It was in the small hours. We men were all on deck. We were driving along at a fearful rate under bare poles. The waves were huge mountains. The storm raged with fury. The night was pitchy dark. Thunder and lightning did not serve to make things more agreeable. Not a seaman on board had ever seen such a night. It was necessary to lash oneself to the vessel to avoid being washed overboard.
Of a sudden there was a terrific crash!
The women below shrieked and prayed.
The chef wanted to jump overboard.
M. André cried, “We have struck on a rock! We are lost!”
“Have courage!” I cried. “Fetch the women on deck. There is not an instant to be lost. The yacht is filling!”
We had come into collision with a large vessel. I could see her lights. She had just cleared us. A flash of blue lightning showed me the name painted in white letters on her stern.
She was the Lépante, of Marseilles.
There was a lull in the storm.