The wind had fallen almost to a dead calm very soon after I had
come alongside the Pilgrim, and I had thus been able to keep the
two vessels together without any difficulty. But that afternoon as
I sat before my fire reading a book on navigation--that part of it
relating to the art of taking an observation on the sun, moon, and
stars--the schooner listed over to larboard, as though the wind had
caught her sails. I rushed up on deck and found that a strong
breeze was blowing from the northwest, and was filling the sails of
both vessels. The Pilgrim, indeed, was sailing with considerable
speed, dragging the schooner along with her.
I ran forward and cast off the rope that held us together. Not too
soon, for the barque was leaning over on her port side and visibly
settling down.
As speedily as I could I trimmed the schooner's sails and got her
free. She took the wind bravely, and I left the Pilgrim to leeward.
I watched her struggling on the gradually rising waves as she
tossed about aimlessly for the space of about half an hour. Then I
saw her bows dip deep into the water and her stern rise high,
while, with a heavy plunge and a surging sound that came to me like
a melancholy groan, she disappeared, carrying her lifeless crew
with her to that tomb for which they had waited so long.
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