These thoughts, with a crowd of
      others equally fearful, flashed through my mind with a
      bewildering rapidity, and for some moments paralyzed me beyond
      the possibility of making any exertion. The boat was going
      through the water at a terrible rate—full before the wind—no reef
      in either jib or mainsail—running her bows completely under the
      foam. It was a thousand wonders she did not broach to—Augustus
      having let go the tiller, as I said before, and I being too much
      agitated to think of taking it myself. By good luck, however, she
      kept steady, and gradually I recovered some degree of presence of
      mind. Still the wind was increasing fearfully, and whenever we
      rose from a plunge forward, the sea behind fell combing over our
      counter, and deluged us with water. I was so utterly benumbed,
      too, in every limb, as to be nearly unconscious of sensation. At
      length I summoned up the resolution of despair, and rushing to
      the mainsail let it go by the run. As might have been expected,
      it flew over the bows, and, getting drenched with water, carried
      away the mast short off by the board. This latter accident alone
      saved me from instant destruction. Under the jib only, I now
      boomed along before the wind, shipping heavy seas occasionally
      over the counter, but relieved from the terror of immediate
      death. I took the helm, and breathed with greater freedom as I
      found that there yet remained to us a chance of ultimate escape. Augustus still lay senseless in the bottom of the boat; and as
      there was imminent danger of his drowning (the water being nearly
      a foot deep just where he fell), I contrived to raise him
      partially up, and keep him in a sitting position, by passing a
      rope round his waist, and lashing it to a ringbolt in the deck of
      the cuddy. Having thus arranged every thing as well as I could in
      my chilled and agitated condition, I recommended myself to God,
      and made up my mind to bear whatever might happen with all the
      fortitude in my power. Hardly had I come to this resolution, when, suddenly, a loud and
      long scream or yell, as if from the throats of a thousand demons,
      seemed to pervade the whole atmosphere around and above the boat. Never while I live shall I forget the intense agony of terror I
      experienced at that moment. My hair stood erect on my head—I felt
      the blood congealing in my veins—my heart ceased utterly to beat,
      and without having once raised my eyes to learn the source of my
      alarm, I tumbled headlong and insensible upon the body of my
      fallen companion. I found myself, upon reviving, in the cabin of a large
      whaling-ship (the Penguin) bound to Nantucket. Several persons
      were standing over me, and Augustus, paler than death, was busily
      occupied in chafing my hands. Upon seeing me open my eyes, his
      exclamations of gratitude and joy excited alternate laughter and
      tears from the rough-looking personages who were present. The
      mystery of our being in existence was now soon explained. We had
      been run down by the whaling-ship, which was close-hauled,
      beating up to Nantucket with every sail she could venture to set,
      and consequently running almost at right angles to our own
      course. Several men were on the look-out forward, but did not
      perceive our boat until it was an impossibility to avoid coming
      in contact—their shouts of warning upon seeing us were what so
      terribly alarmed me. The huge ship, I was told, rode immediately
      over us with as much ease as our own little vessel would have
      passed over a feather, and without the least perceptible
      impediment to her progress. Not a scream arose from the deck of
      the victim—there was a slight grating sound to be heard mingling
      with the roar of wind and water, as the frail bark which was
      swallowed up rubbed for a moment along the keel of her
      destroyer—but this was all. Thinking our boat (which it will be
      remembered was dismasted) some mere shell cut adrift as useless,
      the captain (Captain E. T. V. Block, of New London) was for
      proceeding on his course without troubling himself further about
      the matter. Luckily, there were two of the look-out who swore
      positively to having seen some person at our helm, and
      represented the possibility of yet saving him. A discussion
      ensued, when Block grew angry, and, after a while, said that “it
      was no business of his to be eternally watching for egg-shells;
      that the ship should not put about for any such nonsense; and if
      there was a man run down, it was nobody’s fault but his own, he
      might drown and be dammed” or some language to that effect. Henderson, the first mate, now took the matter up, being justly
      indignant, as well as the whole ship’s crew, at a speech evincing
      so base a degree of heartless atrocity. He spoke plainly, seeing
      himself upheld by the men, told the captain he considered him a
      fit subject for the gallows, and that he would disobey his orders
      if he were hanged for it the moment he set his foot on shore. He
      strode aft, jostling Block (who turned pale and made no answer)
      on one side, and seizing the helm, gave the word, in a firm
      voice, Hard-a-lee! The men flew to their posts, and the ship went
      cleverly about. All this had occupied nearly five minutes, and it
      was supposed to be hardly within the bounds of possibility that
      any individual could be saved—allowing any to have been on board
      the boat. Yet, as the reader has seen, both Augustus and myself
      were rescued; and our deliverance seemed to have been brought
      about by two of those almost inconceivable pieces of good fortune
      which are attributed by the wise and pious to the special
      interference of Providence. While the ship was yet in stays, the mate lowered the jolly-boat
      and jumped into her with the very two men, I believe, who spoke
      up as having seen me at the helm. They had just left the lee of
      the vessel (the moon still shining brightly) when she made a long
      and heavy roll to windward, and Henderson, at the same moment,
      starting up in his seat bawled out to his crew to back water. He
      would say nothing else—repeating his cry impatiently, back water! back water! The men put back as speedily as possible, but by this
      time the ship had gone round, and gotten fully under headway,
      although all hands on board were making great exertions to take
      in sail. In despite of the danger of the attempt, the mate clung
      to the main-chains as soon as they came within his reach.