This night it was a bit muddy and dark, with a moderate breeze out of the south-west, as far as we could guess at the bearings of the wind. I was awakened from a deep slumber by an extraordinary convulsion in the ship. I was half-stupefied with sleep, and can therefore but imperfectly recall my sensations and the character of what I may term the throes and spasms of the vessel. I was thrown from the locker and lay for some moments incapable of rising by the shock of the fall. But one thing my senses, even when they were scarce yet awake, took note of, and that was a prodigious roaring noise, similar in effect to what might be produced by a cannon-ball rolling along a hollow wooden floor, only that the noise was thousands of times greater than ever could have been produced by a cannon-ball. The lamp was out, and the cabin in pitch blackness. I heard Sweers from some corner of the cabin, bawling out my name; but before I could answer, and even whilst I was staggering to my feet, a second convulsion threw me down again; the next instant there was a sensation as of the vessel being hove up into the air, attended by an extraordinary grinding noise, that thrilled through every beam of her; next, in the space of a few beats of the heart, she plunged into the sea, raising such a boiling and roaring of waters, as, spite of the sounds being dulled to our ears by our being in the cabin, persuaded us that the vessel was foundering.
But even whilst I thus thought, holding my breath and waiting for the death that was to come with the pouring of the water down the open companion-way, I felt the ship right; she lifted buoyant under foot, and I sprang to the steps which conducted on deck, with Sweers—as I might know by his voice—close at my heels, roaring out, "By tunder, we're adrift and afloat!"
The stars were shining, there was a red moon low in the west, the weather had cleared, and a quiet wind was blowing. At the distance of some hundred yards from the ship stood a few pallid masses—the remains of the berg. It was just possible to make out that the water in the neighbourhood of those dim heaps was covered with fragments of ice. How the liberation of the ship had come about neither Sweers nor I did then pause to consider. We were sailors, and our first business was to act as sailors, and as quickly as might be we loosed and hoisted the jib and foretopmast staysail, so that the vessel might blow away from the neighbourhood of the dangerous remains of her jail of ice. We then sounded the well, and, finding no water, went to work to loose the foresail and foretopsail, which canvas we made shift to set with the aid of the capstan. I then lighted the binnacle lamp whilst Sweers held the wheel; and having sounded the well afresh, to make sure of the hull, we headed away to the eastwards, the wind being about W.S.W.
Before the dawn broke we had run the ice out of sight. Sweers and I managed, as I have no doubt, to arrive at the theory of the liberation of the ship by comparing our sensations and experiences. There can be no question that the berg had split in twain almost amidships. This was the cause of the tremendous noise of thunder which I heard. The splitting of the ice had hoisted the shelf or beach on which the barque lay, and occasioned that sensation of flying into the air which I had noticed. But the lifting of the beach of ice had also violently and sharply sloped it, and the barque, freeing herself, had fled down it broadside on, taking the water with a mighty souse and crash, then rising buoyant, and lifting and falling upon the seas as we had both of us felt her do.
And now to bring this queer yarn to a close, for I have no space to dwell upon our thankfulness and our proceedings until we obtained the help we stood in need of. We managed to handle the barque without assistance for three days, then fell in with an American ship bound to Liverpool, who lent us three of her men, and within three weeks of the date of our release from the iceberg we were in soundings in the Chops of the Channel, and a few days later had safely brought the barque to an anchor in the river Thames.
The adventure yielded Sweers and I a thousand pounds apiece as salvage money, but we were kept waiting a long time before receiving our just reward. It was necessary to communicate with the owners of the barque in America, and then the lawyers got hold of the job, and I grew so weary of interviews, so vexed and sickened by needless correspondence, that I should have been thankful to have taken two hundred pounds for my share merely to have made an end.
It seems that the President had been abandoned two years and five months by her crew before the Lightning sighted her on the ice. Her people had stuck to her for eight months, then made off in a body with the boats, carrying their captain and mates along with them. They regarded the situation of their ship as hopeless, and indeed, as it turned out, they were not very wrong, so far as their notions of reasonable detention went; for they never could have liberated the vessel by their own efforts; they must have waited, as we had, for the ice to free her; and this would have signified to them an imprisonment of two years and a half over and above the eight months they had already spent in her whilst ice-bound.
Sweers gave up the sea, started in business, and died, about ten years since, a fairly well-to-do man. And shall I tell you what I did with my thousand pounds? … But my story has already run to greater length than I had intended when sitting down to write it.