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the strait, made her last tack [1] astern of us before I went
to bed. Pleasant moonlight nights now.
Monday May 12. Arose at half past six, and subdued
by friction a “pain under my waistband” that has
bothered me for four days past. Breakfast & dine
on boiled eggs & sweet potato. The captain and I
have established a “navigation shop” on the poop, I
being “boy” of the concern. There is a disagreement
somewhere between chart compass and chronometer.
It is the chart. Gaspar & Tree islands [2] are laid down
three miles eastward of their true position. A fine
breeze carried us through the worst of the strait by
8 o’clock this morning. Then the wind gradually
died away. By aid of the current, at dusk, we had
sunk the lowlands of Barca & nearly lost all the adjacent
islands. Tree Island, a curiosity, is ten miles north.
It is a low mound with two trees that in the distance
look to me like two black eyes, a nose, mouth
doubtful, the rest of the countenance fallen.
Passed near “Cornelius.” the only portion of our globe now
occurring to me, that bears my name – This is a
rock underwater. Bark of yesterday still in company
bound to Shanghai