The tide was exactly at its height, passengers and crew together were at the windlass, M.Letourneur, Andre, Falsten, and myself being at the starboard bar.

Curtis stood upon the poop, giving his chief attention to the sails; the lieutenant was on the forecastle; the boatswain by the helm.

The sea seemed propitiously calm and, as it swelled gently to and fro, lifted the ship several times.
"Now, my boys," said Curtis in his calm clear voice, "all together! Off!" Round went the windlass; click, click, clanked the chains as link by link they were forced through the hawse-holes.
The breeze freshened, and the masts gave to the pressure of the sails, but round and round we went, keeping time in regular monotony to the sing-song tune hummed by one of the sailors.
We had gained about twenty feet, and were redoubling our efforts when the ship grounded again.
And now no effort would avail; all was in vain; the tide began to turn; and the "Chancellor" would not advance an inch.

Was there time to go back?
She would inevitably go to pieces if left balanced upon the ridge.
In an instant the captain has ordered the sails to be furled, and the anchor dropped from the stern.
One moment of terrible anxiety, and all is well.
The "Chancellor" tacks to stern, and glides back into the basin, which is once more her prison.
"Well, captain," says the boatswain, "what's to be done now ?" "I don't know" said Curtis, "but we shall get across somehow.".