It is well known that these whirlwinds, called hurricanes in the Indian and Atlantic Oceans, tornadoes on the coast of Africa, simoons in the desert, and typhoons in the Chinese Sea, are tempests of such formidable power, that they imperil the largest ships. Now the “Great Eastern” was caught in a cyclone. How would this giant make head against it? “Harm will come to her,” repeated Dean Pitferge. “Look, how she dives into the billows.” This was, indeed, the exact position of the steam-ship, whose stern disappeared beneath the mountains of waves, which swept violently against her. It was not possible to see to any distance: there were all the symptoms of a storm, which broke forth in its fury about seven o’clock. The ocean heaved terrifically, the small undulations between the large waves entirely disappeared under an overwhelming wind, the foam-crested billows clashed together, in the wildest uproar, every moment; the waves grew higher, and the “Great Eastern,” cutting through them, pitched frightfully. “There are but two courses now to choose from,” said the Doctor, with the self-possession of a seaman, “either to put the ship’s head on to the waves, working with a minimum speed, or take flight and give up the struggle with this baffling sea; but Captain Anderson will do neither one thing nor the other.” “And why not?” I asked. “Because—” replied the doctor, “because something must happen.” Turning round, I saw the Captain, the first officer, and the chief engineer, muffled in their macintoshes, and clutching at the railings of the bridge; they were enveloped in spray from head to foot. The Captain was smiling as usual, the first officer laughed, and showed his white teeth, at the sight of the ship pitching enough to make one think the masts and chimneys were coming down. Nevertheless I was really astonished at the Captain’s obstinacy. At half-past seven, the aspect of the Atlantic was terrible; the sea swept right across the deck at the bows. I watched this grand sight; this struggle between the giant and the billows, and to a certain extent I could sympathize with the Captain’s wilfulness; but I was forgetting that the power of the sea is infinite, and that nothing made by the hand of man can resist it; and, indeed, powerful as she was, our ship was at last obliged to fly before the tempest. Suddenly, at about eight o’clock, a violent shock was felt, caused by a formidable swoop of the sea, which struck the ship on her fore larboard quarter. “That was not a box on the ear, it was a blow in the face,” said the Doctor to me. And the blow had evidently bruised us, for spars appeared on the crests of the waves. Was it part of our ship that was making off in this manner, or the _débris_ of a wreck?