The frigate met with remarkably fine weather during her passage across the Atlantic. As she neared the American coast, however, thick weather came on--such as is often found in those latitudes. It was night. The starboard watch was on deck--that to which Jacob and Harry belonged. The ship was under easy sail--a fresh breeze but fair. The captain was below. A bright look-out ought to have been kept, but bright look-outs are not always kept, even on board men-of-war. "How cold it feels," observed Harry to Jacob. "What's that white cloud ahead?" Scarcely had the words left his mouth than there was a fearful crash. Every timber quivered. Down came the foremast. The bowsprit also was carried away. "She's on an iceberg!" was shouted out. Dismay seized the hearts of the stoutest. In an instant all was confusion and disorder. In the midst of it, a voice sounding above even the wild uproar ordered the men to their stations. The ship had bounded off, and now glided by, leaving the iceberg on the starboard side. Still the sea drove her against the base. Twice she struck with fearful violence. The mainmast followed the foremast, speedily carrying the mizenmast with it. The gallant frigate lay a helpless wreck on the dark tossing waters. The captain ordered the carpenter and his mates to sound the well. In a few short minutes he reported ten feet of water in the hold, increasing fast. Starboard bow stove in, many planks alongside ripped off! The ship must inevitably founder. In an unskaken voice the captain announced the dreadful fact. "Remain calm and collected, and do your duty to the last, lads," he cried. Orders were given to get out the boats.