half-a-dozen like him, our destruction would have been inevitable.
Some persons, desirous of prolonging their existence, joined those who wished to preserve the raft, and armed themselves: of this number were some subaltern officers and many passengers. The mutineers drew their sabres, and those who had none, armed themselves with knives: they advanced resolutely against us; we put ourselves on our defence: the attack was going to begin. Animated by despair, one of the mutineers lifted his sabre against an officer; he immediately fell, pierced with wounds. This firmness awed them a moment; but did not at all diminish their rage. They ceased to threaten us, and presenting a front bristling with sabres and bayonets, they retired to the back part, to execute their plan. One of them pretended to rest himself on the little railing which formed the sides of the raft, and with a knife began to cut the cords. Being informed by a servant, we rushed upon him–a soldier attempted to defend him–threatened an officer with his knife, and in attempting to strike him, only pierced his coat–the officer turned round–overpowered his adversary, and threw both him and his comrade into the sea!
After this there were no more partial affairs: the combat became general.
Some cried lower the sail; a crowd of madmen instantly threw themselves on the yards and the shrouds, and cut the stays, and let the mast fall, and nearly broke the thigh of a captain of foot, who fell senseless. He was seized by the soldiers, who threw him into the sea: we perceived it–saved him, and placed him on a barrel, from which he was taken by the seditious; who were going to cut out his eyes with a penknife. Exasperated by so many cruelties, we no longer kept any measures, and charged them furiously. With our sabres drawn we traversed the lines which the soldiers formed, and many atoned with their lives for a moment of delusion. Several passengers displayed much courage and coolness in these cruel moments.
Mr. Corréard was fallen into a kind of trance, but hearing every moment cries of “To arms! To us, comrades! We are undone!” joined to the cries and imprecations of the wounded and the dying, he was soon roused from his lethargy. The increasing confusion made him sensible that it was necessary to be upon his guard. Armed with his sabre, he assembled some of his workmen on the front of the raft, and forbid them to hurt any one unless they were attacked. He remained almost always with them, and they had several times to defend themselves against the attacks of the mutineers; who falling into the sea, returned by the front of the raft; which placed Mr. Corréard and his little troop between two dangers, and rendered their position very difficult to be defended. Every moment men presented themselves, armed with knives, sabres and bayonets; many had carbines, which they used as clubs. The workmen did their utmost to stop them, by presenting the point of their sabres; and, notwithstanding the repugnance they felt to combat their unhappy countrymen, they were however obliged to use their arms without reserve; because many of the mutineers attacked them with fury, it was necessary to repulse them in the same manner. In this action some of the workmen received large wounds; he who commanded them reckons a great number, which he received in the various combats they had to maintain. At last their united efforts succeeded in dispersing the masses that advanced furiously against them.
During this combat, Mr. Corréard was informed, by one of his workmen who remained faithful, that one of their comrades, named Dominique, had taken part with the mutineers, and that he had just been thrown into the sea.
Immediately forgetting the fault and the treachery of this man, he threw himself in after him, at the place where the voice of the wretch had just been heard calling for assistance; he seized him by the hair, and had the good fortune to get him on board. Dominique had received, in a charge, several sabre wounds, one of which had laid open his head. Notwithstanding the darkness we found the wound, which appeared to us to be very considerable. One of the workmen gave his handkerchief to bind it up and stanch the blood. Our care revived this wretch; but as soon as he recovered his strength, the ungrateful Dominique, again forgetting his duty and the signal service that he had just received from us, went to rejoin the mutineers. So much baseness and fury did not go unpunished; and soon afterwards, while combating us anew, he met with his death, from which he, in fact, did not merit to be rescued, but which he would probably have avoided, if faithful to honor and to gratitude, he had remained among us.
Just when we had almost finished applying a kind of dressing to the wounds of Dominique, another voice was heard; it was that of the unfortunate woman who was on the raft with us, and whom the madmen had thrown into the sea, as well as her husband, who defended her with courage. Mr. Corréard, in despair at seeing two poor wretches perish, whose lamentable cries, especially those of the woman, pierced his heart, seized a large rope which was on the front of the raft, which he fastened round the middle of his body, and threw himself, a second time, into the sea, whence he was so happy as to rescue the woman, who invoked, with all her might, the aid of Our Lady of Laux, while her husband was likewise saved by the chief workman, Lavillette. We seated these two poor people upon dead bodies, with their backs leaning against a barrel. In a few minutes they had recovered their senses. The first thought of the woman was to enquire the name of him who had saved her, and to testify to him the warmest gratitude. Thinking, doubtless, that her words did not sufficiently express her sentiments, she recollected that she had, in her pocket, a little snuff, and immediately offered it to him–it was all she possessed. Touched by this present, but not making use of this antiscorbutic, Mr. Corréard, in turn, made a present of it to a poor sailor, who used it three or four days. But a more affecting scene, which it is impossible for us to describe, is the joy which this unfortunate couple displayed when they had sufficiently recovered their senses to see that they were saved.
The mutineers being repulsed, as we have said above, left us at this moment a little repose. The moon with her sad beams, illumined this fatal raft, this narrow space, in which were united so many heart-rending afflictions, so many cruel distresses, a fury so insensate, a courage so heroic, the most pleasing and generous sentiments of nature and humanity.
