The room was without a floor, with a board nailed to the wall, looking like a shelf, but serving for a seat; the table was a board, supported by sticks driven into the ground; and these, with my mattrass, formed the furniture. I had with me a small pocket looking glass about the size of my hand, and the miniatures of my wife and children, which I managed to hide within my shirt bosom. I had also in my pocket a pencil and a small piece of paper, which I used for the purpose of keeping my dates. My guards, however, always came and watched me when they saw me writing, and at last told me I must desist, as some harm might come of it. After this, I put down my dates when I was unobserved. This was not often. For the next two days I was near starving, nothing being given me to eat, except two ship biscuit, or “hard bread,” as we sailors call them; and my only drink was the water which I helped myself to from the guard room.
On the morning of the 29th, two days after our capture, I was taken out by my guard, for a walk around the yard and on the platform which ran along the west side of the fort, and on which the cannon were mounted. I made the best use of my eyes and ears during my walk, and managed to speak to one or two of the prisoners who had been on the Florida with me, and whom I had made some acquaintance with during the voyage. It was by these prisoners that I was afterwards kept informed of what occurred outside of my prison. They would talk to me during my walks, and sometimes would come to my window and tell me what had occurred; sometimes in bravado, and with great exultation, and sometimes with expressions of sympathy.
On returning from my walk, I met Mr. Shaw, leaving his room with his guard by his side; taken out, I supposed, for a similar purpose. I saw he was not looking well, and spoke to him, saying, “how do you feel this morning?” His answer was, “pretty miserable;” and he seemed about to say something more, but my guard pushed between us, saying, with an oath, “We can’t have any talking, captain; we have the general’s orders against it.” I was hurried into my room, and Mr. Shaw led away. This was the last time I ever saw him; for, for some reason which I never could learn, he was not brought back to the barracks, but confined in a building outside the fortification. It seemed to me, that with the sense of his nearness to me, I had lost my last friend; so lonely and miserable did I feel when he had left.
CHAPTER III.
My prison—My guards—An English hymn book—A fellow prisoner—Capture of the Eliza Cornish—Fears of the English mate—Death of Mr. Shaw—Of Captain Talbot and boy—Barbarity of their execution—The Chilian prisoners sympathize with us—Cambiaso’s bravado—Captain Avalos and others led out to view the dead bodies—Treacherous betrayal of Governor Gamero—Execution of the traitor—My walk.
I now began to feel for a few days, some of the monotony of a prisoner’s life. Shut up alone, without occupation, within hearing of the riotous conversation of my guard, but forbidden to speak to them, with hard fare, and no arrangements for my personal comfort or even cleanliness, except when I could take water enough from the guard room to wash my face, using my pocket handkerchief for a towel.
Three or four days had passed, and I had lost the fear of immediate death, but my suspense and anxiety to know what Cambiaso’s intentions with regard to us were, were very great. There seemed to me no motive that he could have for keeping us prisoners, after he had satisfied himself that we had no treasure on board the Florida, except the fear that we would carry the news of his revolt back to Valparaiso; and that danger to himself, it seemed to me, could be obviated only by putting us to death. It was in vain that I applied to my guards; they were evidently under orders to hold no communication with me, and the prisoners who visited me from time to time, knew nothing of Cambiaso’s plans. To my entreaties to be allowed to see Mr. Shaw, no answer was given, except that it could not be allowed, that he had been sick, and was now very unwell.
A few days after my imprisonment, an English book, containing prayers and hymns, was handed me by one of my guard, a man named Preito, who probably could make no use of it himself. The hymns had little poetical merit, and probably at another time would scarcely have aroused my attention; but now the promises and consolations of religion which breathed through them, the spirit of Christian resignation and faith of which I was then so much in need, and which to me shone out in every part of them, were an unspeakable comfort. The first hymn to which I opened, seemed so very applicable to my situation, that it impressed itself upon my memory; and I insert it here, thinking that it may be interesting to my readers to see how the promises of Christianity are the truest consolation in all trials.