Not one day of calm delayed us, the north-east trades meeting us like a friend sent to extend a welcoming hand and lend us his assistance on our homeward way.  They hung so far to the eastward, too—­sometimes actually at east-by-north-that we were able to steer north on the starboard tack—­a slice of luck not usually met with.  This “slant” put all hands in the best of humours, and already the date of our arrival was settled by the more sanguine ones, as well as excellent plans made for spending the long voyage’s earnings.

For my part, having been, in spite of my youth, accustomed to so many cruel disappointments and slips between the cup and lip, I was afraid to dwell too hopefully upon the pleasures (?) of getting ashore.  And after the incident which I have now to record occurred, I felt more nervous distrust than I had ever felt before at sea since first I began to experience the many vicissitudes of a sailor’s life.

We had reached the northern verge of the tropics in a very short time, owing to the favourable cant in the usual direction of the north-east trades before noted, and had been met with north-westerly winds and thick, dirty weather, which was somewhat unusual in so low a latitude.  Our look-outs redoubled their vigilance, one being posted on each bow always at night, and relieved every hour, as we were so well manned.  We were now on the port tack, of course, heading about north-east-by-north, and right in the track of outward-hound vessels from both the United Kingdom and the States.  One morning, about three a.m.—­that fateful time in the middle watch when more collisions occur than at any other—­suddenly out of the darkness a huge ship seemed to leap right at us.  She must have come up in a squall, of which there were many about, at the rate of some twelve knots an hour, having a fair wind, and every rag of sail set.  Not a gleam of light was visible anywhere on board of her, and, to judge from all appearances, the only man awake on board was the helmsman.

We, being “on the wind, close-hauled,” were bound by the “rule of the road at sea” to keep our course when meeting a ship running free.  The penalty for doing anything under such circumstances is a severe one.  First of all, you do not know that the other ship’s crew are asleep or negligent, even though they carry no lights; for, by a truly infernal parsimony, many vessels actually do not carry oil enough to keep their lamps burning all the voyage, and must therefore economize in this unspeakably dangerous fashion.  And it may be that just as you alter your course, daring no longer to hold on, and, as you have every reason to believe, be run down, the other man alters his.  Then a few breathless moments ensue, an awful crash, and the two vessels tear each other to pieces, spilling the life that they contain over the hungry sea.  Even if you escape, you are to blame for not keeping your course, unless it can be proved that you were not seen by the running ship.