The mate’s watch that night was from twelve to four, and the moon was shining brightly for the first hour of it.  In the early morning, however, it clouded over, and the Golden Rod plunged into one of those dim clammy mists which lie on all that tract of ocean.  So thick was it that from the poop one could just make out the loom of the foresail, but could see nothing of the fore-topmast-stay sail or the jib.  The wind was north-east with a very keen edge to it, and the dainty brigantine lay over, scudding along with her lee rails within hand’s touch of the water.  It had suddenly turned very cold—­so cold that the mate stamped up and down the poop, and his four seamen shivered together under the shelter of the bulwarks.  And then in a moment one of them was up, thrusting with his forefinger into the air and screaming, while a huge white wall sprang out of the darkness at the very end of the bowsprit, and the ship struck with a force which snapped her two masts like dried reeds in a wind, and changed her in an instant to a crushed and shapeless heap of spars and wreckage.

The mate had shot the length of the poop at the shock, and had narrowly escaped from the falling mast, while of his four men two had been hurled through the huge gap which yawned in the bows, while a third had dashed his head to pieces against the stock of the anchor.  Tomlinson staggered forwards to find the whole front part of the vessel driven inwards, and a single seaman sitting dazed amid splintered spars, flapping sails, and writhing, lashing cordage.  It was still as dark as pitch, and save the white crest of a leaping wave nothing was to be seen beyond the side of the vessel.  The mate was peering round him in despair at the ruin which had come so suddenly upon them when he found Captain Ephraim at his elbow, half clad, but as wooden and as serene as ever.

“An iceberg,” said he, sniffing at the chill air.  “Did you not smell it, friend Tomlinson?”

“Truly I found it cold, Captain Savage, but I set it down to the mist.”

“There is a mist ever set around them, though the Lord in His wisdom knows best why, for it is a sore trial to poor sailor men.  She makes water fast, Mr. Tomlinson.  She is down by the bows already.”

The other watch had swarmed upon deck and one of them was measuring the well.  “There is three feet of water,” he cried, “and the pumps sucked dry yesterday at sundown.”

“Hiram Jefferson and John Moreton to the pumps!” cried the captain.  “Mr. Tomlinson, clear away the long-boat and let us see if we may set her right, though I fear that she is past mending.”

“The long-boat has stove two planks,” cried a seaman.

“The jolly-boat, then?”

“She is in three pieces.”

The mate tore his hair, but Ephraim Savage smiled like a man who is gently tickled by some coincidence.

“Where is Amos Green?”

“Here, Captain Ephraim.  What can I do?”