The Hattie was leading well over to the port shore, the Fritz
bearing straight down the middle, with the Betsy on the starboard
quarter, when the storm struck us with a vigor that increased with each
gust. The black clouds swished over our heads, seemingly almost within
reach of our paddles. The sails tugged at the sheets with tiresome
strength. The canoes now plunged into a wave at the bows and were now
swept by others astern, as they rushed forward like mettlesome colts or
hung poised upon or within a rolling swell, until, with the increasing
gale, the roaring waves dashed entirely over decks and men. The Hattie
bore away to leeward and rode the gale finely, but at last prudence
bade the furling of her sail. Expecting no such blow the Fritz had not
taken the precaution to arrange her rubber apron for keeping out the
waves from her manhole, and now, between holding the sheet, steering
and watching the gusty wind, neither hand nor eye could be spared for
defensive preparations; so her skipper struck sail and paddled for the
westward shore, with the Betsy lunging and plunging close behind. We on
the windward side sought the smoother water within the reeds, and drove
along rapidly under bare poles, out of sight of the Hattie, separated
at nightfall by miles of raging sea.
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