arbour, roadstead, and the ocean. He is better off than the Governor,
because he does get the sea breeze, which is the best preventive to the
yellow fever. It takes an hour or more pulling up from Port Royal to
Kingston, the distance being five or six miles or more. Spellman once
induced me to ride round along the Palisades, but we agreed that we
would never do it again; for, as it was a calm day, and the rays of the
sun beat down on the white sands, we were very nearly roasted alive, and
how we escaped a sunstroke I do not know. From what I have said, it
will be understood that Port Royal harbour is a very large sheet of
water, and what with the shipping, the towns and ports on its shores,
and the lofty mountains rising up in its neighbourhood, is a very
picturesque place.

We had not been there long, when yellow jack, as the yellow fever is
called, made its appearance, both at Kingston and Port Royal, and all
visits to the shore were prohibited. Grey and I, therefore, had to make
ourselves as happy on board as we could, till we received our expected
orders to join the schooner. We had not had a yarn for some time from
Mr Johnson. One evening, when work was over, we found him walking the
forecastle, taking what he called his sunset food shaker, in a more than
usually thoughtful mood. As Grey, Spellman, and I, with one or two
others, went up to him, he heaved a sigh, which sounded not altogether
unlike the roar of a young bull.

"What is the matter, Mr Johnson?" I asked, approaching him. "You seem
melancholy to-day."

"I have cause to be so, Mr Merry; I have indeed," he answered, in a
tone of deep pathos, again sighing. "Whenever I look on the blue waters
of this harbour, and those whitewashed houses, and those lofty
mountains, I think of a strange and sad episode of my eventful history."

Of course we all exclaimed with one voice, "Do tell it to us, Mr
Johnson!" To which I added, "If it would not break your heart, we
should so like to hear it."

"Break my heart, Mr Merry!" exclaimed the boatswain, striking his bosom
with his open palm, and making it sound like the big drum in a
regimental band. I could not help fancying that there was a
considerable amount of humour lurking in the corner of his eye.

"Break my heart! Jonathan Johnson's heart is formed of tougher stuff
than to break with any grief it may be doomed to bear. You shall hear.
But it strikes me forcibly, young gentlemen, that it may be a