These commands were promptly obeyed. The boat was set free, and the men
resumed their seats. Rowland's purposes were, however, defeated in a
manner as unexpected as appalling.

During the foregoing occurrences a dead calm prevailed. But as Rowland
sprang to the helm, and gave the signal for pursuit, a roar like a
volley of ordnance was heard aloft, and the wind again burst its
bondage. A moment before, the surface of the stream was black as ink. It
was now whitening, hissing, and seething like an enormous cauldron. The
blast once more swept over the agitated river: whirled off the sheets of
foam, scattered them far and wide in rain-drops, and left the raging
torrent blacker than before. The gale had become a hurricane: that
hurricane was the most terrible that ever laid waste our city.
Destruction everywhere marked its course. Steeples toppled, and towers
reeled beneath its fury. Trees were torn up by the roots; many houses
were levelled to the ground; others were unroofed; the leads on the
churches were ripped off, and "shrivelled up like scrolls of parchment."
Nothing on land or water was spared by the remorseless gale. Most of the
vessels lying in the river were driven from their moorings, dashed
tumultuously against each other, or blown ashore. All was darkness,
horror, confusion, ruin. Men fled from their tottering habitations, and
returned to them scared by greater dangers. The end of the world seemed
at hand.

At this time of universal havoc and despair,--when all London quaked at
the voice of the storm,--the carpenter, who was exposed to its utmost
fury, fared better than might have been anticipated. The boat in which
he rode was not overset. Fortunately, her course had been shifted
immediately after the rescue of the child; and, in consequence of this