quid in his cheek.

“Well, Dick Galbraith, this here’s stunning weather, ain’t it. My stars—I mean them at home and not those there big moons up yonder with which I’ve nothing to do—but in all my viages, I’ve never made such a run as this.”

“No, indeed,” I rejoined; “it seems almost too good to last.”

“Ah, that’s it, my boy—that’s it,” answered the old boatswain. “That’s it; we ain’t in sight of Madras yet.”

The stress on the last word made me say, “Do you expect any change, Grimes? Is bad weather brewing?”

“Rather,” he replied; “and when you have been a sailor as long as I have, and with as grey hair, you’ll think so too. Haven’t you noticed that the wind has slightly veered?”

“No,” I said, instinctively putting his words to the test by wetting the palm of my hand and holding it up to the soft night breeze. “Yes, Grimes, you are right,” I continued. “It’s Sou’-Sou’-West, and was due South but half-an-hour ago.”

“Yes, it’s been varying from South to Sou’-West and Sou’-Sou’-East for the last hour, and may chop round to East or North-East and send a perfect hurricane in our teeth. It’s my opinion that that is what it just will do.”

“Why?” I asked, for old Tom Grimes was an oracle with the crew.

“Why? my lad, why? Because—there just notice the vibration of the ship as she bounds over the waves—don’t you notice a kind of imperceptible stress in the movement, and a slight recoil?”

“Well, I certainly do; yet it is so slight.”

“Ah! A hurricane can come from a cloud only the size of a man’s hand, and that vibration shows a cross-sea running. Mark my words, Galbraith, we shan’t go many days, if one, before there is an unpleasant change of weather.”

“Well, never mind, if we can only weather it,” I laughed; and just then, the watch being changed, I went below and turned into my hammock, where, falling speedily asleep, I forgot all about old Grimes’ prophecies.

The next morning’s dawn, however, proved them only to be too true. The blue sky we had enjoyed for so long was overcast with large ominous-looking clouds, while the wind had already chopped round to East. The ship was rigged for hard weather; and just an hour after sunset, when about latitude 33 degrees 29 minutes South, longitude 42 degrees 12 minutes East, the gale struck us dead in our teeth. The heavens had suddenly become of an inky blackness; the sea rushing high, with that hollow roar as if it rose from vast caverns in its depths, frequently swept the decks; while the wind increased to such a terrific pitch that it was with the greatest difficulty we could hold our course.

Scarcely half-an-hour elapsed before we saw that the danger of the ship was imminent. In my seven years’ experience never had I witnessed such a storm, nor one which did such speedy execution. At each succeeding wave the large ship started and quivered in every one of her timbers, while sail after sail flew from the bolt ropes, and was lost in a minute’s space in the darkness to leeward. Each man that night had his full share of duty; and I noticed the Captain—a noble, brave-hearted fellow, as he stood issuing his orders, which the gale scarcely permitted to be heard—looked every moment anxiously at the rigging. Finally surrendering his speaking trumpet to the mate, he descended quickly to the cabin.

It was not many moments before he returned, and, hidden by the darkness, I heard him address the mate in a grave tone.

“Sanders, I fear we are in a bad way.”

“Where abouts are we, sir?” responded the other.

“Heaven alone knows; for the electricity in the storm has rendered the compass almost useless. But, judging from where we were before the gale struck us, and from how we have been drifting since, I fancy we are near the African coast—too near, I fear, for we cannot with certainty make for any known harbour.”

“I reckon,” said the mate, “that we are not far from the Mozambique.”

“I fancy so too. Would to Heaven I could get but one glimpse of the Southern Cross. We might then with some chance make for Natal or Delagoa Bay.”

And he turned his eyes hopelessly up at the impenetrable blackness—hopeless indeed, for there was no sign of breaking there.

Hardly had I noted this when a cry of terror escaped from the lips of the whole crew. A terrific wind, accompanied by a quick succession of mountainous waves, had carried away at one sweep the jib-boom, fore-top-mast, gallant-mast, and royal-mast, leaving them still clinging to the ship by the stays, so impeding her progress that she rolled in the deep troughs of the sea as if every moment she would plunge in to rise no more. Our peril was not, however, yet at the worst; for hardly had a little calm succeeded this last damage, and the wreck had been cleared away—at the expense of two poor fellows’ lives—than, staggering on to the deck with pallid face, came the carpenter, with the awful announcement that the ship had sprung a leak, and the water was even then some feet deep in the hold.

The order was given—“All hands to the pumps;” and men wearied beyond apparent endurance before, at this danger were animated with fresh strength, and worked like giants.

Worked!—but to what purpose? Each anxious message sent down to learn how much the water had decreased, only brought back the desponding reply of an increase,—first, so many inches; then a foot; then two; then the terrible truth that, work with the strength of fifty giants, all would be useless. The ship was doomed—was sinking, sinking rapidly into the midst of that black, boiling, awful sea. If all men’s hearts grew faint at the news, was it a matter of wonder? Even the Captain’s cheek was pale as he gave the order to lower the boats, a command rapidly obeyed, but which only disclosed fresh disasters; for it was found that the starboard lifeboat had gone. They had therefore to repair to the starboard cutter, and with difficulty was it lowered to leeward, when it was speedily filled by some of the crew.

I stood by the captain, determined not to leave him; and cutting away the ropes, we watched the cutter take its course. Not for long did it keep it; for with a terrific cry from its wretched freight, echoed by all on the doomed ship, it foundered, leaving but a struggling mass of human beings on the surface, to be quickly engulphed by the mighty waves. The captain gave one lingering look, uttered a short prayer for them and for us, then, turning, wrung my hand, saying, while, I fancy, tears stood in his eyes—

“Galbraith, my man, our time will come next—our hour is at hand. Orders, now, in the wreck my poor, my beloved ship have become useless. We must part. Her fate is sealed, and so, I believe, is ours. God help us! Let each one now look for what safety he can. Goodbye—farewell—my men! God have mercy upon us! Should any chance to survive this terrible night, let him take the last farewells of those less fortunate to the dear ones left at home.”

A sad cheer rose from the poor fellows’ throats, and solemnly the captain, raising his eyes to heaven, uttered a brief appeal to God for himself and his crew—an appeal fervently repeated by each man. Then one and all sought some spar or other to which to attach himself, and thus