One of the boats was then hoisted out, in order to communicate with the Jupiter, and procure the end of a cable from her, but in a few minutes the boat upset and was lost, with all her crew.  For some hours signal guns of distress had been fired, and the ensign had been hoisted downwards, but no help could reach the vessel:  in that tempestuous sea no boat could live.  Some of the officers who had gone on shore the previous evening were standing on the beach, unable to render any assistance to their comrades, and compelled to remain inactive spectators of the harrowing scene, and to behold their brave ship foundering at her anchors.

About eight o’clock, loud above the howling of the tempest and the booming of the minute gun, arose the wild cry of fire:  and thick smoke was discernible from the shore, issuing from the hatches.  Now were the opposing elements of air, fire, and water combined for the destruction of the ill-fated ship.  For an instant, all stood paralysed; but it was only for an instant.  Again the voices of the officers were raised in command, and every man was ready at his post.

The smoke came up from the hatches in such dense volumes, that all attempts to go below to extinguish the fire were abortive.  Each man felt that his last hour was come,—­there was not a shadow of hope that their lives could be saved; it was but a choice of death by fire or water:  to quit the ship must be fatal; they had seen the boat and its crew swallowed up by the yawning waves, when the tempest raged less fiercely than now, and she was too far from the shore to afford even a ray of hope that the strongest swimmer might gain the beach.  On the other hand, to remain on board was to encounter a still more terrible death—­a burning funeral pile amidst the waters.  While they hesitated in doubt and horror, one of their fears was relieved,—­the heavy sea that washed incessantly over the wreck extinguished the fire.  The ship continued to drive at the mercy of the waves till about ten o’clock, when she stranded, broadside to the shore, heeling on her port side towards the sea.

The captain then ordered the main and mizen masts to be cut away, and the foremast soon afterwards went by the board.  At this juncture, a man of the name of Connolly, a favourite with both officers and crew, volunteered to jump overboard with a deep-sea line attached to his body, in order to form a communication between the ship and the shore.  He made but a few strokes ere he was borne away by the eddy and drowned.

The ship being lightened by the falling of the masts, righted herself and got clear off the ground:  there appeared some slight chance of preservation, and every heart was buoyed up with hope that she might be thrown high enough upon the beach to enable the people on shore to render them some assistance.

She was driven nearer and nearer to the land—­voices became more and more audible, so as even to be recognised—­in a few minutes more, the perishing crew might be safe—­when a heavy sea struck the ship, the orlop deck gave way, and the port side fell in—­many were swept away,—­those who had the power to do so, retreated to the starboard side.