After a week of great amusement we sailed from Havana. The harbour and entrance are perfectly beautiful: the works most formidable, but the Spaniards would not let us inside. Sailing into the harbour is like entering a large gateway; the sails are almost within reach of the Moro rock, and there is a swell setting into the harbour, which gives the ship a motion, as if every wave would dash her on the Moro.
In the Gulf of Florida we encountered a most terrific gale, wind and current at variance, and oh, such a sea! We lay to for forty-eight hours; we could not cook, and the main deck was flooded. Sir John and I never got out of our cots: he perfectly good-humoured on all occasions, and always convincing himself, and endeavouring to convince us, that the gale was abating. The third morning Stirling came to my cot. “Come, turn out; you will see how I manage my craft. I am going to make sail, and our lubberly cut may set us on our beam-ends, or sink us altogether.” A delightful prospect, indeed. He was and is a noble seaman, all animation, and he was so clear and decided in his orders! Sail was made amid waves mountains high, and the _Brazen_, as impudent a craft as ever spurned the mighty billows, so beautifully was she managed and steered, rode over or evaded seas apparently overwhelming; and Stirling, in the pride of his sailor’s heart, says, “There, now, what would you give to be a sailor?” It really was a sight worth looking at—a little bit of human construction stemming and resisting the power of the mighty deep.
As we neared the mouth of the British Channel, we had, of course, the usual thick weather, when a strange sail was reported. It was now blowing a fresh breeze; in a few minutes we spoke her, but did not make her haul her main-topsail, being a bit of a merchantman. Stirling hailed as we shot past. “Where are you from?” “Portsmouth.” “Any news?” “No, none.” The ship was almost out of sight, when we heard, “Ho! Bonapart_er_’s back again on the throne of France.” Such a hurrah as I set up, tossing my hat over my head! “I will be a Lieutenant-Colonel yet before the year’s out!” Sir John Lambert said, “Really, Smith, you are so vivacious! How is it possible? It cannot be.” He had such faith in the arrangements of our government, he wouldn’t believe it. I said, “Depend upon it, it’s truth; a beast like that skipper never could have invented it, when he did not even regard it as news: ‘No, no news; only Bonaparte’s back again on the throne of France.’ Depend on it, it’s true.” “No, Smith, no.” Stirling believed it, and oh, how he carried on! We were soon at Spithead, when all the men-of-war, the bustle, the general appearance, told us, before we could either see telegraphic communication or speak any one, where “Bonaparter” was.