The royal masts had been got down early on the previous afternoon so as to reduce top-hamper to a minimum, but the pitching and rolling were frightful, yet she made but little water.
Towards morning, however, fire and wind and waves appeared to combine together for the destruction of the ship. The gale increased suddenly to all the fury of a hurricane, the roaring of the wind drowned even the rattle of the thunder, a ball of fire quivered for a moment over the fore-top-mast, then rent it into fragments, ran along a stay and splintered the bulwarks ere it reached the water, while at the same moment the whole ship was engulphed by a solid sea that swept over her bows, and carried away almost everything it reached, bulwarks, boats, and men.
Then, as if it had done its worst, the gale moderated, the sea became less furious, the thunder ceased to roll, the lightning to play, and in half an hour more the grey light of morning spread over the ocean, and on the eastern horizon a bank of lurid red showed where the sun was trying to struggle through the clouds.
With bulwarks ripped away and boats gone, the Niobe looked little better than a wreck, while, sad to relate, when the roll was called five men failed to answer. Five men swept away during the darkness and tempest, five brave hearts for ever stilled, five firesides at home in merrie England made to mourn for those whom their friends would sadly miss, but never, never see again!
But see: the gale begins once more with redoubled fury, and to the horror of that unhappy ship, the wind goes round to meet the sun.
“I fear, sir,” said the lieutenant to the captain, “that nothing can now save us. We must die like men.”
“That we will, I trust,” replied the captain, “but we will die doing our duty to the very last. Is there any one on board who knows this coast well?”
“The boatswain, sir, Mr Roberts.”
“Send for him.”
“Ay, ay, sir.”