The silence of the night, interrupted only by the murmurs of the ocean—the clamours of the guard, and the distant sounds from the shore, induced a stronger degree of melancholy than I, perhaps, ever experienced.——A confused idea of my fate, with the shame rather than the terrors of an ignominious death, revolving in my mind, deprived me of the possibility of rest, or the smallest preparation for the event so soon and so harshly announced.
In the morning I was taken before a black general, named Muro, whose appearance augured well, for he bore the principal mythological characteristics of justice—he was blind of an eye. He interrogated me, and insisted I was not an American, but an English spy reconnoitering the coast. He informed me, that on the morrow I should be tried by a General Court Martial—and dismissed me.
I was then conducted to a dark prison, with the usual concomitants of wretchedness, and treated as one who meditated some dire plot against the happiness of their country. I had no bed, nor other provision but some coarse dry fish which I could not eat. Next morning, at ten o’clock, I was regularly brought before a military court, composed of twelve general officers.—All I could plead in my behalf would not avail me, not having the proper passports, or American certificates; in fact, my trial was prompt and decisive—I was condemned to suffer DEATH on the next day!
The master of the vessel, poor Frazer, with great dignity of character and the most affectionate solicitude, exerted the utmost of his little power by protesting against the judgment, and insisting I was an American—but it was without effect, and I was remanded to my cell, loaded with chains, and consigned to misery, till the sentence of the Court should be transmitted to Toussaint, without whose sanction it could not be executed.
For fourteen days I lay suspended between life and death, without any other consolation than the kindness of my gaoler, whose taciturnity extended to inform me, every night, I should be hanged on the next day. To afford me repose, I was furnished with dried sugar-canes, and was ill supplied nightly with coarse flesh and water—the cheering delusions of hope no longer lightened my imagination, and I abandoned all human projects for ever.[[4]]
At the expiration of that period, the answer of Toussaint arrived; but, instead of confirming my sentence, that truly great man, although I have since been convinced he had ascertained the fact of my being a British Officer, disdained to triumph over an individual whom misfortune had thrown in his way. He ordered me to be released and suffered to proceed on my voyage, with the greatest magnanimity adding, “You must never return to this island, without the proper passports!”
To describe my feelings on such an unexpected reverse, would be difficult and useless. Restored to myself once more, I did not long remain on a part of the island where my sufferings would have tended to efface the agreeable impression I had received at Cape François; but cheerfully bidding adieu to this interesting soil, sailed for St. Thomas’s on the next day, and very soon reached my long desired destination, the island of Martinique.
On my arrival, I met with a reception marked with the usual kindness and urbanity of the commander in chief, General Cuyler, who ordered me the usual remuneration for the loss of my baggage. I am also informed that I was honored with a congratulatory letter from his Royal Highness the Duke of York, which from some unaccountable accident I did not receive.
Much would remain to be said, were I to obey a natural impulse; but the pen, though often a deadly weapon, is one I am but little accustomed to, I shall therefore lay it down, at least for the present, with the confidence that if I have contributed but little advantage, I have effected as little injury.