Bramble observed, that as the gale coming on would, in all probability, blow for three days, he thought it was no use remaining all that time at Torquay, where we should be put to extra expense, and that we should be better on shore at our own homes.  This remark decided the point, and about dusk we put the boat’s head along shore for up Channel.  The wind was at that time about S.S.W., but occasionally shifting a point or two.  The sky had become covered over with one black mass of clouds, which hung down so low that they appeared almost to rest on the water; and there was that peculiar fitful moaning which is ever the precursor of a violent gale of wind.  At nightfall we reefed our lug-sails; and, while one sat at the helm, the rest of us lounged against the gunnel, buttoned up in our pilot jackets; some shutting their eyes, as if to invite sleep, others watching the waves, which now rose fast, and danced and lapped at the weather broadside as if they would fain have entered into the boat.  But of that we had little fear; our galley was one of the finest boats that ever swam, and we felt as secure as if we were on board of a three-decked ship.  As the night advanced, so did the wind increase and the sea rise; lightning darted through the dense clouds, and for a moment we could scan the horizon.  Everything was threatening; yet our boat, with the wind about two points free, rushed gallantly along, rising on the waves like a sea-bird, and sinking into the hollow of the waters as if she had no fear of any attempt on their part to overwhelm her.  Thus did we continue to run on during the night, every hour the gale increasing, the billows mounting up until they broke in awful and majestic crests, and often so near to us that we presented our backs in a close file against the weather bulwarks to prevent any body of water from pouring in.

“We shall have light soon,” observed one of the men.

“And we shall want it to beach the boat in such weather as this,” replied another.  “We shall have it harder yet before day.”

“Depend upon it this will be a mischievous gale,” observed Bramble, “and our coast will be strewed with wrecks.  Any ships under canvas now, between the Channel shores, will stand but a poor chance against this heavy sea, which bears down with such force.  I’d rather be in this boat now than in any vessel in mid-Channel.”

“And I had rather be on shore than in either,” rejoined I.

“Well, Tom,” said one of the pilots, “I do really believe you this time.”

When it was broad daylight, the coast to leeward presented a wild and terrific scene, lashed as it was by the furious surf, which dashed its spray half-way up the towering white cliffs, for it was within two hours of high water.  The waves were now really mountains high, and their broad surfaces were pitted into little waves by the force of the wind, which covered the whole expanse of waters with one continued foam.  On our weather bow a vessel with her foremast gone was pitching heavily, and at times nearly buried beneath the wild tumult.  Her fate was sealed; to leeward were the cliffs of the South Foreland, and on our lee-bow lay the shelving beach of Deal.