CHAPTER II.
OF MY ESCAPE FROM THE FRENCH SHIP, AND MY LANDING
IN HISPANIOLA.
And now, being fairly within the grasp of the trade wind, we sped swiftly on towards those western islands whither we were bound, experiencing, however, as we approached the Indies, some of the squally weather common in these latitudes. Such gusts soon blow over, but are troublesome and fatiguing to mariners, and wearing to ship and rigging. First comes a black cloud on the horizon, then the waves to windward become tipped with whitish foam. Presently the gust strikes with great force, the firmament being very dark and threatening: at the time of its greatest strength there will be a flash of lightning and a thunderclap or two, after which a pelt of rain and a sudden clearing of the sky, the squall being for that time over.
Meanwhile, I often discussed with Wright the question of my deliverance. He said that there was now so much jealousy between the French and the English, in the West Indies, that I could possibly look for no other fate than being sold to serve my time as a slave in Tortugas; where I would be employed in field labour, such as the cultivation of tobacco, great crops of which are grown in that island. Wright’s opinion was, that I ought, in some way or other, to attempt an escape before being landed at Tortugas; but this was easier talked of than done. While all was still unsettled between us, ‘Land’ was one day proclaimed from the mast-head. This announcement surprised us all, for we had not expected to see any land until we came in sight of the mountains of Hispaniola, which still lay well to the westward. However, we soon found that, either through currents or errors in the reckoning, we were further to the south than we had calculated, and that the island we saw was one of the Virgin Isles, forming a cluster just where the long line of windward islands which stretch northward from the mainland, trend away to the west. This discovery necessitated a change in our steering—we hauling up two or three points more to the northward. The next day we saw, at a very great distance to leeward, a long faint blue ridge rising out of the water, which was the mountain line of the high ground of Porto Rico. Towards evening, the trade wind abated, being influenced, as we conjectured, by the distant land-breeze, which blows at night off the shore, in and near these islands; and before the setting of the sun the weather grew wellnigh calm. It was then that one of the crew discovered a bottle floating not far from the felucca, and pointed it out to the Captain, who straightway commanded it to be brought aboard; inasmuch as mariners in distress often fling such into the sea, with letters and papers relating their sad condition. Now, on board the felucca were two boats—the pinnace, in which I had been rescued, and a little skiff, not bigger than a canoe, which, being hoisted out and manned by two hands, brought in the bottle. It turned out to be empty and of no account. Still the finding of it was a lucky accident for me, inasmuch as the skiff was not again hoisted on board, but—the weather being exceedingly fine, and we soon expecting to use her to help in mooring ship—left towing astern.
That same night, Wright came to me and pointed her out as a means of escape.
‘Look you,’ says he, ‘your business is to get ashore on some island where you will find Englishmen, and which is not entirely under French or Spanish influence. Now, on the coast of Hispaniola are not a few of your countrymen and mine, sometimes cruizing, sometimes hunting and slaughtering cattle. By the course we are now lying, we shall have to run all along the northern coast of Hispaniola, which we will probably approach close to, for the benefit of the land-breeze at night, and because the shore is bold and the sea deep. Provided the skiff be left towing astern, it will not be difficult for you to smuggle yourself into it in the night-time, and so escape ashore.’
This advice appeared to me admirable, and threw me quite into a fever of eagerness and anxiety. I was in the middle watch that night, and how often I gazed upon the little boat—the expected ark of my deliverance—as she tossed upon the smooth ridges of swell, which glanced like silver in the bright moonlight! About nine o’clock in the morning the trade wind resumed its powers, and we soon saw rising out of the ocean, upon our lee bow, the blue-peaked mountains of Hispaniola. All day, you may be sure, I very eagerly watched the weather, fearing lest the approach of a squall would cause Montbars to order the skiff to be taken on deck, but the sky continued quite cloudless, the sun was burning hot, and the sea breeze—for such amid the Western Indies they call the regular daily trade wind—blew most refreshingly upon our starboard quarter, urging the felucca gloriously along. We were now fast closing in with the coast, which stretched in a long high range under the lee; and as we approached an exceeding bold promontory, called Le Vieux Cap François, I saw how delicious was the land, with its bright green forests—its rocks, rising from thick bushes and brushwood—and the great blue mountain peaks in the distance. Besides ourselves the ocean was solitary. No sail scudded before the breeze—no fishing-boat rode head to sea, surrounded by the buoys of her nets and lines. All above was a sky of dazzling and lustrous brightness—beneath was a limpid and foaming sea, from which arose the groves and rocks, the deep ravines and the green savannahs of an isle which seemed Paradise. I stood in the bows of the felucca, and stretched forth my arms, and prayed for the moment when I should set foot on shore.
When I was in this kind of rapture, Wright came to me privately, and asked whether I was determined to make the attempt. I replied, I only longed for night to come. Then at his request I went below with him to his berth, when he showed me, all else being on deck, a short-barrelled musket, hid in the bedding, with a flask of fine glazed powder and a small bag of balls. There was also a leathern bottle, called a broc, well stoppered and full of water, and some biscuits. ‘These things,’ says he, ‘will be necessary for you, so that you may not want, until you pick up some comrade along shore. Should you not succeed at first, you must trust to your gun for food, and you will soon find water, of which there is abundance, fresh and clear.’
I thanked him heartily for his goodness and foresight, for I had thought of nothing but how I should get ashore, not even how I should satisfy my hunger and thirst when I landed. But Wright was my good genius, and, taking advantage of our being now alone, for the deck was so much the more pleasant that all were there, he made me put on a couple of stout linen shirts which he gave me, as also a good jacket, such as sailors wear, and a pair of strong yet light shoes, like pumps. I was quite overpowered with such goodness, and could scarce refrain from weeping. What a poor forlorn miserable creature I should have been had Wright not been on board! and although I was nothing to him, yet had I been his son, the old man could not have used me with more grave and simple kindness. I told him that when he first spoke to me I was in great desolation and despair of spirit, but that now my heart was cheery and buoyant, and that I well trusted to see my own land again. At this his face darkened, and he heaved a great sigh. I went on, and said that he, too, I hoped, would end his days, not in these burning climes, but in the green valley of Hertfordshire, where he told me he was born.
‘No, no,’ says he, ‘never—never! I shall see England no more. I am but a wanderer and an outcast, even like Cain of old, and the place that once knew me, shall know me no more for ever.’
With this he sat himself down on a great sea-chest, and putting his hands to his face, sobbed aloud, so that all his great frame was shaken. I was much moved, and strove to take his hand. Then he looked at me with his large grey eyes, all dry, and, as I thought, somewhat bloodshot, for he could not weep, and said, ‘In a churchyard there, lie my fathers and my kindred, also the wife of my bosom and the two children of my loins, but my dust must not mingle with theirs. I shall sleep my last sleep in some desert wilderness, or amid the weeds under the sea.’