Nothing could exceed the peculiar weird-like aspect of the scene, as we struggled under the full moonlight with the midnight gale. The surrounding mountains and high lands, seemingly at a great distance in the hazy atmosphere, had their tops piled with banks of fleecy clouds, remaining as motionless as snow-banks, which they very much resembled—the cold south wind assisting the illusion; the angry waters of the bay breaking in every direction, occasionally dashing on board of us; the perfectly clear sky, with no sign of a cloud anywhere to be seen, except those piled on the mountains already mentioned;—the bright full moon, shedding her mysterious rays on all surrounding objects—illuminating, yet distancing them—all these were things to be remembered. And last, the revolving light on the Cape, at regular intervals, lighting up the renowned old headland.
We passed the Cape at about 3 A.M., and bearing away gave her the trysails reduced by their bonnets, and close-reefed topsails; and I turned in to snatch a brief repose, before the trials of another day should begin.
Friday, September 25th.—Delivered the jail, as usual, upon getting to sea. It will take several days, I am afraid, to work the grog out of the crew, before they are likely to settle down into good habits and cheerfulness.
The next fortnight's run through the heavy gales that prevail almost incessantly in the higher latitudes of the Indian Ocean, brought the Alabama some 2400 miles upon her course. Two days more brought her off the Island of St. Paul's, a distance of 2840 miles. Another couple of days, and she had made about sufficient easting, and began to shape her course towards the north—the "sunny north."
A few short extracts from the journal will give sufficient idea of the period thus passed through:—
October 16th.—Lat. 35.23; Long. 89.55; no observations for current; distance some 135 miles. The gale in which we lay-to ten hours, having broken in upon our day's work. Bar. 29.57, and on a stand; running before the wind, under close-reef and reefed foresail. Afternoon gale increased, and between twelve and one it blew furiously, the whole sea being a sheet of foam, the air rendered misty by the spray, and the heavy seas threatening to jump on board of us, although we were scudding at the rate of very little less than fifteen knots—the whole accompanied by an occasional snow-squall from dark, threatening-looking clouds. It is not often that a wilder scene is beheld: in the meantime the Cape pigeons are whirling around us, occasionally poising themselves against the stern, as serenely, apparently, as if the elements were at rest. The barometer has remained perfectly stationary at 29.57 during this blow for seven hours (from morning to 7 P.M.), without varying a single hair's breadth, during all of which time the gale was raging with unmitigated violence from about S.W. by W. to S.W. During this period, we were travelling about on an average speed of eleven knots; and of course this must have been the rate of speed of the vortex—distant from us probably 150 to 200 miles. At 7 P.M. the mercury began to rise slowly, and at 8 was at 27.60, the weather looking less angry, and the squalls not so frequent or violent. Verily, our good ship, as she is darted ahead on the top of one of those huge, long Indian Ocean waves that pursue her, seems like a mere cock-boat.
It is remarkable that this is the anniversary of the cyclone we took off the banks of Newfoundland.
October 18th—Observing has been particularly vexatious during the past week. What with the heavy seas constantly rising between the observer and the horizon, preventing him from producing a contact at the very instant, it may be, that he is ready for it, the passage of a flying cloud under the sun when his horizon is all right, and the heavy rolling of the ship requiring him to pay the utmost care to the preservation of his balance, and sometimes even to "lose his sight"—from the necessity of withdrawing one hand suddenly from his instrument to grasp the rail or the rigging to prevent himself from falling—what with all these things, the patience of even as patient a man as myself is sorely tried. Perhaps this stormy tumbling about at sea is the reason why seamen are so calm and quiet on shore. We come to hate all sorts of commotion, whether physical or moral.
At last the region of endless gales was passed, and escaping entirely the southern belt of calms, the Alabama dashed along in the S.E. trade. On the 26th October, as she was nearing the Line, news reached her from an English barque, that the United States sloop Wyoming was on guard in the Sunda Straits, accompanied by a three-masted schooner. This sloop being about the Alabama's own size, hopes of a fight were again rife among both officers and men; and great was their impatience when the trade at length parted from them, and light, variable winds again began to baffle the eager ship.
Drawing slowly nearer to the Straits, news still came from passing ships of the enemy's presence there, reports going at length so far as to state, that she had been specially dispatched thither by the United States consul at Batavia, in search of the Alabama herself.