30 July. Last night. Rejoiced we are getting near England. The weather is fine, all sails raised. I went to sleep worn out, slept soundly, and was awakened by the mate telling me that both the man on watch and the steersman were missing. Only myself, the mate and two hands are left to work the ship.

1 August. Two days of fog, and not a sail sighted. I had hoped when in the English Channel to be able to signal for help or get into port somewhere. Not having enough men to work the sails, we have to run before the wind. I dare not lower the sails as we could not raise them again. We seem to be drifting to some terrible doom. Mate is now more demoralised than either of the men. His stronger nature seems to have eventually broken him. The men are beyond fear, working patiently and without emotion. They expect that the worst will happen anyway. They are Russian, he Roumanian.

2 August, midnight. I woke up from few minutes sleep hearing a cry. It seemed to be right outside my cabin, but I could see nothing but fog. I rushed on deck, and ran against the mate. He told me he had heard the cry and ran, but there was no sign of the man on watch. One more gone.