In order to baffle the _Tuscarora_, who was sure to pursue us,
Captain Pegram took a more northerly route than was usual; and on
the fourth or fifth day after sailing the wind freshened sharply,
and in a few hours blew with terrible force. The ship was old, and
unprepared for bad weather, and it was not without anxiety that
our officers saw the tempest approach. In twenty-four hours the
gale had reached its height. The waves were running awfully high
to my unaccustomed eyes, and were battering the sides of the ship
as though determined to force an entrance. Nobly, however, did the
_Nashville_ behave. There surely never was a better sea boat. She
shipped little water, and, although each wave that struck her bows
made her tremble and quiver from stem to stern, she bore herself
nobly in the unequal contest. Loose spars, boxes, coils of rope and
water-casks, which had been improperly secured, were rolling about
on deck, threatening to break the legs of whoever should pass.
The port bulwarks from the heel of the bowsprit to the wheelhouse
were washed away flush with the deck. One angry wave carried off
the whole of the port wheelhouse and dashed to pieces several of
the “buckets,” or paddles. The saloon and the forward cabin were
several inches deep in water, and the forecastle was in a worse
plight. For days this continued. The engines were slowed down, and
we did no more than hold our own. It would have been dangerous,
lame as the vessel was, to drive her in the teeth of the tempest.
The most grewsome part of it all was the unremitting tolling of the
forecastle bell, as the _Nashville_ rose on the crest of the wave
and glided down, and down, into the trough of the sea.