_August 9, Tuesday._--N.E. Bustle aboard the _Penelope_ brig. Get on
board at twelve. Get under way.
N.W. Tossing ten at night. God send a good passage. Forty-two sail,
including the convoy.
_August 10, Wednesday._--Off. St. Albans barely in sight. Foul wind.
At the old work--toss, tack, toss, toss, tack toss, toss tack.
Stercoraceous smells under my berth; porter used to be stored there; a
chance fracture stains the straw and accounts for it.
_August 12._--A very numerous fleet under the land, sailing up Channel.
Breeze freshens. Cool dry weather. An Italian tailor told me to-day
that the English have good pay, but that in five weeks in London he
spent all he had gained in the rest of the year. When mirth sat in the
heart and money lay in the pocket he could not resist it, he said; and
what with dances, coaches, dresses, and feasts, guineas flew out like
dust, and he was forced to come to sea again!
Breeze increased at about 11 P.M.; blew very hard; short high sea;
signal to veer, and sail on starboard tack.
_August 13, Saturday_, 2 A.M.--A gale S.W. very high. Suppose at
daylight he will run for Plymouth. _Rendezvous_ signal. Plymouth Sound.
Anchor outside the Drake Islands at 8 P.M.
_August 14, Sunday._--Weigh and get within the bight. Write letters.
PLYMOUTH SOUND,
“PENELOPE” BRIG, _August 14_.
SWEET SISTER--Encountering a S.W. gale has led us a sad rakish
life. We were glad to put in here to-night, an operation which the
thickness of the weather rendered very bothering.
As the wind may blow contrary some time, write to me here, directed
Army under Sir H. Burrard, Plymouth, or elsewhere.
Chickens all well, but Jack and I cannot get the ducks to eat
now; they waddle about and crack their toes. Jack’s great delight
(Jack is the cabin boy, my only companion) is my solicitude about
the ducks, and I thought he never would have done laughing when I
told him to clean away some tar from the coop because it made them
sneeze; and when we turned them out to exercise the other day, one
tried to quack and could not, so Jack said, “He’s speechless,
sir.” We anchored at eight o’clock--sad, sad work. Should have been
half way to Lisbon.--Ever yours,