Entering the harbour, we had Port Royal on the starboard hand, at the end of a long spit of land called the Palisades. On the opposite side of the narrow entrance was Rock Fort, just under a lofty hill, and as the batteries of Fort Charles at Port Royal bristled with guns, while those of Fort Augusta faced us with an equal number, we agreed that an enemy would find it no easy task to enter the harbour. The dockyard was at Port Royal, opposite which we brought up. The Palisades run parallel with the mainland, thus forming a vast lagoon, not running inland, but along the coast as it were. Towards the upper end, the commercial town, called Kingston, with its commodious harbour, is situated. Some way inland, again, is Spanish Town, the capital, where the residence of the Governor and the House of Assembly are to be found. It is a very hot place, and the yellow fever is more apt to pay it a second visit than strangers who have once been there, if they can help it. The admiral on the Jamaica station lives on shore, at a house called the Admiral's pen, on the Palisades, whence he commands a view of the harbour, 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."