we were a considerable distance from
any land. Still the captain hoped, when the weather moderated, to be
able to beat back and get hold of the Irish coast, as the phrase is. At
length the wind lulled a little, and we once more made sail on the brig.
We got on pretty well for a few hours, when down came the gale once
more on us, and before we could shorten sail, a heavy sea struck the
vessel, and she was turned over on her beam-ends, a sea at the same time
knocking our boats to pieces and washing everything loose off the deck.
There she lay like a log, the water rushed into her hold, and every
moment we expected she would go down. Terror was depicted on every
countenance. The only person who remained cool and collected was the
old master.

"My lads, we must cut away the masts--there's no help for it!" he sang
out in a clear voice. He himself appeared directly afterwards with an
axe in his hand, but it was some time before others could be found. The
first thing was to cut away the lee rigging and then the weather, that
the masts might fall clear of the hull. A few well-directed strokes cut
nearly through them, and with a crash the remaining part broke off, and
the vessel lay a dismasted hull amid the high-leaping and foaming waves.
She righted, however, and we had now to hope that, if she weathered out
the gale, some vessel might fall in with us and tow the brig into
harbour, or at all events take us off the wreck. The next thing to be
done was to rig the pumps to get the vessel clear of the water which had
washed into her. We all pumped away with a will, for we knew that our
lives depended on our exertions. Pump as hard as we could, however, we
found that we made no progress in clearing the wreck of water. At last
the mate went down to ascertain the cause of this. In a few minutes he
rushed on deck with a look of dismay.

"What's the matter, Ellis?" asked the captain.

"It's all up with us, sir," answered the mate. "A butt has started, and
it is my belief that the brig will not swim another half hour."

"Then let us get some grog aboard, and die like men," cried some of the
crew.

"Die like brutes, you mean, my lads!" exclaimed the old master. "No,
no, we will have none of that. Let us see what we can do to save our
lives. What, do you call yourselves British seamen, and talk of giving
in like cowards! Don't you know that there's `a sweet little cherub
that sits up aloft' to take care of the life