They knew something bad was coming our way. The animals in our manger sensed it. The sheep and goats lay down in the straw, tense and wary. The hens on deck stopped clucking. Even Sydney stopped chattering. He kept flapping his wings trying to get away. I took him and his perch down below to my cabin and that calmed him. Thunderstorms had come and gone all the time we sailed through the East Indies – they were just part of the climate here, along with the clammy heat and the occasional whiff of volcanic sulphur. The rain would come down in sheets, the sky would rumble and flash. Then, an hour later, it would be a breezy bright day again. But this one, coming over the horizon on our larboard side, seemed particularly ominous. The sky had the strange inky purple glow which seemed to be a feature of storms in these parts, and the moisture in the air was so dense you could taste it on your tongue. Evison had us spend the day preparing for the storm. We brought down the canvas from the lower sails, then the lower yards too, leaving only the topsail yards and canvas to provide some control of the ship if we should drift dangerously close to the shore.
