"Land! land!" was the cry, and amongst the men for’ard there was almost a wrangle, some affirming that the headland was the Start, others the Lizard or "The Bill", while a few sanguine men expressed their belief that it was the coast of the Wight. "Keep the lead going," shouted the master, as the fog again swept down upon us like a pall, shutting us out of the sight of the land we so eagerly desired. With great regularity the lead gave a gradual shoaling till twenty-four fathoms were announced. Suddenly we were startled by the lookout shouting: "Breakers ahead!" "’Bout ship!" ordered the master, and with a creaking of blocks and a slatting of sails the _Gannet_ stood off on the other tack. We could hear the dull roar of rushing water, but how far the sound came we could not determine.. "Keep her as she is, bos’n’s mate," commanded the master. "Faith, as if I did not know; this is none other than the Race of Portland!" As night came on, the wind, hitherto steady, increased into a gale, and before midnight it blew a hurricane such as had not been known for years; and to sheer off a dangerous coast we had to keep under storm canvas, though had we had searoom the master would have had the ship to lay to. An hour after midnight our mainsail, though treble-reefed, parted with a report that was heard above the storm, the torn canvas streaming out to lee’ard like so many whips; and simultaneously our bowsprit carried away close to the gammonings, with the result that the ship yawed, then shot up into the wind. With a shuddering crash the foremast went by the board, and we were helpless in the midst of the raging sea. I kept close to Captain Poynings, who gave no sign of the presentiment that the _Gannet’s_ last hour had come. Rapidly we drifted shorewards, where, in the inky blackness, a line of phosphorescent light denoted the breaking of the boiling water upon an ironbound coast. The master came aft and shouted in the captain’s ear. What he said I could not tell, the noise of the elements deadening all other sound, but to his question the captain merely shook his head. Again the master appealed, pointing to the now rapidly nearing cliffs. A deprecatory shrug was the reply, and Captain Poynings, turning on his heel, walked to the shelter of the poop. The master made his way for’ard, and, turning out some of the seamen, bade them let go the anchor. With a rush and a roar the stout hempen cable ran through the hawsepipe, the vessel snubbed, swung round, and the next moment the cable parted as if made of pack thread. Anticipating the worst, we all gripped the first object that came to our hands and awaited the shock.