By some freak of the waters I had been swept clear under the forecastle-head and into the eyes.

As I scrambled out on all fours, I passed over the body of Thomas Mugridge, who lay in a groaning heap.

There was no time to investigate.

I must get the jib backed over.
When I emerged on deck it seemed that the end of everything had come.

On all sides there was a rending and crashing of wood and steel and canvas.
The _Ghost_ was being wrenched and torn to fragments.