A FURIOUS STORM.

Thus effectually prepared, as we conceived, we expected the new moon, which was the 18th of September; and riding safe that and the three succeeding days (though the weather proved very squally and uncertain), we flattered ourselves (for I was then on board) that the prudence of our measures had secured us from all accidents.  But on the 22nd the wind blew from the eastward with such fury that we soon despaired of riding out the storm; and therefore we should have been extremely glad that the Commodore and the rest of our people on shore, which were the greatest of our hands, had been on board with us, since our only hopes of safety seemed to depend on our putting immediately to sea.  But all communication with the shore was now effectually cut off, for there was no possibility that a boat could live so that we were necessitated to ride it out till our cables parted.  Indeed, it was not long before this happened, for the small bower parted at five in the afternoon, and the ship swung off to the best bower; and as the night came on the violence of the wind still increased.  But, notwithstanding its inexpressible fury, the tide ran with so much rapidity as to prevail over it; for the tide, having set to the northward in the beginning of the storm, turned suddenly to the southward about six in the evening, and forced the ship before it in despite of the storm, which blew upon the beam.  And now the sea broke most surprisingly all round us, and a large tumbling swell threatened to poop us; the long-boat, which was at this time moored astern, was on a sudden canted so high that it broke the transom of the Commodore’s gallery, and would doubtless have risen as high as the taffrail had it not been for this stroke which stove the boat all to pieces; but the poor boat-keeper, though extremely bruised, was saved almost by miracle.  About eight the tide slackened, but the wind did not abate; so that at eleven the best bower cable, by which alone we rode, parted.  Our sheet anchor, which was the only one we had left, was instantly cut from the bow; but before it could reach the bottom we were driven from twenty-two into thirty-five fathoms; and after we had veered away one whole cable and two-thirds of another, we could not find ground with sixty fathoms of line.  This was a plain indication that the anchor lay near the edge of the bank, and could not hold us long.

In this pressing danger Mr. Suamarez, our first lieutenant, who now commanded on board, ordered several guns to be fired and lights to be shown, as a signal to the Commodore of our distress; and in a short time after, it being then about one o’clock, and the night excessively dark, a strong gust, attended with rain and lightning, drove us off the bank and forced us out to sea, leaving behind us on the island Mr. Anson, with many more of our officers, and great part of our crew, amounting in the whole to one hundred and thirteen persons.  Thus were we all, both at sea and on shore, reduced to the utmost despair by this catastrophe; those on shore conceiving they had no means left them ever to leave the island, and we on board utterly unprepared to struggle with the fury of the seas and winds we were now exposed to, and expecting each moment to be our last.