Thursday, January 28. Last evening we had a rough night. This morning the sea is very rough, and our bark is pitching about in all directions. I am fortunate in having no return of sea-sickness. My boy, Owen, is not so fortunate. I observed his head over the bulwarks a few moments since in no equivocal position. He is a nice, willing lad. I picked him up in Boston, the very day we sailed. He is now in the steward’s hands learning to cook. On reaching the Brazos, he will be quite accomplished in the culinary art.
Friday, January 29. To-day we are making fine progress, about nine miles per hour; shall reach the Abaco Island, one of the Bahamas, on Saturday (to-morrow night) at this rate. The weather is charming. I have most of the day read in my military works, sitting on the deck of the vessel. The weather is, indeed, rather warm.
Saturday, January 30. Last night there was a change of wind, and to-day we are making little or no progress. The sea somewhat rough. We shall not reach the Abaco this evening.
Sunday, January 31. Last evening the wind died away, and to-day we have not moved one mile per hour. The sun has been warm; I have worn nothing about my neck to-day. Several of the men are barefoot, and all of us are in our shirt-sleeves. We are in about latitude 27°, and some one hundred miles from the Bahamas. This calm weather is very tedious, but we must be patient; we have now been out twelve days.
Monday, February 1. This has been an exquisite day. Soon after dinner our eyes were rejoiced with the sight of land, the first since leaving Boston, thirteen days since. Our bark glides along with scarcely any perceptible motion. Towards night we approached the Great Abaco, and about seven saw the revolving light and the Hole in the Wall, caused, according to the jolly sons of Neptune, by the Devil’s chasing a porpoise through the rock-bound shore of the Great Abaco. The hole is, indeed, a small arched opening through the rocks, admitting the passage of a small boat.
Friday, February 2. Another splendid day. Early in the morning we made the Berry Islands, inhabited by some fifty or sixty blacks under a black chief. We saw one of their boats returning from turtle-fishing. About seven we commenced crossing the Bahama Banks in soundings, nearly all the way of one hundred miles, from twelve to twenty-four feet. We had a clean run, and went into deep water about seven o’clock, running the one hundred miles in about twelve hours. The evening was surpassingly lovely. I remained on deck till ten, looking at the stars and thinking of home.
Wednesday, February 3. This day has fairly brought us into the Mexican Gulf. In ten days, I trust, we shall reach the Brazos. To-day I have been overhauling my clothes. My boy Owen has mended some rents in my garments. He says he can wash like “fun.” The captain teases him a good deal about the bright Irish lass he left in Ann Street. Owen wants me, when I reach Mexico, not only to buy a mule for his use, but a little cart for the things; quite an idea. To-day we are in latitude 24° 13´. The weather very warm. I have found the heat quite oppressive.
Thursday, February 4. Nothing of consequence has occurred to-day. We are moving on quickly with prosperous though gentle winds.
Friday, February 5. Everything has moved on lazily to-day. We have seen several vessels.
Saturday, February 6. Same as yesterday. A vessel is in sight, apparently bound to the north. It is now nearly three o’clock, and we have been out eighteen days. I shall seal up and send this letter by the vessel, if she prove to be bound north, and I trust it will find you well. We are now about five hundred and sixty miles from the Brazos. Shall I hear from you there? Love to the children, to Mary; remembrances to Mr. Osgood, Kidder, Mr. and Mrs. Tinkham.