“Take in the fore and mainsail,” cried Appadocca, in a voice that seemed to sound solitary and lonely amidst the terrors of the night.
“Reef the jib.”
The order was scarcely executed, when the rumbling sounds were again heard. It was coming—it was coming; the schooner was thrust forward, as if some immense rock had been let to fall against her; her bows were dashed through the approaching billows; as she emerged for a moment, the same power thrust her backwards; her stern sank under the volumes of water that washed over her decks; and then, as quick as thought, she was lifted from the surface, and twisted, and twisted, and turned reelingly round in mid-air, and was let to fall with a tremendous crash again. Crack—crack—her two tapering masts snapt from the deck. They were overboard, and the lately resisting schooner was now borne with the rapidity of lightning before the hurricane.
“Get up the anchors,” the voice of Appadocca was again heard; as he recovered from the concussion of the whirlwind.
The prostrate sailors scrambled from the corners into which they had been thrown; the hatches were raised, and the only hope of the schooner,—the anchors—were quickly drawn on deck.
The hurricane was now at its height. Like a feather on the overturning currents of an overflowing cataract, the vessel was furiously borne away before the sweeping wind.
The anchors, with their immense coils of chain-cable were thrown overboard, to arrest the progress of the vessel for a time, until jury-masts could be rigged.
It was of no avail.—Fast—fast—before the wind the schooner went; and then a grating noise, and a dreadful shock;—every man fell on his face—she was ashore—on the rocks.
“Save yourselves, my brave men,” the deep-toned Appadocca cried, as he stood boldly prominent amidst the surrounding rack and ruin.
The ocean was fringed with foam, as it broke on the rocks of Trinidad, on which the once beautiful schooner was at this moment being dashed to pieces.