During the first part of this day (Wednesday) the wind was light,
but after noon it came on fresh, and we furled the royals. We still
kept the studding-sails out, and the captain said he should go round
with them, if he could. Just before eight o'clock (then about sundown,
in that latitude) the cry of "All hands ahoy!" was sounded down the
fore scuttle and the after hatchway, and hurrying upon deck, we
found a large black cloud rolling on toward us from the south-west,
and blackening the whole heavens. "Here comes Cape Horn!" said the
chief mate; and we had hardly time to haul down and clew up, before it
was upon us. In a few moments, a heavier sea was raised than I had
ever seen before, and as it was directly ahead, the little brig, which
was no better than a bathing machine, plunged into it, and all the
forward part of her was under water; the sea pouring in through the
bow-ports and hawse-hole and over the knightheads, threatening to wash
everything overboard. In the lee scuppers it was up to a man's
waist. We sprang aloft and double reefed the topsails, and furled
all the other sails, and made all snug. But this would not do; the
brig was laboring and straining against the head sea, and the gale was
growing worse and worse. At the same time sleet and hail were
driving with all fury against us. We clewed down, and hauled out the
reef-tackles again, and close-reefed the fore-topsail, and furled
the main, and hove her to on the starboard tack. Here was an end to
our fine prospects. We made up our minds to head winds and cold
weather; sent down the royal yards, and unrove the gear; but all the
rest of the top hamper remained aloft, even to the sky-sail masts
and studding-sail booms.

  Throughout the night it stormed violently- rain, hail, snow, and
sleet beating upon the vessel- the wind continuing ahead, and the sea
running high. At day-break (about three, A.M.) the deck was covered
with snow. The captain sent up the steward with a glass of grog to
each of the watch; and all the time that we were off the Cape, grog
was given to the morning watch, and to all hands whenever we reefed
topsails. The clouds cleared away at sunrise, and the wind becoming
more fair, we again made sail and stood nearly up to our course.

  Thursday, Nov. 6th. It continued more pleasant through the first
part of the day, but at night we had the same scene over again. This
time, we did not heave to, as on the night before, but endeavored to
beat to windward under close-reefed topsails, balance-reefed
trysail, and fore-topmast staysail. This night it was my turn to
steer, or, as the sailors say, my trick at the helm, for two hours.
Inexperienced as I was, I made out to steer to the satisfaction of the
officer, and neither S--- nor myself gave up our tricks, all the
time that we were off the Cape. This was something to boast of, for it
requires a good deal of skill and watchfulness to steer a vessel close
hauled, in a gale of wind, against a heavy head sea. "Ease her when
she pitches," is the word; and a little carelessness in letting her
ship a heavy sea, might sweep the decks, or knock the masts out of
her.

  Friday, Nov. 7th. Towards morning the wind went down, and during the
whole forenoon we lay tossing about in a dead calm, and in the midst
of a thick fog. The calms here are unlike those in most parts of the
world, for there is always a high sea running, and the periods of calm
are so short, that it has no time to go down; and vessels, being under
no command of sails or rudder, lie like logs upon the water. We were
obliged to steady the booms and yards by guys and braces, and to
lash everything well below. We now found our top hamper of some use,
for though it is liable to be carried away or sprung by the sudden
"bringing up" of a vessel when pitching in a chopping sea, yet it is a
great help in steadying a vessel when rolling in a long swell;
giving more slowness, ease, and regularity to the motion.

  The calm of the morning reminds me of a scene which I forgot to
describe at the time of its occurrence, but which I remember from
its being the first time that I had heard the near breathing of
whales. It was on the night that we passed between the Falkland
Islands and Staten Land. We had the watch from twelve to four, and
coming upon deck, found the little brig lying perfectly still,
surrounded by a thick fog, and the sea as smooth as though oil had
been poured upon it; yet now and then a long, low swell rolling
under its surface, slightly lifting the vessel, but without breaking
the glassy smoothness of the water. We were surrounded far and near by
shoals of sluggish whales and grampuses, which the fog prevented our
seeing, rising slowly to the surface, or perhaps lying out at
length, heaving out those peculiar lazy, deep, and long-drawn
breathings which give such an impression of supineness and strength.
Some of the watch were asleep, and the others were perfectly still, so
that there was nothing to break the illusion, and I stood leaning over
the bulwarks, listening to the slow breathings of the mighty
creatures- now one breaking the water just alongside, whose black
body I almost fancied that I could see through the fog; and again
another, which I could just hear in the distance- until the low and
regular swell seemed like the heaving of the ocean's mighty bosom to
the sound of its heavy and long-drawn respirations.

  Towards the evening of this day, (Friday, 7th,) the fog cleared off,
and we had every appearance of a cold blow; and soon after sundown
it came on. Again it was a clew up and haul down, reef and furl, until
we had got her down to close-reefed topsoils, doublereefed trysail,
and reefed forespenser. Snow, hail, and sleet were driving upon us
most of the night, and the sea breaking over the bows and covering the
forward part of the little vessel; but as she would lay her course the
captain refused to heave her to.

  Saturday, Nov. 8th. This day commenced with calm and thick fog,
and ended with hail, snow, a violent wind, and close-reefed topsails.