As we sat round the dull light of a lamp, in the cabin,
that made the gloom more ghastly, everyone had his tale of
shipwreck and disaster. I was particularly struck with a short
one related by the captain:
"As I was once sailing," said he, "in a fine, stout ship, across
the banks of Newfoundland, one of those heavy fogs that prevail
in those parts rendered it impossible for us to see far ahead,
even in the daytime; but at night the weather was so thick that
we could not distinguish any object at twice the length of the
ship. I kept lights at the mast-head, and a constant watch
forward to look out for fishing smacks, which are accustomed to
anchor oo the banks. The wind was blowing a smacking breeze, and
we were going at a great rate through the water. Suddenly the
watch gave the alarm of `a sail ahead!'--it was scarcely uttered
before we were upon her. She was a small schooner, at anchor,
with her broadside toward us. The crew were all asleep, and had
neglected to hoist a light. We struck her just amidships. The
force, the size, and weight of our vessel, bore her down below
the waves; we passed over her and were hurried on our course. As
the crashing wreck was sinking beneath us, I had a glimpse of two
or three half-naked wretches, rushing from her cabin; they just
started from their beds to be swallowed shrieking by the waves.
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