I was not deceived, and before long the heavy roar of the surf as it beat upon it was plainly audible to all on board. The issues of life and death were soon to be decided. Should we fail to steer safely through an opening in the reef, our doom was sealed. Should we strike on those rocks, frowning with a line of breakers bounding on to them in clouds of spray, we should be dashed to pieces and be buried beneath the curling foam.
The moment was an anxious one; all held their breath. We firmly believed our end was fast approaching.
The cook, who had never been to sea before, came on deck dressed in his Sunday best, ready to go ashore, and prepared to die like a gentleman.
Slightly to windward, a passage in the reef was visible. We made for it, but owing to her peculiar rig the vessel would not answer to her helm, but drifted to leeward, and in a few minutes more would be dashed to pieces amidst the cruel rocks. All hope left our breasts, there was nothing more to be done. We steeled our hearts and prepared ourselves to die like true British sailors. I cared not for myself, but I had a wife and family living in Sydney, and what would become of them after I had gone?
However, just when our doom seemed inevitable, the wind suddenly changed, enabling us to keep her up a couple of points to windward. We then managed to clear the dreaded reef, the surf washing the sides of the vessel, and we emerged safely on the other side. We were all devoutly thankful for our merciful escape from a terrible death.
Delivered as we had been from the jaws of death, our spirits rose proportionately. We now had hopes of reaching the New Guinea coast and escaping with our lives.
After avoiding numerous hidden dangers, we succeeded in reaching an anchorage off Dawson Island three days ago.
Such was the graphic account given us by Mr. Thompson.
We obtained the loan of the cutter Juanita, which vessel, it will be remembered, had been returned to the Government by the gold prospectors.