The wind grew stronger. The barometer fell. Anyone on the North Sea on the twenty-third of December, 1916, will remember the hurricane that came. It was one of the worst storms of years. The wind was cyclonic in force, and lashed the shallow North Sea into a cauldron. Running before it we carried every foot of sail we dared, every stitch except the royals and gallantsails and smaller staysails. We could take chances. We had no shipowner to answer to. Every mile through the storm now meant a mile through the blockade. The ship lay over so far that all our leeboard was under water. Every plank quivered from the strain on the rigging. The rigging sang like a violin. Heavy waves swept over us. It looked at times as if Niagara Falls were descending upon us. Two men were needed to hold the helm, and had to be lashed there. Some of our stays broke and some of our canvas ripped. But we made fifteen knots, and that hurricane was a godsend to us, for we knew no British cruiser could search us or even keep track of us in such a heavy gale. We sped right through the first line of the blockade without sighting a ship and as though the whole North Sea were ours. Instead of going up, the barometer continued to fall. Louder roared the storm, and more and more mountainous became the waves. We passed the second line of the blockade. Still not a ship in sight. "At twelve o'clock, boys, we will know whether we are going to get through or not. At this speed, we will pass through the third and most important line. Half the Grand Fleet is said to guard this third stretch from the Shetlands to Bergen." Midnight grew near, and still that wild heaven-sent hurricane kept up. We ran before it like a frightened bird, fearing every minute that our sails and masts would go overboard. We lay on the yards and scanned the horizon with our glasses. Half-past eleven! We were in the midst of the blockade line. Where were the cruisers and destroyers? All we could hear was the whistling of the wind and the rushing of the water beneath our bows. All we could see, the blackness of the night. Twelve o'clock and still no sign of the enemy. Even our binnacle and compass lights were out, for any ray of light might betray us. By one o'clock we knew we had passed the last line. The British, warned by the falling barometer, had taken their guard ships to shelter in the lee of the islands. There was nothing else for them to do in such a storm. Even if they saw a ship, it would be hopeless to try to board her. And if Beatty's fleet had kept to sea, there would have been grave danger of their running one another down. We couldn't help recalling the old saying that it is indeed an ill wind that blows no one any good.