“Jim, I’m afraid they must all be gone,” I cried out at last.
“Gone!” he exclaimed. “What, the old captain, and mate, and Andrews, and the rest?”
“I am afraid so,” I answered.
Again I shouted and knocked. Still no one came.
“We must break open the hatch,” I said, and I attempted to force up the top with the axe, but did not succeed.
“Let me try,” cried Jim; “my arm is stronger than yours.”
I got down the ladder and gave him the axe. He took my place and began working away at the part where the hatch was placed. I could hear him giving stroke after stroke, but could see nothing, for the hatch fitted so closely that not a gleam of light came through it.
Presently I heard him sing out, “I’ve done it,” and I knew by the rush of cold damp air which came down below that he had got off the hatch.
Still all was dark, but looking up I could distinguish the cloudy sky. Not till then did I know that it was night. We had gone to sleep in broad daylight, and I had no idea of the number of hours which had passed by since then. I sprang up the companion-ladder after Jim, who had stepped out on deck.
The spectacle which met my eyes was appalling. The masts were gone, carried away a few feet from the deck—only the stumps were standing—everything had been swept clear away, the caboose, the boats, the bulwark; the brig was a complete wreck; the dark foam-topped seas were rising up high above the deck, threatening to engulf her.