The burgomaster had advanced ideas in the ship-owning line. At that time
not every one would have known enough to think of despatching a cargo
steamer to the Pacific. But he loaded her with pitch-pine deals and sent
her off to hunt for her luck. Wellington was to be the first port, I
fancy. It doesn't matter, because in latitude 44 d south and somewhere
halfway between Good Hope and New Zealand the tail shaft broke and the
propeller dropped off.

They were steaming then with a fresh gale on the quarter and all their
canvas set, to help the engines. But by itself the sail power was not
enough to keep way on her. When the propeller went the ship broached-to
at once, and the masts got whipped overboard.

The disadvantage of being dismasted consisted in this, that they had
nothing to hoist flags on to make themselves visible at a distance. In
the course of the first few days several ships failed to sight them; and
the gale was drifting them out of the usual track. The voyage had been,
from the first, neither very successful nor very harmonious. There had
been quarrels on board. The captain was a clever, melancholic man, who
had no unusual grip on his crew. The ship had been amply provisioned for
the passage, but, somehow or other, several barrels of meat were found
spoiled on opening, and had been thrown overboard soon after leaving
home, as a sanitary measure. Afterwards the crew of the Borgmester Dahl
thought of that rotten carrion with tears of regret, covetousness and
despair.

She drove south. To begin with, there had been an appearance of
organisation, but soon the bonds of discipline became relaxed. A sombre
idleness succeeded. They looked with sullen eyes at the horizon. The
gales increased: she lay in the trough, the seas made a clean breach