Loss of the Caribou, The

DESCRIPTION: The steamship Caribou is torpedoed and sunk and passengers are lost. "Here at Channel ... widows and sweethearts and orphans cry and fret" Most of the men "belonged to" Port-aux-Basques. "The funeral was the largest ever known here"
AUTHOR: unknown(listed as by Mrs. Peter Musseau by Thornhill)
EARLIEST DATE: 1945 (Thornhill, _It Happened In October_)
KEYWORDS: grief war travel death drowning funeral commerce sea ship shore disaster wreck religious children family orphan
HISTORICAL REFERENCES:
Oct 14, 1942 - The ferry Caribou was torpedoed by a German submarine going from North Sydney Nova Scotia to Port aux Basques, Newfoundland; 137 lives lost. (per Guigné, Northern Shipwrecks Database)
FOUND IN: Canada(Newf)
REFERENCES (4 citations):
Guigné-ForgottenSongsOfTheNewfoundlandOutports, pp. 244-246, "The Loss of the Caribou" (1 text, 1 tune)
ADDITIONAL:H. Thornhill, _It Happened in October: The Tragic Sinking of the S. S. Caribou_, no publisher listed, 1945, pp. 61-63, "(Come old and young, come rich and poor)" (1 text)
Douglas How, _Night of the Caribou_, Lancelot Press, 1988, p. 144, "(Remember the Caribou)" (1 excerpt, from H. Thornhill's _It Happened In October_ [mis-identified as _It Happened One Night_], plus three other pieces from the same source)
Harry Bruce, _Lifeline: The Story of the Atlantic Ferries and Coastal Boats_, Macmillan of Canada, 1977, p. 47, "(no title)" (1 partial text, also from _It Happened In October_)
Roud #18200
RECORDINGS:
Ernest Poole, "The Caribou" (on MUNFLA/Leach)
CROSS-REFERENCES:
cf. "Spancil Hill" (tune)
SAME TUNE:
The Swiler's Song (File: RySm144)
NOTES [4464 words]: Channel is a town once separate from the town of Port-aux-Basques, at the southwest corner of Newfoundland. - BS
The combination is now known as Channel-Port aux Basques (How, p. 142), but it appears that most of the crew of the Caribou came from Channel, the English part of town.
Wikipedia has a medium-sized entry ("SS Caribou") which, as of January 2018, had no photo but an extensive set of references, mostly to magazine articles or books which mentioned the ship only briefly. There is one relatively accessible book, How's, specific to the tragedy, plus a graphic novel for children, Jennifer Morgan, Almost Home: The Sinking of the S. S. Caribou, which I have not seen. There is also an historical novel by Kevin Major, Land Beyond the Sea. In addition, the well-known Newfoundland writer Cassie Brown published a book The Caribou Disaster, which was later republished (with some pretty irrelevant additions) as Writing the Sea. It contains a reprint of a newspaper article about the Caribou tragedy, but it is short and doesn't say anything not covered in How's book (or indeed in the Wikipedia article), although it has a few photos I haven't seen elsewhere; her account is all human interest stories.
More important, as the first book to publish this song, is H. Thornhill's It Happened in October: The Tragic Sinking of the S.S. Caribou, which however extremely hard to find -- and is a truly crummy book, a small format collection of facts and recollections without any real organization. Sources can't even seem to agree if it was published in 1945 or 1954, although the front page says explicitly that it was published in November 1945. As a history, it is extremely incomplete; it was written before the German records were available to prove that a submarine has sunk the Caribou, and it doesn't even discuss the escort, but it has some use for learning about how people felt at the time since it consists largely of accounts by survivors and witnesses (Bruce, p. 51).
Bruce, p. 47, claims that the Caribou was "the biggest, fastest, toughest, most reliable, and best-loved ferry that had ever sailed between Port-aux-Basques and North Sydney. She was some sweet ship." She had been built in 1925 to symbolize that (in 1923) Newfoundland had finally taken over the Newfoundland Railway and its associated coastal steamers (Connors, p. 48; How, p. 30; for a bit more on the fantastically improbable story of the Railway and the "Alphabet Fleet," see "The Wreck of the Steamship Ethie").
The Caribou was a large car ferry ("car" meaning "railroad car"; there were very few automobiles, or passable roads, in Newfoundland at the time!); she was capable of carrying fifty cars (Harding, p. 140; Lingard, p. 54). Her run went from from Sydney in Nova Scotia to Port aux Basques in southwest Newfoundland, a 96 mile trip (How, pp. 26-27); this is where Newfoundland is closest to mainland Canada (excluding the almost unpopulated areas of Canada north of the St. Lawrence), and remains a ferry route today. Connors, p. 50, says she was 276 feet long and 2222 tons; Bruce, p. 48, says she cost $600,000, was 265 feet long and 41 feet wide, was 2200 tons, was designed to break ice, and could steam at 14.5 knots; Harding, p. 140, mixes these figures, giving her length as 265 feet, her width as 41 feet, and 2222 gross tons, a figure also quoted by CuffEtAl, p. 1; Thornhill, p. 12, makes her 265 feet long, 40 feet wide, 2200 tons but gives no speed. Her 14.5 knot speed meant that, at top speed, she could cross between Nova Scotia and Newfoundland in about six hours, not counting the time navigating the harbors (where submarine attack was unlikely), although apparently the usual crossing time was eight hours (How, p. 33). She could carry 400 passengers (150 of them in first class), and she had facilities to keep them occupied during the crossing. She was built by A. Goodwin-Hamilton S. Adamson Limited of Rotterdam (CuffEtAl, p. 1; Thornhill p. 12).
Newfoundland was so happy to have her that they actually issued a two cent stamp with a picture of her and a caption that read "S.S. CARIBOU 9 HOURS TO SYDNEY N. S." (reproduced on CuffEtAl, p. 2).
Like most of Newfoundland's best ships, the Caribou once served as a sealer in the spring before resuming her regular duties; in 1935, under Billy Winsor (for whom see "Capt. Frederick Harris and the Grates Cove Seal Killers of 1915"), she took the most seals of any ship in the fleet -- often a sign that she handled well in the ice. But that was her only sealing voyage (my guess is that this is because she had limited coal capacity; Ryan-Last, p. 219, says she only had enough bunker capacity to hold the coal for her trip between ports, so the sailors spent most of her sealing trip moving coal from odd corners). She had proved highly reliable, having only one accident in seventeen years (she had run aground in fog in on August 18, 1930, but everyone survived and she was soon back in service; Bruce, p. 49; Harding, p. 140).
American histories of the Battle of the Atlantic rarely mention the war in Canadian waters, but as Britain derived more and more help from Canada, and became more and more dependent on Newfoundland (not yet part of Canada) as a naval base, the region around Newfoundland and the Maritimes became the site of the naval Battle of the St. Lawrence. The first major casualty was the British freighter Nicoya, sunk on May 11, 1942, by the U-533 (How, p. 18). Over the next half a year, the U-boats sank dozens of ships in the area.
Canada was ill-prepared; only two ships had been sunk by the Germans in Canadian waters in World War I, so Canada had very little naval strength (Sarty, p. 9; Milner, p. 71, says that she had just six modern destroyers before the war, and they mostly served in convoy escort, and no ability to build more); in the early years of the war, Canada had to accept what Britain gave it. Things were so desperate that, as late as 1942, Canada was still using minimally-modified yachts as antisubmarine craft! (Sarty, p. 64).
The Caribou was important enough to rate an escort, but all that was available was a minesweeper, the Grandmère a member of the Bangor class (How, p. 26). The big advantage of the Bangors was that they could be built by Canada's rather limited shipbuilding industry rather than calling for the more advanced construction facilities of a British naval shipyard (Sarty, p. 31); by using them, Canada was using its own ships for submarine defense. Even these relatively simple ships were a strain for the Canadian yards (Sarty, p. 59); it took a while for the ships to come into service. The whole class was new (built in the 1940s); Grandmère herself was commissioned in December 1941 and had had a lot of work done even after that (indeed, her main wireless conked out when she most needed it; How, p. 66, and her engines had failed in the first two weeks of her career; Macpherson, p. 51), but many in the class had the old triple expansion engines rather than the more powerful turbines (a third sequence had diesel engines), and were armed with only a single 3-inch gun plus a handful of light anti-aircraft guns (Jane's, p. 69). Their wartime crew consisted of six officers and 77 men (Macpherson, p. 46). Worth, p. 121, calls their anti-submarine capabilities "modest" -- but the submarine threat was so great that the Bangors were pressed into the role despite their severe limits. At least they had depth charges and ASDIC (sonar), although a request to install a radar set in the Grandmère had been turned down because the supply was too constrained (How, p. 40).
The Grandmère was commanded by 32-year-old Lieutenant James Cuthbert (How, p. 26), who was a member of the Royal Canadian Naval Volunteer Reserve (Greenfield, p. 183) -- meaning that he wasn't even part of the "regular" reserve, but was a merchant sailor who had a few classes in naval affairs (Greenfield, pp. 163-164; based on Sarty, p. 9, members of this group sometimes hadn't even trained on a ship). For more about the RCNVR, see the notes to "Roll Along Wavy Navy"; they were the second string reserve, behind the Royal Canadian Naval Reserve, meaning that a lot of them were farm boys fresh from the fields. Cuthbert had sea experience; hardly anyone else aboard the Grandmère did (How, p. 41). In a way, the crew was lucky even to have someone as raw as Cuthbert; the immense expansion of the Canadian navy meant that, at this stage, there simply wasn't enough cadre to properly officer the ships.
The Caribou was thus considerably older, and larger, than her guardian.
For the last fourteen of her seventeen years, the Caribou's commander had been Benjamin Taverner (How, p. 31. "Taverner" is How's, Galgay/McCarthy's, and Greenfield's spelling; Hanrahan and Thornhill spell is "Tavernor." The newspaper article on p. 49 of Connors also spells it "Tavernor," but with a "[sic]," so Connors clearly accepts the spelling "Taverner"). He was only the third captain the ship had ever had (Galgay/McCarthy, p. 63). A Newfoundlander born in Trinity (Thornhill, p. 18), he was 62 years old in 1942, and approaching retirement; as early as the 1910s, he had been responsible for various marine rescues as captain of the SS Kyle (Hanrahan, pp. 72-77). By 1942, he had two of his sons as junior officers -- Stanley Taverner, 32, was his first mate; 22-year-old Harold Taverner is his third mate (How, p. 32; the plan was Stanley Tavernor to take over the ship when his father retired; Bruce, p. 56). None of them would survive the disaster. Nor were the Taverners the only sailing family to be hit hard; the large fraction of the Caribou's crew from Port-aux-Basques, the Caribou's home port, and nearby Channel saw to that (How, p. 32).
The passengers on the ship included six infants of no more than two years old, and five other children under the age of ten (How, p. 53).
Ironically, the ship had been rebuilt and strengthened just a few months before, and had better lifesaving equipment than at any time in her career. What's more, Captain Taverner took the lifeboat drills seriously (How, p. 33), and was serious about keeping her blacked out. He knew he had reason to worry; four days earlier, Oberleutnant Ulrich Graf's U-69 had sunk another vessel, the Carolus, which was about the same size as the Caribou and in a convoy with a heavier escort, in Canadian waters (How, p. 35). The Caribou did not manage to practice good "smoke discipline" about the smoke from her funnel, though, and apparently Captain Taverner wasn't happy about sailing at night (How, p. 46; according to How, pp. 130-132, etc., this eventually became a political hot potato regarding who gave the order and why. It's an interesting question: by sailing at night, the authorities made it harder for a submarine to spot the ship -- but they also made it harder for the ship and her escort to see the submarine, and it meant that the two Canadian ships could not see each other or conduct an efficient rescue. My personal feeling is that ships were safer at night, but that this was offset by the fact that everyone would be sleepy and inefficient).
Lieutenant Cuthbert of the Grandmère often tried to get to know the commanders of the ships he escorted, but he had never met Ben Taverner (How, p. 44). Did it matter? Who knows? The two ships left port at about 8:00 p.m., the Grandmère first (How, p. 44). They rendezvoused around 9:30, and began zigzagging at a speed of 12-13 knots (How, p. 46). It was known there were submarines in the area; U-69 called home a lot, and the signals were detected (Sarty, p. 196). But in the darkness, the Grandmère had no way to spot a submarine near the surface; ASDIC only worked on subs below a certain depth, and as mentioned, the Grandmère had no radar. Plus the mix of hot and cold water, and fresh and salt, in the mouth of the St. Lawrence made ASDIC less than reliable. What's more, doctrine said that the Caribou should sail in front, so the noise of her propellers meant that the Grandmère ASDIC couldn't search forward (How, p. 62). And the blacked-out ships were not supposed to contact each other by wireless or blinker (How, p. 60); Captain Taverner didn't even know where his escort was located.
Not a good situation when facing a skilled opponent like Graf; the U-69's skipper was still in his twenties, but he had been in the navy for seven years, and was smart and skilled enough to have risen through the enlisted ranks to become an officer. And he had won the Iron Cross, both first and second class (How, pp. 49-50).
U-69 itself was a Type VII C U-boat, the most common U-boat class of the war (in fact, according to Bagnasco, p. 65, she was the very first boat of type C of class VII, although of course there had been many Type A and Type B boats before her). Bagnasco, p. 62, describes these boats as 769 tons surfaces, 871 tons submerged, with a length of 218 feet 3 inches (making them rather small by World War II standards; they were well-armed but very cramped). Listed speed was 17.6 knots on the surface, 7.6 submerged; they had a surface range of 8500 miles at 10 knots, and 130 miles at 2 knots submerged. They had four forward torpedo tubes, one stern tube, and normally carried 14 torpedoes. They originally typically had a 3.4" main gun and some antiaircraft guns, but many changed their main weapons during the war.
The U-69 picked a great time to attack if it wanted to cause civilian casualties -- it was around 3:30 a.m. (How, p. 58, although the three ships involved all logged somewhat different times), and the Caribou so close to Newfoundland that she was soon to stop zigzagging as she prepared to go into the harbor -- if indeed she hasn't already straightened out her course (How, pp. 59, 115). So everyone who could get to sleep probably was asleep.
Not surprisingly, U-69 had a hard time identifying her targets with much precision -- she guessed the Caribou to be 6500 tonnes, three times her actual displacement. But Graf correctly identified the lead ship as a freighter/passenger vessel, and the second as a warship (How, p. 61). He fired a single torpedo, which hit the Caribou amidships (How, p. 63). Her boilers apparently exploded soon after; she went down very quickly (How, p. 72).
Some have regarded this as an atrocity, but it should be stressed that many passenger ships were converted to wartime use; there was no way for Graf to know there were civilians aboard. And she carried military cargo -- and reportedly was carrying as much freight as was legally allowed, which might have hastened her sinking (Greenfield, p. 185).
The Caribou's lifeboats were little use. Some were smashed. Those in the rear, since they had not been swung out, survived -- but passengers filled them before they could be swung out, meaning that they could not be launched! (How, p. 73). Only two would make it into the water (How, p. 74). And one boat did not have its seacocks in place -- in other words, it had holes in it! (How, p. 82). Fortunately it hauled a Newfoundlander aboard, and he straightened things out (How, p. 83).
The best guess is that it was only four to five minutes from the time the torpedo hit to the time the Caribou went down (How, p. 76). This means that we don't really have much knowledge about what happened aboard during those few minutes; many lives were lost, and survivors didn't have much time to see what happened, and memories of such stressful events are often inaccurate.
To add to the problems of the survivors, they were in northern waters in October. Best guess is that the air temperature was 46° F when the Caribou went down (How, pp. 92-93). Not too bad, for that time of night at that time of year. People who never went into the water could survive that. Those who got wet -- either from sea or spray -- would have a harder time.
The wind made it worse. It was 12 miles per hour at the time of the torpedoing; it rose to about 20 miles per hour over the next several hours. Passengers in the boats avoided the wind and covered themselves as best they could (How, p. 100).
Convoy doctrine said that, in the event a ship was damaged, the escorts should not attempt a rescue; their job was to go after the submarine. So that was what the Grandmère did. The escort could see U-69, and headed for her at top speed; apparently Lt. Cuthbert wanted to ram (How, p. 67). Graf could perhaps have escaped on the surface, or even won a surface battle -- his ship was slightly faster than the Grandmère, with a top speed of 17 knots (although it would take time to get up to speed), and it also had a heavier main gun -- indeed, it was the larger of the two vessels (Worth, p. 69). But, in the dark, Graf couldn't tell details of the Grandmère; what he knew is that an escort was coming for him, and he chose to dive rather than fight (How, pp. 72-73). The Grandmère dropped a series of depth charges without hitting U-69 (How, p. 78). The submarine then headed for where the Caribou sank, correctly anticipating that the Grandmère could not track, and would not attack, it there, where the survivors were gathered (How, pp. 85, 92-93).
The Grandmère never did get an ASDIC trace. She hunted for at least eighty minutes, and possibly as much as two hours, but never located the U-69 (How, p. 95). At the end of that time, she gave up and went to rescue the Caribou survivors. This of course meant that U-69 could have sunk her too -- but Lt. Cuthbert correctly guessed that the sub was not hunting in the area any more. As it turns out, it was staying down -- because it can't hear the Grandmère's ASDIC! (How, p. 97).
Around 6:00, as it grew light, the Royal Canadian Air Force sent out a plane to search for survivors (How, p. 98); sadly, the plane and ship seem to have had trouble communicating (How, p. 100). Another plane, and four navy ships, joined them later (How, p. 106). But most of the rescues were done by the Grandmère, which picked up its first survivors around 6:30 (How, p. 99). At about the same time, small craft started to set out from Port aux Basques despite the worsening seas (How, p. 101). The town prepared a makeshift hospital for the survivors that were expected shortly (How, p. 103) -- although the Navy, being the Navy, ordered the Grandmère to make for Sydney rather than nearby Port aux Basques. (Given that Port aux Basques didn't have electricity or running water at that time -- Greenfield, p. 191 -- that may have been for the best.) The authorities also try to keep the whole thing quiet -- but it seems that everyone knew (How, p. 110-111). It could hardly be kept secret at Port aux Basques, since bodies start to arrive there on the following evening (How, pp. 113-115).
There is some uncertainty as to how many were aboard; Galgay/McCathy, p. 63, and Sarty, p. xxi, say 237; Andrieux and Lingard, p. 54, say 238; but most of the other writers give totals that add up to 240 (plus or minus one). Smith, p. 115, says there were 206 passengers and on p. 116 implies 239 people aboard in all
The total losses are listed as 136 by How, by Bercuson, p. 95, and by Smith, p. 116; Bruce, p. 55, Galgay/McCarthy, p. 66, Greenfield, p. 182, Andrieux, p. 121, and Ryan/Drake, p. 43, say 137 were lost; this is also the figure in the newspaper article quoted on p. 49 of Connors; Sarty, p. xxi, implies 134 casualties (but this may refer to those who died in the water, excluding the two survivors who died after rescue). CuffEtAl, p. 5, break down the dead as 48 civilian passengers; 20 navy, 12 army, and 18 air force personnel; eight American militar, and 31 crew, for a total of 137. Thornhill, pp. 33-35, gives a list of 105 who were lost and 100 survivors but lists 31 crew separately without saying that they were all lost (but if we add 105 and 31, we get 136 lost, as above).
All sources except Thornhill say there were 103 or 104 survivors (How, p. 107; the discrepancy in the number of survivors is unexplained; Galgay/McCarthy, p. 66, and Sarty, p. xxi, say that the Grandmère rescued 103 but that two died after rescue, which again shows how confused the records were; Bruce, p. 55; CuffEtAl, p. 5; Connors, p. 49; and Lingard, p. 54, simply say that there were 101 survivors). The casualty rate among women was higher than among men; only eight of 26 survived, and most of them needed hospitalization (How, p. 107). Only one of eleven children survived (How, p. 110). Just 15 of the Caribou's crew of 46 survived; the captain and his three senior officers were all dead (Bruce, p. 55; How, p. 109). It is said to be the worst single loss Newfoundland would suffer in the entire war. The port of Channel suffered the highest losses -- 16 men and one woman (Greenfield, p. 182). Given that the area was reported to have only about two thousand people (Greenfield, p. 191), that means that it lost about 1% of its population! Supposedly there were 21 widows and 51 orphans in the area (Bruce, p. 55; Galgay/McCarthy, p. 66).
Greenfield, pp. 242-247, has a list of all people killed in the Battle of the St. Lawrence, including on pp. 244-246 a list of those lost on the Caribou. Deaths on the Caribou represented almost exactly half the losses on all ships in 1942, and almost all the true non-combatants.
Two days after the disaster, Ottawa finally admitted the story -- and, of course, broadcast it as an atrocity, an unprovoked attack on civilians (How, pp. 116-117). It should be repeated that, although civilians died, the Allies often used passenger ships like the Caribou for munitions and even as troop transports. The Caribou herself had been so used, and she was escorted by a navy ship (How, p. 126). She was clearly, by the doctrine of the time, a legitimate target.
There were multiple inquests, one made by the authorities at once and two later, after the public outcry -- two of them largely in the hands of a certain Captain Dalton (How, p. 127). Dalton's first report, which was frankly done much too quickly, accepted some of the atrocity stories; the second was more cautious and gave the Grandmère more credit, although it sounds as if only the report by the Canadian naval forces really gave her her due (How, p. 128).
The Caribou story became a rallying cry for Canada in World War II (with exaggerations and falsehoods, naturally, such as a claim that the U-boat had rammed and/or machine gunned a lifeboat; How, p. 119). This is twice ironic -- ironic first because Newfoundland, which bore the largest share of the cost, was not yet part of Canada; and second because the Caribou was the last ship the Germans sank in Canadian waters in 1942 (How, p. 122), so Canada was no longer under threat after she went down. (The Canadians, after a weak and chaotic initial response, had improved their defenses enough that their aircraft sank a couple of U-boats before the Caribou met her fate; Sarty, pp. 214-215). The Canadian navy did change some of its doctrines (How, p. 133), but with the U-boats going elsewhere, we don't really know if this made any difference.
U-69 and its skipper Graf was sunk with all hands by the Viscount on February 17, 1943 (How, p. 124). It was not until 1985 that her log was examined in detail and it became clear that she had seen both the Caribou and the Grandmère -- reducing but not entirely eliminating the bitterness among Canadians who remembered the sinking (How, p. 146).
The Caribou incident was the biggest event of the Grandmère's career; Macpherson's summary on p. 51 does not mention anything she did after that. In 1947, most of the Bangors were scrapped or mothballed or sold off; theGrandmère became a yacht (Macpherson, p. 51).
A memorial was set up at Port aux Basques on October 14, 1947, the fifth anniversary of the sinking (Sarty, p. 305).
In 1986, when a new ship took over the Sydney/Channel run, it was decided to name her the Caribou, and a survivor dropped a wreath near the site of the wreck (Galgay/McCarthy, p. 68). A later Newfoundland coastal boat was named the Taverner in honor of the Caribou's captain (photo on p. 70 of Connors).
There are photos of the Caribou and the Grandmère facing p. 76 of How; a plan of the U-69 follows, then photos of Captain Taverner and his sons, of Lieutenant Cuthbert, and others from both ships. Bruce, in the photo insert following p. 78; Greenfield, in the photo insert preceding p. 131; Andrieux, p. 120; Lingard, p. 54, Ryan/Drake, p. 43; and Neary/O'Flaherty, p. 146 also have pictures of the Caribou; O'Neill, p. 951, shows a memorial card (?) which shows not only the ship but her captain and thirty of her passengers and crew. Galgay/McCarthy, p. 62, shows the Caribou being launched, and p. 66 shows her at sea. Connors, p. 50, also has a photo of her sailing along the coast. Macpherson, p. 51, has two (better) photos of Grandmère and dozens of photos of other members of the class, plus a design plan (shrunk to the point of near-illegibility) on p. 59. CuffEtAl has a good photo of the Grandmère on p. 9 and a poor one of Captain Taverner on p. 5, plus a very dark one of the Caribou on p. 15. Thornhill has many photographs of the Caribou, including during her construction, and dozens of photos of those who sailed on her, but most are very poorly reproduced. Smith, p. 114, has a photo of the Caribou and one of the captain (whose name he misspells as "Tavnor") on p. 114 and shows the memorial card on p. 116.
Thornhill lists this song as "Composed by Mrs. Peter Musseau, Lake Brook, Nfld. and dedicated to the memory of the S.S. Caribou and those who were lost." This attribution seems to be largely forgotten, if indeed it is accurate; Thornhill's pages are scattered with snippets of poems with poor attributions. What is certain is that the song went into oral tradition and quickly developed variations.
The song as printed by Guigné-ForgottenSongsOfTheNewfoundlandOutports is mostly historically accurate (not too surprising, given that it was collected just nine years after the event). The Caribou was lost on October 14, to a torpedo, in the early morning. The song says there were fourteen children on the ship, whereas How gives the number as eleven, but that depends on just how you define children. The song correctly lists the captain and two sons among the casualties, although I don't recall any of the printed accounts mentioning their bodies being found. And the recriminations show just how important the ship was (or, at least, came to be) for Newfoundlanders.
It's interesting to note that the first ship on the Sydney/Port-aux-Basques run, the Bruce, also has a song; see "The Loss of the Bruce." - RBW
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