As the gale increased, the tops of the waves were shorn off by the fierce blasts, clouding the whole atmosphere with frozen spray, or what the sailors call "spoondrift," rendering it impossible to see any object a few rods distant.

Driving helplessly before the wind, yet in the direction of her place of destination, the schooner sped through the darkness.

At last, near midnight, running closer than her crew supposed to the Canadian shore, she struck on the outer bar off Long Point Island, beat heavily across it, and sunk in the deeper water between it and the inner bar.

The hull was entirely submerged, the waves rolling in heavily, and dashing over the rigging, to which the crew betook themselves.

Lashed there, numb with cold, drenched by the pitiless waves, and scourged by the showers of sleet driven before the wind, they waited for morning.
The slow, dreadful hours wore away, and at length the dubious and doubtful gray of a morning of tempest succeeded to the utter darkness of night.
Abigail Becker chanced at that time to be in her hut with none but her young children.