Sept. 1st.—At 8 A.M., while we were in tow of the steamer, the “Essex” ran upon a sandbank; she fell over very disagreeably on her side, was thus carried by the violence of the tide over the obstacle, and righted in deep water; the accident broke the hawsers that united the two vessels. After some little difficulty and much delay we proceeded on our voyage. The pilot was much surprised, as a fortnight before that part of the river was all clear; he said we had run upon the end of the tail of the “James and Mary” sandbank, which had become lengthened, and he despatched a notice thereof to Calcutta. Where the Hoogly is joined by the Roopnarrain at Hoogly Point, a very large sheet of water is formed, but it has many shoals; and as it directly faces the approach from the sea, while the Hoogly turns to the right, it occasions the loss of many vessels, which are carried up the Roopnarrain by the force of the tide. The eddy caused by the bend of the Hoogly has, at this place, formed a most dangerous sand, named the “James and Mary,” around which the channel is never the same for a week together, requiring frequent surveys. The Bore commences at Hoogly Point. The musquitoes were very troublesome; we found it cooler than on shore, but nevertheless very hot.

2nd.—Passed Mud Point, and felt rather nervous on the occasion; the heat was intense, and there was not a breath of air. Employed myself writing farewell letters to friends in India, which were sent to Calcutta by the Saugor dāk boat. This evening the tide ran with such violence that after the vessel had anchored, it was necessary for a man to remain at the helm. This steering an anchored vessel had a curious and novel effect.

3rd.—The pilot quitted us at the Sandheads, and took my husband’s official letters with him. A calm came on, and we were just preparing to anchor again, when a breeze sprang up and carried us out to sea.

4th.—A number of native sailors (khalāsīs) came down the river with us to assist the men on board the “Essex.” Seven of the English sailors are ill from fever; no marvel with extra grog and hard work under such a terrific sun: the musquitoes and prickly heat alone, are enough with such intense heat to bring on fever.

I saw a waterspout—it commenced like a great funnel hanging from a dark cloud that was the basis of a fine white one: the point of the funnel having descended about half way attracted the sea-water, which bubbled and rose up in a point until it united with the end of the spout; having accomplished this union, the spout thickened, and became of the same size from the top to the bottom. After a time it appeared to become lighter, for it bent with the wind and formed a slight curve. The spout became still less and less, and eventually so thin that the wind carried it along almost horizontally. It appeared to sever from the sea, and having become as thin as a ribbon, disappeared. It was of a dull rainy colour—some bright blue sky was above the white cloud formerly mentioned, and the whole had a vapoury appearance.

8th.—The weather cooler; for the last few days we have had heavy squalls, accompanied with thunder, lightning, and rain in torrents. Ill from mal de mer: I know not when I have suffered so severely; the ship has a cargo of sugar, which is packed in hides: the rain has fallen in torrents, in sheets of water, as rain only falls, I think, in the bay of Bengal, a perfect deluge:—the hatches having been closed in consequence, a horrible effluvium has ascended to the cuddy: how people can live below deck is a miracle, in the heat and steam of those sweating hides! fortunately, no passengers are below, and sailors, poor fellows, endure and shrink not. An huppoo was seen to-day making its way to the ship, but weary from its long flight, and overpowered by the strong squall, it sank in the waters screaming. A flying-fish came on board, and one of the most elegantly-formed birds I ever saw, which they called a whale-bird, was caught in the rigging; its head beautifully marked, the body slight, its slender and powerful wings very long.

11th.—Off Madras.

13th.—Opposite Centinel Island in the Andamans,—very little wind. It is remarkable, with the exception of a few squalls, how calmly we have come down the Bay; at this time of the year we expected to encounter fierce weather. The weather still hot, although very different from what it was before,—nevertheless it renders any exertion a great toil.

14th.—The moonlight evenings on the poop are beautiful. A fine breeze, with a steady ship; she is deeply laden, goes on quietly and steadily, and seldom rolls at all. What a contrast to that wretched “Carnatic!” Apropos, I am told she was condemned in Calcutta as not sea-worthy; therefore I had a good escape in her.

15th.—We are anxious to get to the western side of the Bay, but the winds force us in a contrary direction; we are near the Nicobars, running down the side of the islands. I should like to go on shore to see Lancour, and the rest of my friends, the Carnicobar-barians, once more.

16th.—To-day we are only fifty miles from the great Nicobar, and shall soon get away from the islands, which will be pleasant; should a squall come on their vicinity is to be avoided. The “Essex” has been very unfortunate this voyage: in coming out she lost her captain at the Cape; in Calcutta she lost her third mate, the cook, and six seamen. The property of the deceased seamen will be sold by auction on deck this evening.

17th.—We have passed the Great Nicobar, and are on a level with Acheen Point. The vessel is going steadily through the water about six knots an hour.

18th.—A squall came on during the night, and snapped the flying jib-boom right in halves: my slumber was broken by being nearly pitched out of my sea sofa. This being an unfavourable time of the year for a voyage to England, we have only two passengers besides ourselves on board,—fortunately they are most agreeable people. We have now two cabins on the poop, the larboard stern cabin, and the one next to it, and are therefore very comfortable.

19th.—We are creeping away to the south; there is a swell, and we are looking out for the trade wind.

20th.—Rain and calm,—what an annoyance! Oh! for a gale to carry us with double-reefed topsails over the Line, as we had in the “Madagascar!” Any thing would be better than this vile calm. What does it matter if a few spars are snapped, and a few more sails split asunder, if we do but make way! We must now be exactly upon the Line: the musquitoes have not yet quitted my cabin, they plague me greatly. As if in accordance with my wish, at 4 P.M. a squall came on, and carried us over the Line.

21st.—A fine favourable breeze,—we flatter ourselves it may be the trade.

24th.—Squalls and calms.

26th.—A heavy squall, which continued with lightning and rain in torrents from noon throughout the night: we are quite dispirited.

28th.—With joy this morning I saw the stunsails were set, and a fine sun was drying the deck: now I really believe we have fallen in with the trade.

Oct. 3rd.—Never was there so unpleasant a wind as this south-east trade. It is very strong and constant, but is a succession of squalls, both night and day. The ship lies over very much, and the waves burst upon her in a very disagreeable fashion; we have made 200 or 225 miles for some days, but these constant squalls are detestable. There comes the water rushing into the cuddy at this minute!—we are now about 400 miles from Madagascar.

5th.—I do not mention that Divine service was always performed on Sundays,—that took place, of course, unless prevented by a gale. During the night, passed the Island of Rodorigos, to the north; I did not see the land, distant only seven miles, my port being shut, on account of having shipped a sea, which rendered the cabin cold and wet.

Horsburgh remarks, “Hurricanes are liable to happen here from the beginning of November till the end of March; in some years there are two, but generally only one, and sometimes none. They blow with great violence, commencing from southward, and veering round to east, north-east, and north-west, where they gradually decrease, after continuing about thirty-six hours. The fish caught here in deep water with hook and line are poisonous; whereas, those got by the net in shore are good and wholesome.” The land is high and uneven, reefs and shoals encompass it; the harbour is called Maturin’s Bay. The remarkable peak answers as a guide.

8th.—Passed the Mauritius, and were opposite Bourbon, about two hundred miles south.

9th.—Crossed the Tropic.

10th.—Off Madagascar we were caught about noon in the tail of a whirlwind; fortunately it was only the tail,—the sailors said, had we fallen into the centre of it, and the vessel had been unprepared, it would have carried the masts overboard. Rain fell in torrents; a waterspout was seen for a short time,—and the wind, hitherto fair, became completely contrary.

15th.—This has proved a most uninteresting voyage as far as it has gone, nothing to be seen; one solitary albatross appears now and then, and a few Cape pigeons. The other day I saw a sperm whale blowing at a distance. There is nothing to look at but the boundless ocean; even the sunsets and sunrises have not been remarkably fine,—no groups of glorious tints such as I beheld from the “Carnatic” on the other side the Line.

22nd.—Cold and dreary. Saw a fin-back whale close astern; two fine albatross and four Cape pigeons were floating on the waters; some stormy petrels were cutting about, and dipping their wings in the waves every moment; and there were also two black Cape hens. The flight of the Cape pigeon is very elegant, and the albatross skims along in the most dignified style.

23rd.—Lat. S. 33° 56′, Long. E. 29° 6′. A most stormy sunset: the sun, of a burning gold colour, descended behind a heavy bank of dark clouds,—its rays were fiercely bright: shortly afterwards a few spaces of deep fiery red alone remained visible, surrounded by heavy black clouds; on every side the grey clouds rose thick and foggy from the horizon, without any break,—dull and ominous. We were off Cape Hood, Cape of Good Hope. A strong gale arose, accompanied by sharp squalls; there was an immense swell upon the sea, the heavy waves rolled up with great violence, their heads covered with foam, breaking and roaring as they dashed against the ship, and the wind blew in furious gusts. The “Essex” was about two hundred miles from the land when the gale began,—it continued all night without intermission; the dead-lights were put into the poop stern windows, and into all the ports. Early in the morning I saw that my husband had quitted his couch in the stern cabin, and was sitting in a chair, apparently unable to cross the cabin, from the violence of the pitching; he had left his couch because it had become unsafe, the lashings and the cleets having given way. I assisted him into my cabin, and he lay down on the sofa; he was quite ill,—so cold and wretched, from exposure during the night. His kindness and consideration had prevented his calling me, being unwilling to awake me, imagining I was asleep, and unconscious of the heavy gale that was raging around us. My ayha, who usually got up before daybreak, to smoke her hooqŭ in the galley, made an effort to quit the cabin; I desired her not to attempt to move, or she would be thrown down from the pitching and rolling of the vessel; but the moment my eye was off her away she went: she met another ayha in the passage, who said, “Are you mad, that you want to go and smoke in such a gale as this?” My ayha, who would sell her soul for half a dozen whiffs of tobacco, persisted in going; she had not got half way through the cuddy when she fell, and I heard a violent scream. The cuddy servants ran to her assistance, and found she had broken her leg just above the ankle; the bone was through the flesh, and the wound bled very much. The medical man set her leg, and with great difficulty we had her removed into the stern cabin, where we secured her as well as we were able, but not until some time had passed, as the large heavy toon-wood couch in the stern cabin had started from its moorings, and, turning over topsy-turvy, had dashed across the cabin, breaking and throwing down the table, and carrying away the trunks. Never was there such confusion as the furniture made in the cabin, pitching from side to side with the roll of the vessel. At length the carpenter secured the frisky couch, bound up the wounds of the table, and relashed them all. By this time the sea was breaking over the stern windows, and dashing into the cabin, in spite of the dead-lights, and into the quarter-gallery; much damage was done on the poop. The medical man, knowing that leeches sold at the Cape for half-a-crown apiece, on account of there being none but those that are imported, on which a heavy duty is paid, took 10,000 of them from Calcutta, secured in large earthen pots (gharās) full of soft mud, which were all placed on the poop, in a small boat called “Little Poppet.” The water cistern gave way, and dashing against “Little Poppet,” upset her, broke all the gharās, and the sea-water killed the leeches. The cutter that hung over the quarter was turned up on one side by the force of the wind, dashed against the side of the “Essex,” was greatly injured, and rendered utterly useless; three of her oars fell into the sea, and were borne away, but the sailors secured the boat.

By noon on the 24th (Lat. S. 33° 45′, Long. E. 28°), the current had carried the vessel one hundred and twenty miles nearer the land, which was now only eighty miles distant; we were driving almost under bare poles, the violence of the wind not allowing any sail but one small one; another, which they wished to set, was twice blown to pieces, and could not be carried. The waves were striking the vessel in the most frightful manner, roaring in concert with the gale, and jostling and rolling against the ship as if they were ready to engulf her. Nevertheless the “Essex” bore bravely on; her captain put her about, and we ran down the side of the land for some distance. To sleep—to rest, with so furious a gale blowing, was impossible; and how the time passed I hardly remember, for day and night it was the same—pitch, pitch, roll, roll,—and the same roar: all night long two seamen were baling out the water from our cabins,—the waves poured constantly into the cuddy ports on one side, and rolled out on the other. We sat down to dinner, a plate of food was brought to each person, and we held on and ate as we could; every now and then an officer came down for ten minutes, took his food as hastily as possible, and returned instantly to the poop,—it was an anxious time.

About 4 P.M. on the second day, the thunder rolled heavily, the lightning was very vivid, and hail fell in heavy showers. The chief officer, having caught up a handful of the large hail, gave it to me in a plate at the cuddy door, where I amused myself with eating it, and watching the scene. About this time the situation of the vessel became critical: the first officer desired the captain to observe what was coming down on the weather side; he could not tell what it was, never having seen any thing of the kind before. The foam of the sea was caught up by the wind, and whirled round and round in thick masses like smoke; it blew heavily, and the spray beat with such violence into the faces of the officers, that at times they could not see. Not a minute elapsed ere the whirlwind struck the vessel on her weather side, and the blast was perfectly hot! The captain called to the men to hold on; they were prepared,—and well for them they were so: with a tremendous roll the vessel was pitched over almost on her beam-ends; the thing was so sudden, and the officers were so blinded by the spray and wind, that they could not tell whether the whirlwind passed by the stern or the head of the vessel. Almost as quickly as the wind struck her on the weather side it was round to the other, and the ship was taken aback, or brought by the lee.

The mountainous waves were foaming, breaking, and dashing against her; one great sea broke off the knees of the vessel, drew out two or three of the long iron bolts, and loosened the cutwater. The thunder rolled, the lightning flashed, and every five minutes the hail beat on the decks like the pitching down of myriads of marbles. At length the horizon cleared, and the gallant ship, rising over the surge, went on her way rejoicing. Still the original gale continued with unabated violence, and the heavy swelling sea was a glorious although an appalling sight. A lesson of composure might have been read from a trifling circumstance: during the time that the wind was blowing furiously, and the waves were mountains crested with foam, on the lee side of the vessel I saw a stormy petrel, ever such a little wee bird, floating on the billows, rising and falling with them so quietly, calmly, and composedly, it appeared wonderful that the wind did not tear it off the wave and sink it in the waters; but there the little bird floated and floated, and rose and sank, and was too wise to unfold her wings for a second, or to attempt to fly.

25th.—We beat out to sea in the face of the north-wester; it was trying work both for the ship and the men; they succeeded in getting a proper distance from the land, and we tacked opposite Algoa Bay. The wind moderated, the sea went down, merely a long swell continued,—the palpitation of the bosom of the ocean after the rage into which she had been pleased to throw herself[55].

Unless in mountains like the Himalaya there is nothing in nature so beautifully grand as a storm at sea.

How much delight may be experienced during a storm! How animating, how beautiful is the scene! Who can gaze on swiftly flying clouds, or on rushing waves crested with foam, without emotions of pleasure? Who can breathe the pure and bracing air of a stiff gale, and not feel their spirits rise within them? All those feelings, commonly ridiculed as romantic, which, shrinking from the eye of the world, hide themselves in the depths of the heart, are called forth during such a scene. The memory presents all that is charming in poetry, all that delights in song, all that best suits with the wild weather: the spirits rise, and there is perhaps nothing in this world that can be more fully enjoyed than a storm at sea.

The confidence sailors have in their own skill and resources, their patience, good spirits, and good humour in days of trial, impart a portion of their own spirit to those in their society. I felt more inclined to enjoy the gale than to fear it when on deck with the officers, but when at night, in the darkness of my own cabin, with the water dashing in, and the wax-light dimly burning, I must acknowledge I thought what a wretched sensation the first dash into one of those roaring waves would give me, the cold plunge, and the jaw of the shark!

We were in His hands who stilleth the raging of the waves; I thought of the composure of the little bird, and never allowed any expression of fear to find its way to my lips, or to appear on my countenance. The officers were now able to get a little rest; they must have been exhausted, as they had scarcely quitted the poop for a moment night or day; their eyes were red and starting,—how they must have slept when they were able to turn in! I could have enjoyed the storm, but that my unfortunate ayha distressed me,—with her broken leg, it was a fearful thing to be tossed about in such a gale, although every care and attention was given her. I did not suffer from mal-de-mer, and was moving about all day and night.

26th.—This was a day of calm, and of repose for the wearied; also a day for the repair of the damage done by the gale. And deep I believe was the gratitude felt by all on board for the protection afforded us during the storm.

27th.—Our course regained, the “Essex” sailed quietly on.

28th.—At sunrise I was summoned in haste to the poop, to see a remarkable effect in the sky. Just above the spot where the sun was struggling to appear from behind a bank of reddish grey clouds, there was thrown across the bright blue sky a long white cloud, exactly in shape and twist like an Archimedes screw; I added it, with the sunset of the night before the gale, to my collection of “Sketches at Sea.” Should I ever live to be old—or rather, older, how pleasantly these sketches will recall the memory of the past!