Early, we made the land to the southward of Macao. Shortly after noon, running through the usual passage between the islands--guns loaded to salute the flag--I had just signed the usual returns, when we felt as if the ship had struck some heavy floating timber: the leadsman calling “By the mark, seven,” at the same time reports from the lower deck that daylight could be seen through the rent in the ship’s side. We beat to quarters: an unusual event during the men’s dinner hour! I knew we were nearly equidistant from Hong-Kong and Macao. I took a second view from below. With the easterly wind we might fetch Hong-Kong, but for Macao, we should have to run before it. We bore up. My trusty Turnour repeated orders clearly and distinctly. I took charge of the conning of the ship, the men working cheerfully. My object was to ground in shoal water. While running we passed so close to more than one small island that a man might have dropped on shore from the rigging. After a while, from the hammock-netting where I stood, a ship at anchor off Macao was seen. With a glass we made her out to be a frigate flying the French Admiral’s flag. The first lieutenant was directed to lower fore royal, hoist French flag and fire a salute. The foremost main-deck guns had been run aft to prevent the ship from settling forward; they were already loaded for our own flag. Most of our after-ports had more than one muzzle protruding. A boat was seen coming from the French ship, but there was nothing to show that we were in distress beyond our ensign at the peak, hoisted Union Jack downwards, which could not be seen from Macao on account of studding sails. It was a few minutes after this, I felt we were nearing the bottom. By feeling the bow rise ever so gently I knew we had touched the mud-bank between the Roko and Typa Islands. The French boat was alongside before we knew that we were no longer forging ahead.