and, bearing her lanterns aloft at
fore and main top. She parted her moorings by night, in the fearful
storm of October 19, 1865; and I well remember, that, as I walked
through the streets that wild evening, it seemed dangerous to be out of
doors, and I tried to imagine what was going on at sea, while at that
very moment the light-ship was driving on toward me in the darkness. It
was thus that it happened:--

There had been a heavy gale from the southeast, which, after a few
hours of lull, suddenly changed in the afternoon to the southwest,
which is, on this coast, the prevailing direction. Beginning about
three o'clock, this new wind had risen almost to a hurricane by six,
and held with equal fury till midnight, after which it greatly
diminished, though, when I visited the wreck next morning, it was hard
to walk against the blast. The light-ship went adrift at eight in the
evening; the men let go another anchor, with forty fathoms of cable;
this parted also, but the cable dragged, as she drifted in, keeping the
vessel's head to the wind, which was greatly to her advantage. The
great waves took her over five lines of reef, on each of which her keel
grazed or held for a time. She came ashore on Price's Neck at last,
about eleven.

It was utterly dark; the sea broke high over the ship, even over her
lanterns, and the crew could only guess that they were near the land by
the sound of the surf. The captain was not on board, and the mate was
in command, though his leg had been broken while holding the tiller.
They could not hear each other's voices, and could scarcely cling to
the deck. There seemed every chance that the ship would go to pieces
before daylight. At last one of the crew, named William Martin, a
Scotchman, thinking, as he afterwards told me, of his wife and three
children, and of the others on board who had families,--and that
something must be done, and he might as well do it as anybody,--got a
rope bound around his waist, and sprang overboard. I asked the mate
next day whether he ordered Martin to do this, and he said, "No, he
volunteered it. I would not have ordered him, for I would not have done
it myself." What made the thing most remarkable was, that the man
actually could not swim, and did not know how far off the shore was,
but trusted to the waves to take him thither,--perhaps two hundred
yards. His trust was repaid. Struggling in the mighty surf, he
sometimes felt the rocks beneath his feet, sometim