We were now ordered on another cruise. Being in want of men, we resorted to the press-gang which was made up of our most loyal men, armed to the teeth; by their aid we obtained our full numbers. Among them were a few Americans; they were taken without respect to their protections, which were often taken from them and destroyed. Some were released through the influence of the American consul; others, less fortunate, were carried to sea, to their no small chagrin.[4] The duties of the press-gang completed, we once more weighed anchor, and were soon careering before the gales of the bay of Biscay. Our reception in this proverbially stormy bay was by no means a civil one. We met with an extraordinarily severe gale, in which we came very near foundering. We had just finished dinner, when a tremendous sea broke over us, pouring down the hatchway, sweeping the galley of all its half-cooked contents, then being prepared for the officers’ dinner, and covering the berth deck with a perfect flood. It seemed as if old Neptune really intended that wave to sink us to Davy Jones’ locker. As the water rolled from side to side within, and the rude waves without beat against her, our good ship trembled from stem to stern, and seemed like a human being gasping for breath in a struggle with death. The women (there were several on board) set up a shriek, a thing they had never done before; some of the men turned pale; others cursed and tried to say witty things; the officers started; orders ran along the ship to man the chain-pumps, and to cut holes through the berth deck to let the water into the hold. These orders being rapidly obeyed, the ship was freed from her danger. The confusion of the moment was followed by laughing and pleasantries. That gale was long spoken of as one of great danger. It is strange that sailors, who see so much peril, should treat religion with such neglect as it is usual for them to do. When danger is imminent, they send up a cry for help; when it is past, they rarely return a grateful thank-offering. Yet how truly and eloquently has the Psalmist shown, in the 107th Psalm, what should be the moral effect of the wonders of the deep. What but a deep-rooted spiritual perversity prevents such an effect? The next incident that disturbed the monotony of our sea-life, was of a melancholy character. We had been giving chase to two West Indiamen the whole of one Sabbath afternoon; at night it blew so hard we had to reef top-sails; when a poor fellow, named John Thomson, was knocked from the yard. In falling, he struck some part of the ship, and the wave which opened to receive him, never disclosed his form again. He was a pressed man, an American by birth, greatly beloved by his messmates, by whom his death was as severely felt as when a member of a family dies on shore. His loss created a dull and gloomy atmosphere throughout the ship: it was several days before the hands regained their wonted elasticity of mind and appearance.