and we passed an hour or more warming ourselves at the caboose and
talking with the seamen. At last a breeze sprung up, and the captain
ordered the men to get the ship under way. We shoved off, the tide
having flowed some time, expecting to be back to Greenwich before dark.

But it clouded over, and a heavy snowstorm came on, so that we could not
see in what direction we were pulling; the wind blew very fresh, and it
was piercing cold; however, we pulled as hard as we could, not only to
get back again, but to keep ourselves from freezing. Unfortunately, we
had lost too much time on board of the vessel; and, what with that, and
the delay arising from the snowstorm preventing us pulling straight
back, the ebb-tide made again before we had gained more than two-thirds
of our way. We were now nearly worn out with the severe cold and
fatigue, but we pulled hard, keeping as close inshore as we could. It
was necessary, at the end of one reach, to cross over to the other side
of the river; and, in so doing, we were driven by the tide against a
large buoy, when the wherry filled and upset in an instant. We both
contrived to cling on to her, as she was turned bottom up; and away we
were swept down among the drifting ice, the snowstorm still continuing
to beat down on our heads. I was nearly frozen before I could climb on
the bottom of the wherry; which I at last contrived to do, but the
waterman could only hold on. There we both were, shivering and shaking;
the wind piercing through our wet clothes--the snow beating down on us,
and our feet freezing among the drifting ice--borne away with the tide
toward the mouth of the river--not able to see two yards before us, or
likely to be seen by any one, so as to be assisted. We were too cold to
speak, but remained in silence, looking at each other, and with no
pleasant forebodings as to our fate. The ice now formed in large masses;
the icicles hung from our clothes and all sense was lost in our
extremities. It was now dark as pitch; and so feeble were we that it was