It was daylight,
that friend which so often comes to the mariner's relief. The ship had
struck broad on, and the berg seemed to have grasped her in its arms of
death and refused to let her go. Each succeeding sea lifted the helpless
ship, and then tossed her with increasing violence against the jagged
ice-cliff. And as her yards raked the boulders, huge blocks fell with
crushing force on her deck. Stanchions were started, the bulwarks
crushed away from the knight-heads to the quarter-deck, on the port
side, and the deck stove in several places. It seemed as if there was
but a minute between those on board and death. Still the staunch old
ship forged ahead, lifting and surging with every sea, and seeming to
struggle to free herself from the grasp of the berg. All hope of saving
the ship seemed gone now. Both officers and men waited in suspense,
expecting, every lurch the ship made, to see her go to pieces.
It was one of those moments when presence of mind and seamanship seem of
no avail to save a ship. On sounding the pumps it was found that the
ship's hull was still tight, and that she had made but little water.
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