As I crawled out to starboard with a couple of hands, Jackson of Trunnell’s watch and Davis of mine, the murmur to the southward swelled rapidly in volume.  I glanced into the blackness, and as I did so there was a blinding flash.  My eyes seemed to be burned out with the brightness, and a crashing roar thundered in my ears.  Instantly afterward I heard Trunnell’s voice:—­

“Hard up the wheel.  Hard up, for God’s sake!”

Then, with a rush that made the mast creak with the strain and laid us slowly over amid a thunder of thrashing canvas, the hurricane struck the ship.

There was nothing to do but hold on with both hands and feet.  Jackson, who was outside of me, gripped the jackstay and threw his feet around the yard-arm which was springing and jumping away at a terrific rate with the shock of the cracking topsail.  I did likewise, and noticed that the canvas was bellying forward, which showed that we were not aback.  If we were, I knew our lives were only questions of seconds.  All sounds from below were silenced in the roar about us, but flash after flash, following rapidly in succession, showed me momentary glimpses of the deck.

We were far over the water as the Pirate was laying down with her topgallant rail beneath the sea.  The mizzen topsail had disappeared, as though made of vapor, leaving the mizzen clear.  Forward, the two topsails and fore topmast staysail were holding, but between the flashes the upper canvas melted away like a puff of steam, the ragged ends flying and thrashing into long ribbons to leeward.  Three men were on the yard when I looked at first, and then, almost instantly afterward, the yard was bare.  Whether they had gone overboard I could not tell, but the thought made me look to myself while I might.

Pulling myself along the jackstay until I reached the bunt, I managed to grasp a line that was tailing taut downward toward the deck.  This I grasped quickly with both hands, and bawling with all my might to Jackson and Davis to follow, I swung clear of the yard.  Looking below, the sea appeared as white as milk in the ghastly light, with the ship’s outline now dimly discernible in contrast.  I breathed a prayer that the line was fast amidships and slid down.  There was a terrific ripping instantly overhead, and I knew the topsail had gone.  The line bowed out with the wind, but led toward the deck near the mast, and in a moment my feet struck the fife rail.  I was safe for the present.  Jackson followed close upon me, but Davis was unable to get the line.  He was never seen again.

Making my way aft by the aid of the weather rail, I reached the poop and climbed up the steps.  The wind nearly swept me from my feet, but I managed to crawl aft to where I could make out by the flashes the forms of Trunnell and the skipper.

“She’ll go off soon,” yelled the mate in my ear.  “Nothin’ gone forrads yet, hey?”

“Only the canvas and a couple of men,” I yelled in reply.