8 FOUR YEARS IN THE WTIITE NORTPI [July 



from stem to stern, as if the very bottom of the Diana 

 was being ripped completely out of her. She listed to 

 port. There was a moment of deathlike stillness; then 

 an agonized cry from the depths of the engine-room, 

 **Is that the bottom.?" A babble of voices! A stam- 

 pede from f or'ard and after cabins ! And then the dark- 

 ness was fairly shot to pieces with: *'I'll be damned!" 

 *'How did she get here.?" "Her back is busted!" 

 "Back her!" "If you do, she'll sink!" "Get your 

 bags !" " She's stuck, sir." " She'll never come off, sir." 



As I leaped from my hammock, Captain Waite passed 

 me in negligee, headed for the bridge — which he never 

 should have left, endangered as we were by a heavy 

 mist, strong tides, and numerous icebergs. He clutched 

 the railing and stared helplessly into space. 



I waited patiently for the word which would bring 

 order out of chaos, some command which would quiet 

 this half-crazy crew. It was evidently each man for 

 himself and the devil take the hindmost. Our twenty- 

 one-foot dory shot from the lofty skids into the sea, 

 and came to the surface filled to the gunwales. 



Born on Cape Cod, one of the graveyards of the 

 North Atlantic, and thoroughly acquainted with wreck- 

 ing methods, I knew instinctively that to save the ship 

 two things must be done and done at once: run out a 

 kedge anchor well off the starboard quarter to prevent 

 the ship from going broadside on to the beach, and 

 then lighten the cargo. Learning that we had grounded 

 on the height of the flood tide, I realized at once the 

 seriousness of our situation. Although I had absolutely 

 no control over the ship and her crew, I felt that the 

 expedition equipment, supplies, and coal for which we 

 were paying were at least subject to my command. 



