THE STORM SEEMED TO DETONATE THE SKY. THE LOW GROWL OF THUNDER turned to deafening explosions following the brilliant violence of lightning, continuously blinding the crew of the ship which tossed about on the sea like a twig—rudderless, mastless, helpless.
A series of mistakes had brought the ship to this X upon the ocean, far off course, disease having taken some of the crew to the bottom, poor sail handling having separated the ship from her mainmast when she rolled under a wave. It was a large ship that felt insignificant within the arms of the storm; lately from Boston, bound for Algiers and about to reach the barrier reef around the north coast of Bermuda.
The bulbous black clouds tumbled overhead as the ship at last grounded on the coral, several of the crew flung into the undulating maelstrom, avoiding one certain death for another.
The incessant sea pushed the ship farther over the reef, and then into the reef, the jagged coral like a saw against the timbers. The ship began to fill with water. She lay on her side, her dirty bottom exposed to the waves as all manner of items floated free from her holds and out the hull into the dark air. Her precious cargo, however, was much too heavy to float. As the ship began to break open, the chest of gold coins slid along the edge of the reef and then down to a blackness even darker than the sky.