‘No,’ said the doctor. ‘Have this door shut, sir, and let another sentry be posted. You can leave the brandy and go,’ said he to me; on which I returned to the cuddy and stood as before near the doorway. I believe this terrible storm had reached the height of its rage when the ship was struck. Its fury was now waning, though the soot in the north continued to vomit sheets of flame and the thunder-shocks striking the level of the breathless sea were as the noise of the rending of mountains. I have heard of but one such another storm in which a convict ship bore part. The vessel was the _Earl Grey_, with two hundred and sixty-four prisoners on board. The year was, I believe, 1842, and the ship was bound, as the _Childe Harold_ was, to Van Diemen’s Land. Dr. Browning, who was the surgeon-superintendent, mentions the storm in his account of the voyage, but he saw nothing of it, owing to his suffering from an affection of the heart which obliged him to keep his cabin. This I regret, as I should have been glad to know how the prisoners under his charge behaved on that occasion. It was now about a quarter to eleven; the rain had ceased, but the decks were full of water, which cascaded continuously into the calm sea through the scupper-holes. The captain and his mates kept the poop. I heard the squelch of their tread as they tramped to and fro in their sodden boots. Suddenly an order was shouted, and in a few minutes two or three men came aft, one of them holding a lantern. They gathered about the pump and the second mate left the poop and joined them. I could not see what they did, but after a short interval the second mate went on the poop again, and the men, one of them swinging the lantern, walked forward. A little clock hung under the break of the poop in the cuddy recess hard by the soldiers’ arms; a bull’s-eye lamp cast a light upon its face; this lamp was used for heaving the log, for writing up the log-slate and the like, and the clock for keeping the ship’s bells. A figure came off the poop to see the time; he was draped in streaming oilskins, which flashed out to the lightning, but his face was so muffled by his sou’-wester, that I looked two or three times before I knew him to be Will. I was still alone in the cuddy; Frank and the steward were probably in the steerage; I took a step or two that carried me to the door and pronounced Will’s name. He drew close and said: ‘What do you think of this?’ ‘It is awful,’ said I. ‘It might have been worse than awful!’ he exclaimed. ‘The ship has been struck! Luckily, the thunderbolt went overboard. Had it gone through the bottom we should have followed it; nothing could have saved us. But it’s all right with the old hooker; the well’s just been sounded again and she’s as dry as a rotten nut.’